You Drive Me Crazy: A feisty tale of enemies-to-lovers

By Anna Premoli

A fun, feisty romance, perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella and Paige Toon.

What girl doesn't dream of an amazing promotion working on the other side of the world?

This once in a lifetime opportunity is presented to 28-year-old investment banker, Maddison Johnson and instantly fills her with abject fear.

It isn't the New York transfer she had set her heart on... she's going to South Korea, instead.

To make things worse, her boss Mark Kim doesn't go out of his way to make it easy for her to adapt to her new environment.

Plunged into a world she knows nothing about with a man she can't stand, Maddison finds herself forced to adapt and grow up quickly. Maybe in the process she will stumble over something wonderful and quite unexpected...

What people are saying about YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY:

'I found myself gutted I had to put the book down and go to bed after my first stint of reading'

'Very entertaining, really interesting that the storyline revolved around working life as well as the personal'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781784978976

Anna Premoli

Anna Premoli is a bestselling author in Italy. She began writing to relieve stress while working as a financial consultant for a private bank. Her novel, Love to Hate You won the Bancarella prize in 2013.

Book preview

Chapter 1

If A Day Starts Off Bad, Rest Assured It’s Only Going to Get Worse

It’s pouring down, just for a change.

Not that it rains all the time in London. I mean, come on – it’s not Scotland.

It rains just the right amount. Which, objectively speaking, is quite a lot at the moment.

Ok, I give up – in early August it pours down every bloody day…

I really ought to stop wasting time staring at the water streaming down my windows, though, and get a move on – that nice watch that my parents gave me a few years ago when I got my degree is telling me mercilessly that I’m already way behind with my daily schedule, and from down the hall I can hear the threatening sound of the phone ringing.

At this time of the morning it can only be my mother, so fat chance that I’m going to answer – never start your day by letting your mum hassle you. A day that starts off like that can only get worse. My mother has spent her whole life being a housewife while dreaming about having a career. So why did she never get a job, then? you’ll be asking yourself. Don’t ask me. All I know is that she’s always been convinced that working her only daughter to death was a better idea than actually working herself – with obvious repercussions on my life. She calls me every day in the office to ask exactly the same question: What are you doing, darling? And every day, I reply, I’m at work, Mum.

She likes that phrase, it makes her feel proud.

The truth is that I’ve never been a dyed-in-the-wool feminist, and she’s never wanted to accept the fact. She still thinks she’s some bloody suffragette from the beginning of the twentieth century.

The only reason I ended up agreeing to study economics at university was for a quiet life, because Mum wanted me to work in a big investment bank. The only thing I liked about the women who worked in those places was their nice suits. I’ve always been very honest – at least with myself – and the truth is that I’ve never really had the willpower or desire to make my way in life or any of that kind of stuff.

But destiny would have it that, thanks to an incredible series of coincidences and bits of luck, I actually did end up working for an investment bank – which still seems weird, even all these years later. I remember that when I was at junior school, in a composition titled ‘What I Want To Do When I Grow Up’, I wrote that I wanted to be a seamstress. I loved being able to make clothes out of practically nothing and thought that actually creating something gave life meaning. Ah, the illusions of childhood! Well nowadays I don’t create anything – in fact, I often feel like I’m destroying things. That’s why I’m not entirely convinced about my job.

I only passed the entrance exam at the Economics Faculty because I managed to spot a brainy looking girl in the crowd, clung tightly to her and somehow managed to copy enough of her answers. The questions might as well have been in Farsi, as far as I was concerned. In my defence, I can only say that identifying the right swot to copy is an art that has never been given the recognition it deserves.

Jane not only helped me pass the exam, she also became a good friend, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Two rather introverted girls who don’t really want to be noticed – that’s why we bonded immediately. She works at Goldman Sachs now (she was a genius then and she’s still a genius), but she helps me out when she can. If I managed to get myself into a prestigious investment bank, I owe it all to her: after uni, she spent a month helping me prepare for the selections. I have a sneaking suspicion that the only reason I worked so hard to get in was so as not to disappoint her. Well, not to mention that if I hadn’t, my mother would have killed me. Literally.

