Dumped, Actually(90)

He stares right back at them for a moment, before wiping his jacket sleeve across his face to remove the thin film of spittle from his mouth. ‘Go on, then, you little bastard. Say your piece. None of them will believe you over me.’

I smile at him. It’s a broad, dangerous smile. One I both love and hate at the same time. ‘We’ll see, Benny. We’ll just see.’

Oh, he hates being called Benny. Just look! How fantastic!

I gaze at the board members and draw myself up to my full height. It’s still quite painful to do this, as my spine really isn’t used to it. ‘Gentlemen, you’ve been told a lot of lies here today, just so Benedict can convince you to liquidate Actual Life. He’s tried to tell you that we’re lying about the website’s popularity, and that things aren’t going as well as they appear to be. And . . . to tell the truth . . . I can understand why you’d believe him. After all, he is the CEO of this company, and has made you all an awful lot of money over the years.’

The board all nod in a self-satisfied way when I say this. God, what a bunch of old monsters. Only Prendergast has the decency to look a bit shamefaced.

‘But lying to you he is, whether you like it or not. Actual Life is doing better. It is making money again, and it does have many more subscribers. Benedict here doesn’t want to get rid of it because he thinks it’s unprofitable, or because Erica and I are going to ruin your reputations with our skulduggery.’ I look at Benedict again, this time with a loathing I no longer care to suppress. ‘He’s doing it because he tried to force Erica to have sex with him on this very table, and she turned him down.’

Gasps. Loud gasps from the board.

‘Ollie!’ Erica exclaims.

‘Lies!’ Benedict screams. ‘I never did anything of the sort!’

‘Yes, you bloody did!’ Erica shouts back at him.

‘No, I didn’t! You lying bitch!’

I move forward again, pinning Benedict against the edge of the oak table, forcing him to lean back over it. ‘Not nice when someone makes accusations against you with no proof, is it, Benedict?’

‘I’ll kill you, Sweet,’ he says in a low voice.

‘No, you won’t, honey,’ I reply, dismissively. ‘I’ve got the measure of you, Benedict. I know what kind of man you are.’ I lean into him even more. ‘You know what kind of man I am?’

He doesn’t answer, but just glares at me defiantly.

‘I’m a man who likes to write,’ I say. ‘And I do a pretty good job of it. And despite what you’ve claimed here today, people do like what I write. They like it a lot. And they listen to me, Benedict. They believe what I have to say. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. They believe me, because I’ve been honest with them about myself. About the things I’ve done wrong. About the things I’ve learned. About my experiences.’

Benedict’s eyes widen. I think he’s starting to get the point.

‘And all of this would make a fine last story for “Dumped Actually”, wouldn’t it, Benedict? Just think about how all those thousands of people would love to hear about what’s gone on here today . . . about all the things you’ve said . . . about all the things you’ve accused us of.’

If I lean in any closer to the man, I’m going to have to either kiss him or headbutt him.

‘And then, I could tell them all about what you tried to do to Erica on this table. And what she did to you. How she fought you off. How she rejected you. Yeah . . . I bet they’d be really interested in hearing all about that.’

Somewhere, deep down inside of me, Troy the Elephant is beating the shit out of that demon.

‘And think about what that would do to the reputation of this company. If all of this came out in one final glorious chapter in the story of “Dumped Actually”. And I write fast, Benedict. I bet I could have the story out there by the end of the day . . .’

Benedict tries to straighten up. I don’t let him.

‘Go ahead! Write what you want!’ he spits. ‘I’ll sue the shit out of you! How dare you think you can come here and threaten me like this! How dare you talk to me like this!’

My eyes flick up over his shoulder, and stare directly at the board of directors. ‘Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, Benedict.’

The faces of eleven terrified old men stare right back at me.

I will take the look of horrified realisation on Benedict Montifore’s face to my grave – along with every other momentous occasion that I’ve found myself a part of on this strange journey.

These old men know exactly what kind of damage a story about all of this could do to their reputations. The very same reputations that Benedict tried to play on to get them to vote his way.

I don’t really need to say anything else. When you turn the tables on someone, it’s vitally important you get out of there before they get a chance to rotate them back.

I straighten up and move away from Benedict swiftly. ‘So, gentlemen, I think I’ve taken up more than enough of your time for one day. I’ll allow you to take your vote without any further hindrance from me.’ Then I give them all a very meaningful look. ‘I’ll be down in the car . . . waiting for the result.’ The smile I give them doesn’t touch my eyes. ‘And thinking about what my next – or maybe final – story might be.’