by Sorell Oates
Exclusive Love
By:
Sorell Oates
Copyright © 2013 RascalHearts.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
Katy sat at her desk, rocking in her chair chewing mindlessly on the end of a pen. Her computer screen was blank, despite the hubbub of the office. Blocking out the noise, her mind remained vacant of inspiration.
From a young age she’d always thought journalism had been her calling, but now doubted that initial vocational sense.
In Junior School she’d created a school paper. It had been literally that. A single sheet with immature, but relevant hand-written oddments relating to her year. In hindsight, it was the trifling demand on school resources required to produce the paper which accounted for the principal sanctioning the use of the photocopier for distribution purposes.
Alongside her studies at high school and university, her CV was bolstered by extracurricular activities, summer internships and a diminutive network of connections she’d created. Graduating well, Katy assumed her qualifications and uncompromising dedication would have her striding easily up the ladder of her chosen craft.
Reality bit hard.
Crushingly she hadn’t waltzed into a job at Cosmopolitan, Glamour or Vogue. Instead, she landed a position at the local paper in her local town, located a sixty-minute drive from New York City.
Receiving a daily sheet from a central agency supplying astrological forecasts, Katy’s first real job was re-writing the predictions to make hers original. It was humiliating and hard. Not only was it wholly irrelevant to her fierce urge to provide news-worthy copy, but it shattered her devotion to astrology. She’d clasped a faithful confidence in her personal life from those she believed could read the stars thinking it provided her genuine insight.
Having this particular myth brutally shattered bordered on the traumatic for Katy. It did at least prepare her for the next assignment. Concocting weekly advice letters and accompanying solutions sent in from non-existent readers dealing with everyday problems of their tiny town lives was a test for her imagination.
The integral pretense had her feeling demeaned and despondent. Begging for juicier, realistic substance, she was rebuffed with a flick of her boss’s hand.
With jobs hard to come by in an ever-shrinking industry, staff turnaround at the local paper was slow. The majority of employees had worked in their respective positions for years, leaving no hope for promotion.
When a team member got unexpectedly pregnant, Katy’s Editor, John, ungraciously offered her the chance to cover the maternity leave.
Leaping at the chance, she was determined to show her true capabilities. To her dismay she’d been assigned ‘judiciary’. Katy reported on cases of special interest for readers from the miniscule Town Court. Sitting alone day in and day out, she listened to endless misdemeanors: speeding, jay walking, unpaid parking tickets and utility bills with the odd domestic thrown in. Katy remained attentive in the hope an important case would leap out, thereby enabling her to create a splash for the paper, but it never did.
Her job lacked excitement. Her life lacked excitement. There was nothing to look forward to going into work. There was nothing to look forward to leaving work. Attending the weekly Monday morning meeting Katy knew exactly how the week would start and finish. The crippling boredom was frightening enough to force her to rethink and strategize a way out of the quandary.
An incoming email from her friend Julia flicked on her screen. It could wait. Katy was far too busy wallowing in self-pity to be distracted.
Katy’s phone vibrated under the clutter of pens, papers, soft toys and stress busters. Retrieving it, she pressed the green button to accept the call.
‘Yes,’ Katy greeted the persistent Julia glumly.
‘Did you see it?’
‘See what?’
‘The email.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? How busy are you over there?’ asked Julia, familiar with her friend’s job requirements.
‘Not at all.’
‘You don’t sound perky.’
‘It’s Monday morning, Julia. No one sounds perky.’
‘Think of me as the friend that’s here to perk you up. That said, from the tone of your voice I suspect what I’ve sent you might send you spiraling into the depths of depression.’
Curiosity piqued, Katy opened Julia’s email:
‘How the other half live. Check out the link! Wouldn’t you love to get onto this?’
Hearing her friend breathing excitedly down the phone, Katy clicked the link. The internet opened with the ‘home page’ filling her computer monitor. Running across the top of a purple and black background, were the words ‘Exclusive Love’ emblazoned in gold calligraphy. Underneath the title, in the same swirling font, read ‘Single British Millionaires living in the USA looking for love’.
Julia worked for an online dating corporation. In the competitive market her job frequently involved researching other sites. Scanning them to continue the maintenance and development of her employer’s own service or steal or improve on ideas to please existing clients and draw new ones in. Julia was effectively a paid dating-site addict.
‘So?’ needled Julia impatiently.
‘So what?’ retorted Katy, looking over the handsome man standing in a dinner suit, adjusting his cuff, she decided he was merely a hired model dressed in an expensive tailored suit (and probably American!).
‘Wouldn’t you love to be able to date the men from that site?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Money can’t buy my way out of forty-two years of impending boredom as I work to retirement.’
‘True, but it’d make your free time so much fun.’