I’m part of the team that takes care of foreign mergers and acquisitions. Ten people, completely dedicated to their job. Or rather, nine of them are – I just pretend to be. But I’m really good at pretending. As far as I can tell, no one has yet had any doubts as to why I’m there.

The main problem with my job, apart from the fact that it involves the study of budgets and taxation (yawn) is our ridiculously long working day: we start pretty early, which is standard practice in these places, but in particularly busy periods we practically forget to go home. To carve myself out a couple of hours to do a bit of shopping I sometimes have to fake some sort of ailment, a really bad tummy ache or a headache of unprecedented violence. My colleagues are generally so wrapped up in their work that they don’t even notice I’m not there. It’s absolutely unimaginable that someone would actually want to get away from the office. I have a sneaking feeling that they’d come to work for free, while I can barely force myself to go even with the (admittedly decent) salary they pay me. And there are times when not even the pay is enough to cheer me up.

Once, during one of my little jaunts to the shops, I bumped into Theresa from the commodity derivatives office and we exchanged a complicit smile.

Since then, every time we meet in the lift we give each other a look. Discovering that I wasn’t the only one skiving off was reassuring, and I started feeling less guilty about it.

Sometimes I still think about those beautiful girls clad in their gorgeous suits that I used to see running around the City when I was a kid – when the hell did they manage to buy the damn clothes if they had to work all day, and often Saturdays and Sundays too? You couldn’t even shop on line back then!

According to my mother, women don’t need a husband. Let me just repeat that: my mother, who got married at the age of twenty-two, is totally convinced that men are unnecessary and that every woman should seek gratification exclusively through success at work. But she only thinks that because she’s never worked a day in her life: if she had, she’d have rushed off to get married the following one. My father puts up with it all patiently and in silence, and when the atmosphere in the house gets too overwhelming he goes off to play golf.

Obviously, a feminist like her can’t waste time with housework, so she employs other people to do it for her: over the years, legions of girls with more or less unpronounceable names have ironed, washed, cleaned and cooked for my family, while I – who work an average of twelve hours a day – do my housekeeping myself.

Today got off to a terrible start: I’m super late, wearing uncomfortable shoes, I think I’ve laddered my tights and the beautiful black umbrella with white polka dots. which I bought for a few quid last week is broken. Let that be a lesson to me: if something’s cheap, there’s probably a reason.

So half soaked and already exhausted from jumping puddles, I’m on my way into the lift when I meet Tom from the legal department. He smirks as he presses the elevator button and tells me with a certain arrogance, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but from next month I’ll be in New York!

The smarmy bastard knows full well that I’d asked to be transferred to the New York office, and it’s more than obvious that if he’s going there then I’m not, since I have it from reliable inside sources – I bribed them with coffee and snacks – that there’s only one position going.

To be honest, the idea of moving abroad to discover the world and further my career was not entirely my own. John, my fantastic boss – who is one of the main reasons I’ve never been fired – had strongly recommended a few months ago that I ask to be allocated to some foreign office, saying it was an indispensable condition for professional growth. I, who had no intention of leaving London, hadn’t taken him seriously, so he applied on my behalf, ignoring all my protests. What John never really seems to get is that my ambitions don’t actually include having a brilliant career. I just couldn’t give a monkey’s. All I need is a job that pays the rent while I work out what I want to do when I grow up. And I will admit that if tomorrow some Prince Charming with a large bank account or an inexhaustible trust fund were to ask me to marry him, I wouldn’t think twice about handing in my notice. To the immense horror of my mother, who perhaps suspects something but at least has the good taste not to ask.

Never ask questions with answers you don’t want to hear, is one of her wise rules. I must admit that even in her madness she always displays a certain wisdom – certainly more than her daughter, the non-feminist, does.

Despite what you might have heard, the world of finance isn’t particularly sexist: my colleagues don’t really care if I’m a man or a woman – they only care that I’m able to do my job.

