by Louise Bay
“Yes, you’re right,” he said even though I hadn’t said anything. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Why would they request you?”
Given that I wasn’t going to call my boss out for being straight-up rude, I swallowed down the implied insult and tried to solve the problem for him. “Perhaps they just wanted a fresh face?” I wasn’t quite sure if he was asking me the question but I was here to be helpful.
“I think it’s your history. With Rallegra.” He shifted back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “They think you’re going to be a pushover, easily manipulated by his PR and eager to write a puff piece.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling irritation start to rise in my belly. Bernie was making all sorts of generalizations but I didn’t even know what assignment he was talking about. How was I supposed to defend myself when I was in the dark with my arms tied around my back? “What’s the assignment?”
“Oh yes, right.” He shuffled some papers around on his desk and pulled out a single typed sheet of A4 with a paperclip attaching exactly nothing to it. “Nathan Cove.”
My heart drummed loudly in my chest and the reverberations chased the breath from my lungs. What the hell was Bernie bringing up Saturday night for? How did he even know about it?
“You know him?” Bernie asked.
I nodded. “A little.” While it was true that the kind of sex I’d had on Saturday night should be written about, I didn’t think the Post was the right platform. It should be projected onto the screens in Leicester Square. Women all over Britain should know that it was possible to have sex that amazing. And then they should demand that their husbands and boyfriends shape up.
But something told me that wasn’t the article Bernie had in mind.
“A profile,” Bernie continued. “His PR says he’s being unfairly hounded out of office by the City and the financial pages. The old guard thinks no one should be as successful as Cove is at his age. He’s the youngest CEO in the history of the FTSE 100 and apparently, he’s being punished for being extraordinary. The establishment is blackballing him.”
CEO? I thought he’d sold his company and was just a playboy about town. I guess if I’d known I’d be asked to write an article about him, I would have paid more careful attention.
“That’s an interesting angle,” I replied, trying to sound like I was taking this in my stride. “Of course, it would be more interesting if he was a woman.” At least I knew enough about Nathan Cove to know he didn’t have a vagina.
“Yes, we don’t want an article on a white, privileged, successful, publicly educated guy who isn’t getting his own way. But I picked up the phone to his PR and apparently he’s had some bad press recently. Have a dig around, find an interesting angle. Apparently, yesterday’s story in the Sunday Mercury means every paper in town is trying to get this kind of access. Let’s make sure that we do a good job, but that doesn’t mean be a pushover.”
“Understood,” I replied. “If you think his PR picked me because they’re expecting a soft touch, I can assure you they’ll be disappointed.” Perhaps I’d always be associated with fluff. My previous role made it difficult but my mother was literally an icon of gossip. She wrote under her maiden name, but people in the industry knew I was her daughter. I’d just have to work twice as hard to be taken seriously.
“Make sure you don’t capitulate. I can’t think of any other reason why they’d request you.”
Dread chased up my limbs. There was one obvious reason. He might have requested me after meeting me at the wedding. I tried to think back to whether I’d told him what I did for a living. Had he known I was the journalist assigned to his Post profile? I suppose he could have quickly Googled me at some point during the wedding. Perhaps that’s why he’d come on so strong. He’d been trying to get me on his side. Or on my back. Oh, he’d definitely been trying to get me on my back. But had he had an ulterior motive?
“You said his PR set this up. When did she call?”
“Yesterday,” he said, gazing at his screen. “I’ll forward you the email.”
“On a Sunday?” I was sure I hadn’t told Nathan what I did for a living, and I don’t think he knew from any surreptitious internet searches either. He hadn’t asked or mentioned my job in any way—we’d had other things on our minds. Had he found out who I was and come up with the idea after we’d slept together? Or perhaps the bride and groom had given him a heads-up before? I couldn’t decide if it mattered. If profiling him gave me the break I needed at the Post, did I care if he knew who I was?
“You know these PR types. They’re no better than us hacks. No life outside work for either of us.” He started flitting through another pile of papers on his desk. “Any questions?”
I had nothing but questions. But Bernie wasn’t going to be the man to answer them.
“I don’t think so,” I said. Part of me wondered if I should confess that Nathan and I had a personal history of sorts. But I wasn’t going to let that affect my job. He wasn’t going to get an easy ride from me. That moment had passed. “I’ll get started,” I said as I stood.
“Go meet them, have a dig around, and come back and impress me.”
I left Bernie’s office and raced back to my desk, wanting to see his PR person’s request for me. I opened up the forwarded email from Gretel Sharp of Astro Holdings. Her email was sent on Saturday morning, before Nathan and I met.
I sat back in my chair. So, Nathan wasn’t trying to manipulate me, which was a relief. At least he’d wanted what I’d wanted—nothing complicated. Nothing more than a one-time meeting of bodies and minds. The request was likely his PR person’s choice, so I bet he wouldn’t expect me of all people to rock up to his office with a notepad. Gretel’s note was short, mentioned me by name, and promised exclusive access, like Nathan was Justin Bieber.
I brought up the internet and typed in Nathan’s name on the search bar. The images that filled the screen had my heart racing and my fingers sweating like I’d just logged onto a porn site at work.
