by L.H. Cosway
I realised I was staring at those lips a little too closely when my eyes flicked back to his. A moment ago he was smiling, but now that smile was transforming into a thoughtful frown.
I cleared my throat. “Your pupils look fine.”
King exhaled a small breath, and I watched as his attention went from my eyes to my cheeks, nose, chin, and then finally to my lips. He looked like he was about to say something when suddenly Gillian’s voice filled the room.
“Mr King, Jenson Gellar is on the phone. Shall I put him through?”
My heart beat wildly before I realised she wasn’t actually there. She was talking through the intercom. I watched King swallow, smooth down his shirt, and then rise to a standing position. Walking to his desk, he hit the button to reply to Gillian.
“Keep him on hold. I’ll pick up in a moment.”
“No problem,” she answered, and then the room was silent again. Whatever had passed between King and me, he seemed to be trying to push it from his mind.
Unable to stand the quiet, I asked, “So what did you want to see me about?”
I ran my hands over my skirt, noticing how King’s eyes lingered on the movement for the barest second before he brought his gaze to mine. Another beat of silence passed, and my throat grew dry. Had he been…? I felt like maybe he had a thing for my thighs, because I’d caught him staring at them a number of times now. A moment later, he deftly set two newspapers down in front of me, each open on a different story. “Read both of these.”
I cocked a brow. “Why?”
“Just read them, and then I’ll tell you why.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
He shook his head at my response and brought his attention to the phone. Picking up, he immediately began chatting a lot of numbers to the guy on the other end, while I tried to concentrate on the newspaper articles. Both were about different companies. One was a silicone manufacturer who had just announced an expansion to its production facilities. The other was a start-up for a new social media website. I read each of them to the end and was done before King was finished with his call. Glancing up, he noticed I was finished reading, and reached for a pad and pen. Still holding the phone to his ear, he scribbled something down, then passed it to me. It read: Which of the two companies would you invest in?
I pondered the question, unsure as to why he was asking me this. Did he need advice, or was it some kind of a test? Looking back at the articles, I tried to come up with an answer. Grabbing King’s pen and paper, I began to write down a pros and cons list, and noticed his lips twitch when he saw what I was doing. All of a sudden, I began to wonder if I was some sort of amusement to him, or maybe a pet project. The thought disgruntled me, but I was determined not to let him see it. I’d told him at the end of my interview that I’d show him I had brains, and now I needed to prove it.
Five minutes later, he hung up the phone and turned to face me. Clasping his hands together, he asked. “Well, have you decided?”
I sat up primly. “Yes.”
“And?”
“I’d choose the social media start-up.”
“Elaborate.”
Had it gotten hotter in here all of a sudden? My throat was feeling unusually dry. “Well, silicone is clearly a good investment, because let’s face it, plastic surgery gets more and more popular year on year, and it doesn’t look like it’s going away any time soon. It’s the safe choice if you don’t factor in the possibility of a replacement being created that works better. However, the sky’s the limit with the social media thing. It has the potential to go anywhere. And yeah, it’s more of a gamble, but if it succeeds, the rewards could be huge.”
King leaned forward, looking pleased. “So, let’s say you’re me and I’m my client. I come in and I want invest in either the social media start-up or the silicone manufacturer. You’d advise me to go for the social media?”
Narrowing my gaze, I nodded.
He smiled. “All right. That will be all.”
“That’s it?”
“I have a very busy day ahead of me, Alexis, but I hope to see you at lunch for our game of chess.” His easy dismissal irritated me, and I felt like he was being sneaky.
“King, this was all hypothetical, right?”
The look he gave me when I called him “King” made my knees a little bit weak. He clearly liked it, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d essentially given him an affectionate nickname, or if he just enjoyed being referred to as an all-powerful ruler.
“And if it wasn’t?”
“I’m only an assistant. I know virtually nothing about investing. You shouldn’t be using my advice in any kind of real life dealings.”
Now I had his full attention, and he seemed annoyed with me. “Alexis, I have heard more intelligence from you in two weeks than I have from some of the people I work with in an entire year. Never underestimate the value of your decisions.”
I swallowed. Blinked. Couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Never in a million years had I expected him to say something like that. And then I felt tears prickling in my eyes. It was such a huge compliment, and I wasn’t used to those. I needed to get out of there before I embarrassed myself. Not saying a word, I gave him a sober nod, turned, and walked out of the room. Despite what I’d proclaimed about having brains at the end of my interview, I suddenly realised that when it came down to it, I didn’t really believe I could do very much with them. King’s compliment showed me that I needed to seriously rewire the way I thought of myself.
For the next two hours, Gillian kept giving me furtive glances. She clearly wanted to know what King had talked to me about. I gave her nothing. Not only was the woman a flirt, she was also a gossip, and I didn’t want her spreading rumours of me getting preferential treatment from my boss. Not that it had been particularly preferential, but I got the feeling he didn’t often ask his assistants for business advice.
It was almost lunch when Gillian came to my desk and placed a small white envelope in front of me.