When I walked into this bank six years ago, John immediately took a liking to me. He said I was ‘out of the ordinary’. Ha! Well, no, I don’t actually have much in common with those who think that work ennobles the soul. No one will ever convince me of that. Work will never be better than sleeping. Never.

John is approaching fifty, has a beautiful wife who stays at home to look after the garden and the dog and cooks for their beloved eighteen year old son who wants nothing more out of life than to play the guitar. I guess he sees me as a sort of daughter he can hand his trade down to. If only the daughter were a tad more willing…

In any case, I’d be completely lost without him. Moreover, my colleagues know that I am his favourite so they leave me in peace and you might even say that I enjoy a certain position of privilege in the office. Leave here after having worked so hard to attain peace? Forget it.

But after he got in touch with them, the HR office contacted me for an interview. They pretended that it was all very informal, while actually making notes about even how often I blinked, and asked vaguely where in the world I would like to work. I’ve never been any good at beating around the bush, so I just said straight out that I wanted to go to New York. There or nowhere. Call me extreme: I prefer to think I’ve got clear ideas. Everyone knows that there’s no better place for shopping than the Big Apple, not to mention that it’s somewhere where there’s a very strong chance that I might come across some rich potential husband.

And now Tom, who knows all about my request, is here standing next to me boasting about his transfer. He’s probably been going up and down in this bloody lift for the last hour in the hope of meeting me and being able to rub my nose in it. I am very obviously late, and he certainly hasn’t just arrived. Brown-noser that he is, he’s always one of the first to get here in the morning. With a hint of irritation I have to admit that his strategy has paid off.

Striving to appear unruffled, I press the button for my floor, turning away from him and waiting patiently for the lift to begin its ascent. But Tom is unhappy with my reaction and goes all out to make me lose my temper.

"The best news is about your destination though, because you see, Maddison, a little bird told me that you’re going to be leaving too…" he almost giggles. Seeing him chortling away is really more than I can endure this early in the morning, so I reluctantly turn towards him with my seraphic expression beginning to crack.

The lowlife has dropped his bombshell and can see that I’m feeling the effects. On the one hand I’d like to ignore him, but on the other I have to find out more.

What are you talking about? Everyone knows that I was only willing to go to New York – and since they’ve decided that yours was the profile best suited to being sent overseas, I’ll obviously be staying here. But it doesn’t matter – I like living in London and not moving away might have its advantages, I say, trying to sound like I mean it. I don’t like showing weakness in front of idiots like him.

Tom, though, just smiles more and more mockingly. I don’t like the annoying gleam of his thirty-two perfectly whitened teeth at all.

"Then you’ll find that your day will be full of surprises," he whispers in a voice that makes it sound like a threat.

Finally the lift stops at my floor and I march towards the door without even bothering to say goodbye. To hell with him!

As the doors close again he adds, We could have a joint farewell party! Think about it and let me know!

I freeze for a moment with irritation, looking at my distorted reflection in the elevator doors. Ok, I’m not going to New York, that looks pretty certain, unfortunately – but someone upstairs must have decided in any case to give me this ‘enviable formative experience abroad’. If I’d really wanted to experience the thrill of the unknown, I could have spent a year of university in some other country. It was no coincidence that I clung to Britain like a castaway to a lifebuoy all those years.

And anyway, where could they be sending me? I wouldn’t mind Paris, though my French isn’t great, so making myself understood would be a job in itself.

Never mind, I’ll just sign up for a language course! The one my mother insisted on making me attend for ten years in a row never had the desired effect, because I wasn’t motivated. Although the teacher did say a hundred years of lessons wouldn’t have sufficed to turn me into a person able to utter two intelligible sentences in a language that I’d never liked anyway.