I could still feel those lips on my neck. Still smell his freshly mown grass scent in my hair. Still hear his dirty laugh. The edges of my lips began to curl into a smile before I shook my head, trying to regain control, and scrolled down past the pictures.
I’d heard about Nathan over the years at the breakfast table but not taken much notice. I just knew he was rich and successful and liked to party. All the pictures I’d seen of him were coming out of a bar or nightclub with a beautiful woman in tow. But reading more detail, I learned that he was in insurance, not banking. He’d started with a small insurance product, ten years ago, and built the company he eventually floated two years ago. Nathan seemed to have a Midas touch pre-flotation, but since his transition from successful entrepreneur to CEO of a publicly traded company, the increased scrutiny of him brought up a recurring theme: was he serious enough to be a FTSE CEO?
If his PR person wanted me to profile him and tell the world what a focused, hardworking human being he was, no one would take me seriously if they found out that I’d been one of his extracurricular activities just this past weekend.
Unexpectedly, my mouse rolled over my mother’s name. I clicked on a story from this past weekend’s gossip column in the Sunday Mercury. As the queen of London gossip, and one of the oldest in her profession, Mum didn’t miss much. There were pictures of Nathan and the very married Audrey Alpern falling out of Annabel’s together, along with a chastising comment about marriage and karma.
I didn’t really know Nathan, but it still came as a shock that he would sleep with someone who was married. We hadn’t shared much about our lives, but from what I’d found out about him—bar the physical—I’d thought he was better than that.
Apart from being a little disappointed in the man I’d slept with on Saturday night, I now had to decide whether or not I should confess to Bernie about my one-night stand with Nathan. It was a potential conflict of interest as far as this story was concerned, and would likely result in Ber
nie reassigning the profile to someone else. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. Perhaps I couldn’t be impartial—although I wasn’t sure anyone could be when faced with those eyelashes.
Could I get past the complete mortification of having to work with a man who’d seen me naked two days ago? Very naked. And from every angle.
I’d been enjoying the freedom I’d felt since Saturday night. The energy I’d gotten had fired me up when I came into the office this morning, but now I felt like a deflated balloon. If this profile had been on anyone but Nathan Cove, I’d be itching to get started. But what should have been a simple, carefree encounter might potentially turn into very complicated disaster.
My colleague opposite me shot me a look and I realized I’d been tapping my keyboard with my fingernails. “Sorry,” I mouthed.
I’d wanted this job at the Post since I was a little girl and had gone into work with my mum during half term. I loved the hustle and bustle, the energy here. As I’d gotten older, I knew my future wouldn’t follow in my mother’s gossipy footsteps. I wanted to do something meaningful—something with a purpose—and I’d set my heart on the job I had right now. I didn’t want to pass over my chance to make my mark just because I was embarrassed. And I wasn’t going to confess anything to Bernie—not yet. I’d have to suck up the mortification. I owed that to myself. I was determined to become a credible journalist, and sometimes that journey was messy. Today, for me, it meant facing my not-so-recent past in the stark light of day.
Eight
Nathan
I hadn’t heard from Audrey and made a mental note to call her to see how she was holding up after the photos were released yesterday. I’d given her a heads-up about the story, but it was the last thing she needed given all she was going through. I checked emails on my phone as I strolled back to my office from the boardroom, where I’d just finished meeting with the chairman.
When several pairs of feet blocked my way, I looked up from my phone.
No, that couldn’t be right. I looked back at my screen and back up again, hoping that my brain had malfunctioned and needed a short reset.
But the same two women were standing speaking to my assistant, Christine: Gretel . . . and Madison Shore. Gretel being here was just annoying but Madison? That didn’t make sense.
I was hallucinating. It was the only explanation. Or perhaps I was still in bed asleep, dreaming, not standing outside my office staring at the woman I’d spent Saturday night tangled up in.
“Nathan,” Gretel said. “This is Madison Shore.”
That much I could see for myself. The information I was missing was what the hell she was doing here.
I cleared my throat as Madison reached out her hand. “Madison,” I said, trying to pick the most neutral greeting I could muster. I took her hand, shaking it while trying to ignore her warm, soft skin, and dropping it as quickly as good manners allowed.
“She’s the journalist with the Post who’s here about the profile. She’s going to be your shadow for the next few weeks.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
I felt like I’d just been torpedoed through the air. I’d lost all sense of control of what was going on around me. How was this possible?
Gretel was babbling but all I could focus on was how I could extricate myself from this situation. There must have been a mistake.
“Madison used to write for Rallegra magazine but has recently joined the Post,” she said as if I was supposed to be focusing on her explanation.
There was no way this could happen. Madison could not be the one here to help rehabilitate my image.
I needed to tell Gretel that I’d be happy for any other Post journalist to interview and profile me. Just not Madison Shore.
Knowing Gretel, she’d threaten to resign again. And then I’d have to confess that Madison really wasn’t the best person to tell the world that business, rather than partying, was my main focus.