“This came for you,” she said, looking curious.
I glanced at the envelope and saw it had been addressed to me in pretty cursive handwriting. Opening it up, I found it was a note from Elaine King telling me she’d very much enjoyed my company yesterday, and that she hoped she’d see me again sometime. Wow. I definitely hadn’t been expecting this. I’d just finished reading it when I realised Gillian had been craning her neck and reading over my shoulder.
“You met Elaine?” she asked in a breathy, flabbergasted voice.
I shot her annoyed look before answering, “Yeah. Mr King had to cancel a visit and asked me to deliver some flowers to her house.”
Gillian’s eyes flared wide as she took a quick look at King’s office door to make sure it was closed. Her voice grew hushed. “Nobody around here has ever met Elaine. Rumours say she went mad with paranoia after something happened with a stalker, and Mr King keeps her locked away to hide the secret.”
For some strange reason, I felt the urge to cover for both King and his mum. “Well, she seemed normal enough when I met her.”
“Oh,” said Gillian, obviously disappointed. She was after a scandal, and I wasn’t going to give her one. Finally accepting there was no story to tell, she went back to her desk and resumed working. I read Elaine’s note once more, a warm feeling in my tummy to know that she’d liked me. It felt good to think I’d brightened up her day. Then I started to wonder about the stalker Gillian had mentioned. This tidbit definitely wasn’t common knowledge, since I would have read about it in the media. Given the state of Elaine nowadays, it could just as easily be true as it could be a rumour.
When my lunch hour came, I waited until Gillian had left the office to head into King’s bathroom. He wasn’t around, so I tucked into my packed sandwich and browsed my personal emails while I waited. As I did this, a text came in from Bradley. He had news about the photo shoot he wanted me to do. In a nutshell, he’d shown the higher-ups at the fashion house some photo
s of me from my Facebook page. They’d liked my look and wanted me to model. It all felt so glamorous and exciting. I was just reading through the details for the shoot, which was to take place on Saturday, when the bathroom door opened and King stepped inside.
“Started without me?” he asked, taking off his suit jacket to reveal a perfectly fitted white shirt beneath. I really needed to stop noticing these things about him.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, swallowing a bite as he neatly placed his jacket over the back of his chair. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to make it.”
He arched a brow and then began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt sleeves before rolling them up his arms. I didn’t know why he was doing it, since it wasn’t particularly hot in here. And really, I wished he wouldn’t, because I couldn’t take my eyes off his forearms. They were…yeah, quite pleasant to look at. He seemed to be hiding some sort of satisfaction when he nodded to my phone.
“Anything interesting?”
“What?” I glanced down, taken by surprise that he’d caught me staring. “Oh, right, yeah, actually. I was just texting my friend, Bradley. He’s setting me up with some weekend work.”
King’s expression was wry. “We don’t pay you enough here?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that. It’s more of a favour. He’s a fashion photographer, you see, and the label he’s working with at the moment need plus-sized models.” I paused and gestured to myself. “Hence, my involvement.”
He seemed both interested and amused as he leaned in. “You’re going to model?”
“Eh, yes, no need to sound so cynical.”
A small frown. “I wasn’t being cynical. I think you’d make a great model,” he said, and then his eyes seemed travel down my body, lingering on the flare of my hips emphasised by the pencil skirt I was wearing. “Fuck, you’d make a perfect model.” This last bit was said under his breath, and my skin began to tingle. Had he really just said that, or was I having a little mini daydream for a second? I needed to alleviate the tension his comment created, so I put on a haughty voice.
“Mr King, none of those F-words at the office, please.”
He chuckled. “My apologies. I sometimes forget you work for me. You’re so easy to get along with that you feel more like a friend.”
“Aw, shucks, thanks.” I grinned at him and took another bite of my sandwich. Well, that was kind of sweet. He seemed oddly sheepish about his admission, and picked up the lunch I’d ordered for him. It was now my job to order his meals from the local health food café each morning and schedule them to arrive by one. I swear, the man ate a diet straight out of Men’s Health magazine, all eggs, lean meat, and fresh vegetables. And there was me thinking bankers subsisted on a strict regime of coffee, steak, and whiskey. Maybe that was the ’80s Wall Street stereotype talking.
“So, you’re working on a shoot this weekend?” King asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I come and watch?”
I gaped at him. “Are you serious?”
“Of course,” he said, and pulled out his phone, fingers swiping over the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“Cancelling an afternoon tea party I was supposed to attend so that I can accompany you to your photo shoot.”
“You’re not coming.”
He frowned and gave me this sad little puppy-dog pout that I swear made my ovaries wake up and say hello. The man was unfairly good-looking.
“Come on,” I said, “you have to admit it is weird that you want to come to this.”
Now he looked sceptical. “Will there be other women there who look like you?”
“I presume so….”
“You see? It’s not weird at all. I enjoy looking at women, especially ones who are interested in cocks rather than vaginas.”