Not a big problem, though, come on: everyone everywhere speaks English nowadays. They can’t not speak my language, right? The shopping in Paris isn’t bad, and the food is divine. Yes, now that I think about it, Paris would be even better than New York! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place…

Or maybe they’re sending me to Rome: Italians are so charming and warm, and I love their clothes and their way of life. And you don’t even need to learn the language: everyone knows that Italians speak with gestures. As a child I was very good at mime, so I have every reason to think that I’d do brilliantly at it.

When I get to my desk I’m really happy that everything’s going to go smoothly and that John’s going to send me somewhere beautiful. Somewhere much, much better than New York. Everyone goes to the Big Apple, why follow the crowd?

My eye falls on the messages that my colleague Jess has left for me. My mother must have called at least ten times: she knows that the transfers are being announced today, and I would imagine she hasn’t slept from all the excitement. Just as I’m about to call her, I notice from the corner of my eye that from the other side of the office John is gesticulating to me strangely: he gestures several times at the door of his room and then races inside to take refuge. If I didn’t know him so well I’d say he was agitated. That’s never usually a good sign.

Meanwhile, Jess has returned to her desk with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. What the hell’s going on this morning? I ask worriedly.

She looks at me with a strange expression, as though deciding whether to let me in on the secret.

I don’t know exactly. I saw a man go into John’s office half an hour ago. Not long afterwards, the boss came looking for you. We even tried calling you at home and then on your mobile, but it was off, she tells me between sips. I think he needs to talk to you urgently.

This means that for once in history it wasn’t my mother at the other end of the line, then. Well, hooray for mum! And, for the record, I always forget to turn on my phone – too many emails that I’d rather ignore and that might stress me on my way to work – if I was actually aware of the hassle awaiting me at work, there’s every chance that I’d do a runner! I’ve dreamed so many times of just walking right past the main door without entering, and if the opportunity presented itself I might actually decide to take it.

I’d better go and see what he wants immediately, I mutter. No point pretending to be calm when my voice betrays me.

I start walking timidly towards the office of the big chief with my stomach doing somersaults. As I go in, I have a strange feeling: I know that it’s not going to be anything good – in fact, I feel with absolute certainty that there’s trouble ahead. I’ve always been able to sense when some misfortune was on the way. I remember that sometimes at school I was even able to tell when the teacher was going to single me out for an oral test. Some might call me psychic, but I just call it a survival instinct. And now it’s telling me to scarper, without even opening the door. If only I could just skive off like at school.

For a moment I’m actually tempted to make a run for it, and I’m not ashamed. If only John hadn’t seen me arriving… Trying to not think too much I force myself to knock, and when the boss’s voice invites me to come in I summon up all the courage I have, or at least what little I have left, and decide to throw open the door. Across the room, John sits regally behind his large black desk: he raises his eyes to my face, staring at me with a hint of embarrassment, before turning to the person in front of him, whose face is hidden by the back of the shiny leather chair.

Ah, finally – our Maddison! he greets me, unable to hide the tension in his voice, despite pretending to be relaxed. Jess told me you’d be a little late because your mother was unwell… he stammers, giving me a funny look clearly meant to communicate some secret coded message.

I stare quizzically: my mother has never been ill in her life. John is clearly lying to provide me with an alibi, and more besides – with that look, he’s obviously suggesting that I lie too. But why?

Warily, I walk over to his desk, but I still can’t work out who the mystery man sitting opposite him might be.

I start sweating like crazy and billions of disturbing scenarios immediately pop into my mind, which is already a bit pessimistic by nature. Is it one of the internal auditors? Have I really cocked up this time?

I’ve always known that I wasn’t cut out for this job, and I’d go so far as to call myself a harbinger of disaster rather than a creator of ingenious restructuring plans. It must be something to do with the time I spilt coffee on the printout of the transactions then rewrote it entirely at random. God, I’d start biting my nails from nerves if I hadn’t already almost chewed them down to the cuticles thanks to never having learned to cope with stress.

My confused thoughts are interrupted when the mysterious man finally decides to turn round: I don’t know exactly what I had been expecting, but whatever it was it was certainly nothing like this. In front of me is a guy with very dark, expressive eyes. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit, clearly tailored, which is perfect and flawless in its austerity. He looks serious, too. For a few seconds no one says anything, while the stranger stares at me without ever breaking eye contact or even blinking. If he’s trying to intimidate me, I’d say it’s working amazingly well.