‘Maybe. If you’re ready to start dating why not join up? Or is there a clause in your work contract precluding you from using other online dating websites?’ inquired Katy lightly.
‘Have you clicked on the ‘Register to Join—Find Male’ button?’
Katy tapped her mouse. Her eyes widened at the length of the form, requiring proof of income or other sources to confirm a minimal annual income of $100,000 a year.
‘They have got to be kidding.’
‘I know. There’s nothing from that website ours can incorporate—let alone compete with.’
‘Why would you want to? It’s vile. Never mind the price tag, show me where the love is please.’
‘Are you a sugary sentiment from a Hallmark card? With those types of comments slipping off your tongue, you should come join us,’ joked Julia.
‘No thanks,’ said Katy absently, not even catching on her friend was joking. ‘What do you know of this outfit? How many members are on the database? How effective it is? How long has it been operating?’
‘I’ve got no answers. Everything is confidential. It wasn’t worth me pursuing. I was too busy appraising the profile pictures of the men. Ten free views. Register if you like the goods and believe me I like the goods.’
‘Because they’re attractive or because they’re millionaires?’
‘Both.’
‘How many people know about this site? I haven’t seen any ads for it.’
Julia howled in hilarity.
‘Of course you ha
ven’t. It’d be a waste of money. How many people are eligible to register? Even if they do advertise it’ll be in publications targeted to people falling in that income bracket. Probably word of mouth it’s that elite. Mass advertising would be a prime example of ineffective marketing. Why waste money promoting a website the majority of people can’t join.’
‘You’re right. It would be dangling that carrot the donkey can never reach. Does the exclusivity of the website appeal to you?’
‘Are you asking me as a friend or as a reporter?’ requested Julia seriously.
‘Not sure. Does it matter?’
‘Not if you don’t use my name.’
‘I won’t,’ Katy assured her friend.
‘I suppose if I could join to date lonely, single, British millionaires and I knew other women couldn’t then I would feel exclusionary. Don’t women in general want to feel special? We want to feel exclusive. In that respect the website is alluring to me.’
‘Of course it does. That’s why you sent me the link,’ reasoned Katy. ‘To show me a scenario you see as tantalizing. You knew we’d be precluded from applying, but you also knew how much we’d love to date a guy of that status.’
‘Don’t forget he’s British. He’ll have the accent.’
‘They aren’t all related to the Royal family you know,’ said Katy sarcastically.
‘I know, but they might mix with them.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You sound cross,’ Julia sounded put out.
‘Promise I’m not. You’ve given me an idea I need to mull over. Fancy meeting for a drink this afternoon?’
‘Sure.’
Content her friend was brighter, Julia hung up.
Commonsense should have had her formulating and refining the concept, but Katy’s gut instinct insisted she’d struck gold. Executed correctly, the article would not only raise her profile in the office, but could be picked up national magazines with a larger marker presence. This could be the stepping stone she needed to open doors at the publications she longed to write for.
Knocking on the editor’s door, John called gruffly for her to come in.
‘Katy,’ he nodded, ‘Shouldn’t you be at court?’
She hadn’t endeared herself to him of late, harassing him for additional, more interesting work. Her absence from the courts wouldn’t improve his ill feelings towards her.
‘No. Well, yes, but I got caught up with something else.’
‘I’d be impressed if you got caught up in what we pay you for.’
Sitting behind his desk, he sorted his paperwork to convey how unimportant and unwanted she was in his office there and then.
‘I have a feature piece you might be open to. It would be well suited for the weekend supplement.’
‘Why didn’t you mention it at this morning’s meeting?’
‘I got the tip as I was leaving for court.’
‘Pitch it to me,’ he said, deliberately avoiding eye contact as he thoroughly sifted through papers.
‘There’s a dating website.’
‘Done, Katy. Done to death. One in five relationships starts online now. Old news.’
‘Do you know how niche these websites have become?’
‘They haven’t. They merely present a unique selling position for advertisement’s sake. People wanting to date people in uniform. Silver surfers hoping to remarry. Married men and women looking to date like-minded people who accept the tediousness of marriage and are happy to enter a relationship without the threat of inviting in a ‘Fatal Attraction’ home wrecker,’ explained John tersely.
‘Since when did you become an expert on these kinds of websites?’ asked Katy slyly.
For the first time in their conversation he met her eyes. He was five foot seven, slightly overweight, had piggish hazel eyes, a fat nose, thick lips, and wore cheap pin-stripe suits. The wedding ring was close to cutting off the blood circulation of one of his sausage-,shaped fingers. Katy wondered how happily married he actually was.
‘Never you mind,’ he snapped. ‘Katy, anyone can join these websites. Online dating companies are popping up everywhere preying on the insecurities of those feeling lonely, single and unable to find love. To stand out they need a gimmick, but it’s a free-for-all. They make money from membership fees. They can’t afford to turn people away. No new dating website is of interest to any reader and neither is a happily ever after or a heartbreak online romance story. Head down to the court and focus on the task at hand.’
