by Penny Ward
“Hank…”
“Alright, alright. I’ll curb my tongue on the baby thing. But I’m serious about this, Claire. You have top spot on this one!”
I shake my head at him, still utterly confused.
And to think the only agenda I had in mind for today was calling Hank out on being a sexist pig.
How the hell has he even managed to score this interview?
Jackson Windsor is as untraceable as a ghost, and he doesn’t even live in the States.
He lives in some remote part of Canada, hibernating in a lavish log-cabin styled mansion on a stretch of its wild and rugged coastline.
Anyone with a keen interest in celebrities and world news knows the story...
Jackson Windsor became an orphan at fifteen when his famous and rich geologist parents died in a plane crash whilst celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary in the Bahamas. From their estate he inherited a decent fortune, and under the care of his late grandmother, Maggie Windsor, he went on to finish high school. Inspired by his parents work, Windsor decided to point his career in a similar direction and completed an earth and environmental engineering degree at Columbia University. After five years of working as the head of operations for a large mining company, he decided to go one step further, investing two billion dollars into South African and Zimbabwe mines. However, on his thirtieth birthday, after having only owned the mines for a year, he suddenly announced that he was closing them down for good, but refused to give any reason as to why. Since that day twelve months ago he has avoided all press and people like the plague.
It’s one of those cold cased intriguing stories that every journalist wants the scoop on but has never been able to catch.
And that’s what I’m apprehensive about.
Even if I do the interview with Jackson Windsor I doubt he’s going to come through with the goods—notably the garish details behind why he closed his mines.
There are whispers that he did it to try and quell the marketing of blood diamonds in the region, but having done extensive research on it, and Windsor himself, I know there’s more to it than just that.
I think something even more sinister took place.
“So when is this all-exclusive interview supposed to be happening?” I ask sarcastically, widening my eyes at Hank for dramatic effect.
“Friday.”
“What? That only gives me one day to prepare!”
“So? Think on your feet. All good journalists know how,” he says smugly, brandishing a wink.
Pfft, as if he knows anything about what being a good journalist entails. He might be at the top of his field when it comes to editing news stories, but in terms of actually sitting down and talking to a high profile figure, Hank doesn’t know squat. He hasn’t done an interview since Reagan was in office.
“Okay…well what hotel in New York is Windsor staying at?”
“None. He won’t be in New York.”
“Right…” I sigh tetchily. “So it’s a phone interview?”
But Hank is grinning like a jackass again. “No. You’ll be doing it in person.”
I roll my eyes and slump back in the chair. I hate it when he plays games with me like this. Why can’t he just spit it out?
“Okay, Hank, I’ll play along,” I say, clearly frustrated. “How am I supposed to interview this guy if it’s not in New York and not by telephone?”
Hank picks up the expensive fountain pen the staff gave him for his birthday last year and points it towards the ceiling. “You ever heard of those big metal things that fly in the sky?” he says smartly, obviously waiting for the penny to drop.
“Wait, you don’t mean—”
“First class too. You’re lucky the billionaire’s paying. We would’ve just put you in coach!”
But lucky is not exactly how I feel right now.
The expression on my face resembles more of the reaction you have when you’re trapped in a fighting ring and have just been given a stunning blow by your opponent.
Often it’s been the case with a celebrity like Jackson Windsor that they bail out of the interview at the last minute. Or worse, they give you one that’s D.O.A. and utterly boring.
“I’m not asking you to fly to Canada, Claire. I’m telling you to! It’s not negotiable. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Here!” Hank takes out a large sealed yellow envelope from the top drawer of his desk and throws it onto my lap. “Everything you need is in there. Boarding tickets, travel itinerary, address of his mansion out in whoop whoop. Make sure to keep all your receipts so I can reimburse you for needed expenses. And I mean NEEDED, Claire.”
I falter, still trapped in the fighting ring. “And if I refuse?”
“Well, I hear the ‘How To’ team could do with an extra contributor.”
“You wouldn’t dare demote me!” I hiss. But we both know who the snake is and who the mouse in this situation is.
“Try me, blondie. Besides, this is the scoop of the year if not the decade! You know as well as I do that you’re not going to turn that down.”
Unfortunately, the beefy and red-faced little man is right.
If I manage to find out why Jackson Windsor closed his mines and there’s a scandal at the heart of it, then this could propel me right to the top of my career. I could make editor at another publication or magazine, a dream ripe for the taking.
“Fine,” I cave, taking the envelope. “I hate how you know me so well sometimes, Hank.”
“You’re a journalist, Claire, eager to hunt down a good story and put a bullet right between its eyes. You’re an open book. We all are. Now, if there isn’t anything else you want to complain about, then get going will you! I have to finish red-penning the hell out of these drafts!”
I scowl at him contemptuously and go to leave, turning at the last minute to backtrack a few steps.
“Wait, I just have one more question.”
“Of course you do,” he sighs heavily, looking up from the piece of paper already marred with several red scribbles.
“How did you land this interview? This could potentially be big. REALLY BIG. And we’re not exactly 60 Minutes or Barbara Walters.”
“Look, all you need to know is that he reached out to me personally, and he’s ready to talk,” Hank says firmly, shaking his head at me like I’m a disobedient child. He’s told me before that I remind him of his 13-year-old daughter, all lip and attitude yet as savvy and inquisitive about the world as he is.
It’s curious that he won’t tell me any more details about his correspondence with the billionaire.
I guess I’ll just have to get it from the horse’s mouth himself on Friday.
If Jackson Windsor is willing to give me a story on the closure of his mines, then surely he can provide me with the link between him and my moronic editor.
“Okay. Can I ask one more thing?”
“Can I stop you?” Hank sniggers, placing a cigar in his mouth.