The only thing that betrays a touch of vanity is the over long black hair, extending down to the collar of his blue shirt, as perfect as everything else. There’s not even a single, tiny fold around that slender neck.

I’ve always hated characters like this. They look you up and down with that superior expression of theirs, as though no one could ever be as good as them – as though no one was worthy of even laying eyes on them.

Ms Johnson, he says very seriously, getting up from the chair. I’ve always been very proud of my five foot nine, and to emphasize my height I usually add a couple of inches of heel. Today, for example, I’m wearing my uncomfortable but beautiful shiny black two and a half inchers, but he’s still a couple of inches taller than me. I sense, though, that he is surprised too. He can’t take advantage of his height to intimidate me further. He scrutinizes me carefully, but I’m not quite sure whether he likes what he sees. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t like it at all.

Maddison, this is Mark Kim, says John, finally deciding to speak.

He’s uncomfortable but he has to make the introductions. The stranger offers me his hand – a large, perfect one, which makes me feel embarrassed about never having gone for a manicure in the last God-knows how long. I take it with a little hesitation: I really hope that my own hand isn’t sweaty.

He has a firm grip, just as you’d imagine. After he releases my hand, he sits back down in his chair without uttering a single syllable. Assailed by worries, I have no choice but to plop down much less gracefully in the chair next to his.

Mark and I have spoken at length about you, Maddison, explains my boss, not without a trace of pride, and I’ve told him about all of your qualities.

I blink, poorly concealing my astonishment. Qualities? Me? What’s he talking about?

I’ve obviously missed something: why would John, who knows me so well, cover up for my being late to this stranger and try and make out that I’m someone who I certainly am not? And who the hell is this Mark Kim to be making John act so weird anyway?

I’m officially panicking now and, as always happens to me in crucial moments, totally random nonsense starts emerging from my mouth. Are you Chinese? I ask him, before I manage to stop myself.

Mr Kim, who already gave every sign of not being what you might call a talker, seems to stiffen even further at my unexpected question. Perhaps starting with an interrogation isn’t the best way to make friends with people you don’t know.

Looking almost offended, the mystery man rolls his eyes as though my question is a ridiculous one. Okay, I might have been a bit undiplomatic, but certainly not enough to deserve the look of absolute contempt he gives me.

No. I’m American, but I have Korean origins, he finally deigns to answer, grudgingly. It seems that his words are an extremely rare commodity.

His voice is deep, and would even be quite charming if it weren’t for that irritable tone of his, which contains a kind of veiled threat. Who the hell is he? The killer the company sends to assassinate lazy employees?

I can tell by the expression in his eyes that he already hates me. We’ve known each other for thirty seconds, and the mutual dislike is more than evident. There’s something in the air that I can’t quite put my finger on… hmm, a storm on the way, maybe? My God, what unhappy alignment of the stars is causing all this?

John must have sensed my embarrassment because he tries to give me an explanation. As you know, a few months ago you made yourself available to work abroad for a period, and the company has decided to take you up on it.

It might sound like a great opportunity, but for some reason I sense that there’s a catch about to be served up on this silver platter: I’m about as willing to abandon London as the Ravens at the Tower, and my boss knows it.

Actually, I made myself available to work in New York, I point out with a glare which means ‘and it’s all your fault’. Being ‘available’ – as he puts it – has never been one of my strong points.

Mr Kim is trying to hide a wry smile and not succeeding terribly well. But then, he’s not trying that hard. Clearly Americans, or at least those of Korean descent, don’t know much about good manners. Has no one ever told him that in certain cases, and especially here in England, pretending is obligatory?

At this point I no longer care about making a good impression on him, so I try to incinerate him with a stare, and he seems to notice. Despite being a pain in the ass, I must admit that he’s perspicacious.