‘Except Exclusive Love.’
‘What?’
‘Exclusive Love. Single British millionaires residing in The States, wanting women in the same social strata to date.’
Waiting for her to continue, John hunched forward in his chair. His eyes were no longer gazing at the junior dogsbody of the newspaper.
‘It’s only single, British, male millionaires. Women wanting to sign up need an annual salary of $100,000, or an equivalent amount generated from interest on a lump sum, trust fund or pocket money from a very rich mummy and daddy. If they can prove it, they join the website for free.
‘Seriously?’
‘It appears to be. That is not a criterion extending an open invitation to anyone and everyone. The message they’re sending out on this website preying on the allegedly insecure, lonely, and single is that money can buy you love—if you’ve got it. Seems to me British millionaires have no interest in the normal everyday woman.’
‘Is that the angle?’
‘I’m not sure. Is Britain versus America relevant?’
‘It is to us. We fought to be independent of them. Now they’re suggesting our women that don’t come from wealth aren’t satisfactory to date.’
‘It might be interesting to see what exactly these men expect from us.’
‘You might have uncovered a nugget here, Katy. It is fresh. It is new. It could work. An online dating exposé involving millionaires could be what the paper needs to boost readership. I’ll get one of the girls on it.’
‘No!’ barked Katy.
The words were out. She hadn’t a chance to monitor her tone of voice.
‘What?’
‘It’s my idea. Let me run with it.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’
‘If I present myself as a working woman I’ll have to do my regular hours. It won’t interfere with court duty. I’ll do it in my spare time. Let me write it and give me the by-line.’
‘How are you going to meet the financial criteria?’
‘You can aid me with that, plus I can get assistance elsewhere to slip through the net.’
‘You’ll need a budget, Katy. You can’t turn up to dates dressed in your wardrobe. The clothes can’t contrast with your online persona.’
‘Then you’ll have to allocate me a budget. I can go vintage labels to keep costs down.’
‘I don’t know. Financing this is my responsibility. You can understand my reservations letting an inexperienced junior reporter loose on an undercover story of this nature. If you blow it I’ll have lost money and you’ll...’
‘Have lost my job?’
John studied her carefully. Unbeknownst to Katy, she hadn’t gone unnoticed by the editor. Hard-working, determined, and driven, John was resolute the girl would work her way up the ladder as he had. He knew she was prepared to undertake that path in her career if it led her to the heights she wanted to scale. Her willingness to risk her job for this piece of investigative journalism attested her confidence in providing content to his exacting high standards.
‘Against my better judgment, Katy, I’m going to say yes. If only because you’re the youngest, prettiest member on the team. You’ll attract dates. The other girls may struggle.’
Katy grimaced knowing how her colleagues would react to that comment.
‘Nothing to do with my ability to scout out and write a decent story?’
Katy detected a fraction of affection in his smile.
‘That helps, b
ut don’t let me down.’
‘Will I get the royalties if a larger national publication runs it?’
‘Getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?’
‘I call it front loading and preparation.’
‘You get a salary, Katy. That’s how it works. If you were working freelance the royalties would be yours for the taking, but you know the old adage—you can’t have your cake and eat it too.’
‘Can’t I work for you and offer this one-off story freelance?’
‘Certainly. If you can raise the cash to register with the website.’
The editor knew she couldn’t manage it. Katy’s head bowed. She knew what possible royalties would do for the paper and the kudos would be shared come what may.
‘If this works, you’ll get a bonus and pay raise, Katy, but you sign on another five years,’ he asserted.
She rolled her eyes. Another one thousand eight hundred and twenty five days in the court.
‘This could launch you and if that happens you’re free to go, but I have a business to run. That five years would have to be paid for if I let a star reporter go. That’s why the royalties stay with the paper. It’s unheard of sharing them with the reporter. I found you and I need to benefit as well. I hope you comprehend that. Unfair as it is, you’d be working overtime virtually for nothing. It’s your call, but I’ll back you. An outside bet can often pay off.’
Standing, Katy offered her hand.
‘Deal. If nothing big comes of it, but you rate the writing, I stay on. No horoscopes or making up Dear Doris letters ever again.’
He shook her hand firmly.
‘You’re a fine reporter, Katy and a competent writer. You’re above horoscopes.’
‘Done then,’ she stated, ‘For now I’m headed down to the court.’
Chapter Two
Stretching his long legs under the sizable oak desk and tipping his head back over the top of his black leather chair, at six foot three Oscar realized to get comfortable he was definitely going to require a new seat to cater to his extraordinary height. Swinging round he took in New York City from his view on the 52nd floor.