I couldn’t believe he’d just said that. I also couldn’t resist the urge to give him a scare. Glancing over his shoulder, I said, “Oh, hi, Gillian. Were you looking for me?”
King’s complexion instantly paled, and he went utterly still. I burst out laughing as he turned and found the doorway empty. “Oh, my God, the look on your face. That was priceless!”
“It was cruel.” He scowled at me, but I could see the smile he was trying his best to hold back.
“It serves you right for talking about cocks and VJs at the office. I bet you don’t say stuff like that to Eleanor.”
“Eleanor is old enough to be my mother.”
“And what am I? Chopped liver?”
“You,” said King, voice low and gravelly, “are the perfect age to be hearing words like that.”
On instinct, I licked my lips, and his eyes zeroed on it. Why oh why did he pay such close attention to the small details? It was too much, and the lesbian façade I’d been putting up was slowly beginning to crumble. If he kept giving me looks like that, he’d figure out sooner or later that I was lying, because my body language practically screamed my attraction.
He kept on staring at me, and I knew he was waiting for me to give in.
“Fine, you can come, but no manhandling the other models. I know what you Cambridge types are like. Frisky.”
He laughed. “If by ‘frisky’ you mean uptight and socially awkward, then you know us very well indeed.”
“Are you seriously using the words ‘uptight’ and ‘socially awkward’ to describe yourself? Because if you are, you’re fooling no one.”
King tsked. “I’m not talking about myself. I’m talking about the kind of people I went to school with. I was lucky to be born with natural charm.” He flashed me a cocky grin.
“Self-professed charm is no charm at all.”
“You find me charming.”
“That’s true. I find you about as charming as an ’80s sex comedy.”
King laughed loudly at my put-down, strangely seeming to enjoy it, and began eating his lunch while eyeing the chessboard.
“So, are we going to finish this game or what?”
We did.
And this time, I came out the winner. We were at a draw.
Oliver King: 1. Alexis Clark: 1.
Seven
The following morning I walked into the office, sensing an odd vibe in the air. It wasn’t long before I discovered the reason. It was B-day at Johnson-Pearse.
And no, that wasn’t B-day as in birthday. That was B-day as in Bonus Day. Apparently, investment banking, along with the vast majority of jobs in the financial sector, orbited around yearly bonuses. And those bonuses were announced at the start of each calendar year. I’d always read about this sort of thing in the newspapers, where left-wing journalists would criticize banks for giving out exorbitant bonuses to their employees while the rest of the country suffered one of the worst recessions in decades. I had to agree with the journalists; it was pretty fucked up. That still didn’t stop it from happening, though, and now I was getting to witness it all first hand.
It soon became apparent that everybody wanted to achieve a larger bonus than the one they got the year before, which accounted for the nervous tension. Nobody wanted to get a small bonus, because that meant they were losing at the game of making more money than everybody else.
I learned all of this from Eleanor as we worked together to complete our morning tasks. She’d been very happy with the way I’d handled things during her absence, and was confident I was going to make an excellent replacement after she left. Her confidence in me gave me a boost.
The hours until lunch passed busily. The way things worked on B-day were as follows. Each employee was called into King’s office, or the office of Daniel James, senior managing director. The bonuses were not announced publicly. Instead, each employee was told his/her bonus in private. And the absolutely bizarre thing about it all was that every single one of those employees exited King’s office looking confident and satisfied.
I knew some of them had to be bluffing, because not everyone got a larger bonus than last year. And here lay the competitive nature of the busine
ss. No matter what number those bankers got told when they entered King’s office, they would never let their colleagues see their disappointment.
Like I said, it was all about appearances.
It was mid-morning, and another “pleased”-looking employee had just exited King’s office when I went inside to bring him his coffee.
“Hey. How’s everything going?” I asked, setting the cup down on his desk.
“Monotonous,” he replied, running a hand through his short blond hair.
“Don’t you enjoy telling people their bonuses? I mean, the ones who did well, at least?” I asked, curious.
King only shot me a look that said it all. So he didn’t like B-day. Duly noted.
“Will you thank your mother for the note she sent yesterday?” I said just before I was about to leave.
King glanced up from the papers on his desk. “Note?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I got it yesterday. She wrote telling me she enjoyed my company when I’d stayed for tea.”
A stressed look crossed over King’s face. “Do you still have it?”
“Yes, it’s in my drawer.”
“Go get it,” he clipped.
Frowning, I turned and went to retrieve the note. When I returned, I handed it to King, and he hurried to pull it from the envelope. His eyes scanned the words, and then a relieved breath escaped him.
“Yes, this is definitely her handwriting.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Who else’s would it be?”
Shutters went down behind King’s eyes and he stood, walking to me and handing me back the note. I took it and watched as he went to the drinks cabinet at the back of the office and pulled out a bottle of expensive whiskey. In less than a few seconds, he’d poured some into a glass and knocked it back. I recalled his words from yesterday.
When I’m stressed out, a nice glass of top-shelf whiskey usually does the trick.
Why had his mother sending me a note stressed him out? And why had he thought somebody else had sent it?