Yes, it’s true, I know that you specifically asked to go to New York, but our US office needed legal counsels and so they chose Tom Brady. But it would have been such a shame to waste this unique opportunity, and that’s why we decided to go ahead with your transfer to the office of M & A in Seoul. John has gathered up all his courage – courage he’d probably been wondering whether he actually possessed – and, blushing bright red, reads out my sentence.

I’m sure that I must have misheard: his words are still ringing in my ears, but my brain refuses to process them. It is as if I had been sentenced to death and guillotined in one shot.

"Where am I supposed to be going!?" I exclaim, red-faced, in a tone several octaves higher than normal. It doesn’t even sound like me.

Mark Kim has no wish to lose the chance to give me the coup de grâce, so he adds, "To Seoul – South Korea, if you weren’t sure where it was. I have come personally from our South Korea office to make your move… how shall I put it… easier." He finishes the sentence with a sigh.

It’s clear that he’s not even trying to hide what he means, though: he’s obviously going to end up making my transfer a living hell.

This can’t be happening, it just can’t be! They must all be crazy! I don’t even know where South Korea is – or rather, I know that it’s far away and I don’t remember it being famous for shopping or for excellent food. A feeling so deeply unpleasant comes over me that it becomes hard even to breathe.

When? I ask, in what is barely more than a whisper.

In a fortnight, answers my extremely uncomfortable boss. John can see the effect the news has had on me, and hardly dares look me in the eye.

And is that definite? I can’t say no? I force myself to ask.

I would say that, yes, it’s definite, he says – the traitor!

For a few long moments, no-one says anything: Mr Kim has no sarcastic retort, I have lost the power of speech, and John is crushed with guilt. He is the one to break the silence. Mark will be your boss in Seoul: he’s only just learned that you’ve had the good fortune to be selected to go with him. I know both of you well, and I am confident that you will work well together.

I appreciate his attempt to calm the waters, but as far as I’m concerned, the goal is far from being reached.

At least the reason for our exotic looking guest’s ill-humour has been revealed: like me, he was totally in the dark about all this. Who knows what little genius he’d been promised, and now he has to make do with yours truly.

In the room, another awkward silence descends. It’s clear that too much has been said.

I’m in shock – if someone asked me to get up from the chair I’d probably collapse to the ground. I’m trying with all my might to recall anything I can remember about South Korea, but nothing’s coming to mind! I know zilch about Seoul or the Koreans, not one single, solitary thing. Not a very promising start.

Mark, Jeffrey Wilson told me that he wanted to see you this morning to discuss some urgent matters, says John, acting as though the Korea question is now a done deal. I’ve asked Jess to accompany you, and after you’ve finished you can join me for lunch.

Mark jumps to his feet, obviously thinking that it’s an excellent suggestion. The issue of my transfer is apparently closed as far as he is concerned, too. John picks up his phone and calls Jess who, efficient as ever, appears a few seconds later, following his instructions to the letter and accompanying Mr Friendly out of the office. He goes without even saying goodbye, which isn’t much of a

Reviews for You Drive Me Crazy

[nelispelusa · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Received an ARC for my voluntary review for netgalley. This book was adorable. Maddison was hilarious, when she was thinking thoughts in her head, they were lol moments. Her love hate relationship with her boss Mark or Mr. Kim was funny, and frustrating. I kind of wished they would have gotten together earlier in book, but I did appreciate that they did not just jump in to bed, instead got to know each other first, even though they barely liked each other. It was also fun to read about her job, and the coworkers that she eventually not only got to appreciate but ended up liking. Mark's grandmother and brother were also good characters to add to the story. Thoroughly enjoyed, am sure you will too!

[charl08-1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I was hoping for a fun light-hearted read from this ARC but found this first person novel to be all over the place. I think the author was aiming for a character arc of self development, as ditsy worker finds her feet after an opportunity to work abroad. However,the character was inconsistently developed, the LI was oddly (and in places horribly stereotypically) described and their work environment felt unrealistic. It's a no from me.