That hadn’t been the case Saturday night. She’d been my complete focus then. Those delicious, full breasts that I’d sunk my teeth into, that perfectly cup-able arse that I couldn’t keep my hands off. Without thinking, I dipped my gaze to remind myself how perfectly round it had been, and then I caught myself. This was Madison Shore, journalist from the Post, and she was here to interview me.
To save my position at my company.
To tell the world how they’d gotten it all wrong, and I wasn’t an unfocused womanizer.
Oh, the irony.
“I’ve just been introducing her to your top team,” Gretel said, “and explaining about how you’re really very hands-on with everything. How you like to get into the details.”
I slid my gaze toward Madison, who was staring at the floor. I tried to think back to the weekend. I’d met Madison a matter of minutes after I’d given Gretel the go-ahead for the Post article, so she couldn’t have known she was going to be working with me this week when we slept together. Could she? But . . . It couldn’t be a coincidence. It would be too weird. I tried to figure out the connection. There must be one. Did Gretel know Noah and Truly?
“Like I said,” Gretel continued. “No questions are off limits. And I’ll get that schedule typed up so you know the order of events for the rest of the week.”
“Schedule?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gretel replied. “I’m getting Madison a copy of your diary so she’ll know where you are each day.”
“Because she’s going to be there too,” I said, reminding myself that I’d told Gretel the Post would get full access to everything I did—personal and private.
“Exactly,” Gretel said.
This wasn’t going to work. The conflict of interest was staggering. If anyone found out that Madison and I had spent the night together, any hope of rehabilitating my image would be out the window. Yet I couldn’t admit the truth about my history with Madison—brief as it may have been. Doing so would just prove the point I was so desperate to dispel.
I glanced back at Madison but her expression was blank. When had she figured out the guy she was going to be writing about over the next few weeks—the one about whom she had to remain impartial—was the guy who made her come at the weekend?
I rounded my desk back to my chair, desperate to get some distance from Madison. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I’d been caught off guard generally or Madison’s particular presence that had my brain foggy but I needed to figure out what I was going to do.
As if the fates wanted to throw one more obstacle in the way of my sanity, my mobile buzzed in my hand and a message from Audrey flashed up. I scrambled to cover up my phone before anyone saw who the message was from.
This morning was a disaster. It was like the walls were tumbling down around my ears.
I needed to find a way forward that didn’t involve me making a fool of myself.
If I confessed to PR that I’d slept with Madison, it could go one of two ways. Make that three.
One, Gretel could take it in her stride, understand that coincidences happened, and get Madison replaced. It was an unlikely outcome, but my best-case scenario.
Option two was she could think Madison on the story was a positive thing because she’d liked me enough to sleep with me. She’d insist Madison stay on the story. Of course, the same outcome would come to pass if I kept my mouth shut and kept Gretel in the dark.
Telling Gretel was a risk and the odds weren’t good. Even if she saw it as no big deal and was amenable to getting Madison replaced, there was no guarantee what the next journalist would be like. At least I knew Madison Shore liked me enough to sleep with me.
“I’m going to take Madison to see the call center tomorrow,” Gretel said.
I nodded, not wanting to meet Madison’s eye. I needed to speak with her alone to figure out this mess. I wasn’t sure if it was the scent of summer blossom clouding my brain or the fact I was going to have to try to convince a woman I’d just slept with that I wasn’t a womanizer. I couldn’t see an obvious way forward.
When we were alone, we’d have to figure out this mess together.
Nine
Nathan
Three pieces of paper weren’t going to prove anything. “This is all you got?” I asked Audrey. We’d agreed to meet in the basement of a coffee shop by Euston Station. I was hoping a combination of it being the middle of the day and a very public location would mean people wouldn’t notice us, or if they did, they wouldn’t misconstrue our meeting as clandestine. Unless someone was following one of us, we wouldn’t be making the gossip columns this time.
Audrey nodded while biting down on her lip. “I heard him go into the bathroom upstairs. I didn’t want to risk printing anything else off in case he found me.” She picked up her coffee cup and set it down again before taking a sip.
I’d managed to escape from my own personal hell for an hour or so. Despite risking Gretel’s wrath, I’d skipped out when Christine was in the loo and slipped off to meet Audrey. Apparently we both had to sneak around when people used the bathroom.
“It’s just a list of clients and their investments,” I said. “It doesn’t say much.”
“But that’s got to be the start, right?” I could tell from the red rims around her eyes and the chipped manicure that Audrey wasn’t herself. Mark might have been married to his wife for over a decade and joked that they were like ships passing in the night, but even he was going to notice if Audrey didn’t learn to put a brave face on it.
“Well yes. But it doesn’t prove he’s stealing from them.”
“Why else would he have over a hundred million dollars in a personal Cayman Islands account that he hadn’t told me about? It’s not even in our joint names. Just his.”
When Audrey first told me the police had questioned her about Mark’s business dealings, she’d assumed the police were harassing him. Or so she said. I didn’t press her but wondered whether or not she had the feeling in her gut that what was inevitable had finally come to fruition. Not that I went around thinking my friend was corrupt or a liar—it just didn’t surprise me when the police told Audrey that’s exactly what her husband was.