“No,” I say staunchly, cracking a wry smile before continuing on. “So why are you sending me to do the interview? Pete is the main foreign affairs correspondent. He’s interviewed a ton of mining company big wigs over the years.”
“I told you already. As much as I wish it wasn’t so, you’re one of my best writers. And you’re single. Pete has a wife and kids.”
“What has being single got to do with it? It’s only a couple of days work. Pete has travelled for a story before.”
“Man! There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes is there,” Hank grunts, a harder frown setting in his face. “Look, the billionaire requested you, okay? End of story.”
“He requested me?” I repeat hazily, wondering how on earth Jackson Windsor even knows of me. But then again I have dragged his name through the gutter a few times...but that should deter him from talking to me, not the opposite!
“That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”
Hank shrugs at the comment. “I don’t know. Is it?”
“Yes, considering the things I’ve said
about him in some of my articles.”
“Well, maybe he wants to set the record straight…or seduce you to his way of thinking,” he jibes, giving out a stout laugh.
“Well, I hope you don’t expect me to sleep with him to get the story! Because that’s low, even for you, Hank.”
“Now don’t get cute with me, blue eyes,” he warns, the small amount of wit that was in his tone now completely gone. “Whatever you do in your personal life is up to you. But if that just so happens to include sleeping with reclusive billionaires, then hey, I won’t stop you. Just get the story! I don’t care by what methodology. Ethically or unethically, it’s on your moral compass. But have the transcript of the interview and final draft of the story on my desk by this time next week or go join the rookies in ‘How To’,” he barks, motioning towards the door with his hand. “Now scoot, you’ve already wasted enough of my time!”
“Prick,” I mutter under my breath as I leave his office, the thick stench of cigar smoke already swirling behind me.
Just typical, Claire. Another successful day of letting Hank walk all over you. When will you ever get the guts to stand up to that guy?
But hey, at least I got a first class ticket to Canada out of it. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve always wanted to go there. Lake Louise…The Rocky Mountains…a log cabin in the woods by a lake that is as cool to dive under, as it is refreshing…
But Jackson Windsor doesn’t live on a lake.
He lives on the coast.
Damn it.
When I walk out into the greater office the first thing I see is Sophia waving at me frantically.
Sophia is a petite Spanish girl with warm brown eyes and a cute smile. She also just happens to be my best friend.
“So you’re heading to Canada!” she sings out like a soprano, hurrying up to my side.
“You heard, huh? That was fast,” I remark, throwing her a questioning look.
“Are you kidding? Who do you think convinced that prick in there to send you?”
“Even after Jackson Windsor requested you, Hank still wanted Pete to go,” Sophia adds.
“Are you serious?” I whir at her, growing even madder at Hank, which I didn’t think was possible at this point. “I hate him, Sophia! He scrapped my article on the torture camp in the Marange diamond fields. You know how much work and research I put into that.”
“Oh, Claire,” she says soothingly, rubbing my back. “Look at it this way. If you can get Jackson Windsor to admit the truth behind why he closed down his mines, you’ll get more than just a torture camp. It’s a can of worms, honey. You just need to lift the lid on it. Jackson Windsor is a cash cow.”
“Oh God, you sound like Hank!” I joke. “Where’s that lovely little Spaniard gone?”
“Ouch, comparing me to Hank actually hurt a little,” she brays jokily before, steering me into the staff lunchroom on our immediate left. “So, do you need a lift to the airport tomorrow?”
“No, I’ll catch a cab. I’d rather Hank pay for the petrol,” I say with a wide grin that even The Joker would be proud of. “He did say it was all expenses paid as long as I keep the receipts.”
“Milking it for all its worth, huh?”
“Of course. Unlike you,” I tease, jabbing her playfully with my elbow. “You’re way too nice to ever financially take advantage of your boss.”
She gives me a light pinch on the arm and grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the lunchroom table.
“Whatever,” she sighs, a smirk escaping her lips just before she bounces back out towards the office.
“Oh,” she calls back, “And make sure you don’t fall in love. He’s devastatingly handsome, you know? And has a wicked reputation. There isn’t an actress or model he hasn’t been able to woo.”
“Not a chance,” I shout assertively. “I’m into artsy guys, not arrogant billionaire businessmen who are notorious for aiding in the trafficking of blood diamonds.”
But Sophia doesn’t look convinced. “Allegedly notorious,” she warns. “And remember that famous saying, honey, ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ You never know what’s written in its pages.”
After she slinks away I can’t help but chuckle over the image of Hank with big pink ears and a fat snout. I turn back around to the coffee machine on the countertop, eager for my first hit of caffeine for the day. As I tamper off the coffee I think back to what Sophia said about falling for Jackson Windsor. As if that could ever happen to you, Claire, I scoff in my head. He’s like a suit without a soul, the same kind of wolf mentality that they breed them down on Wall Street. And he’s the underlying nemesis in several of my articles related to unlawful diamond mining in Zimbabwe. The two of us together would be like Lois Lane ending up with Lex Luthor instead of Superman.
It’s completely out of the realms of possibility.
The view outside the slick, black rented BMW’s window is beyond spectacular.
In fact, every part of Vancouver Island so far has been sweepingly beautiful.
Much of it is protected parkland that is studded with pockets of old growth firs and cedar forests, as well as rare natural groves of Garry Oak. I read that this southern part of the island, not too far from the capital of Victoria yet remote enough so that I haven’t seen a single house or car pass me in the last hour, is a nature lover’s paradise, with pristine hiking trails, unique pebble beaches and plenty of marshes for bird watching.
“Not that I’ll get to explore any of it!” I natter behind the wheel, speaking only to the silence of the car.
I check the map Hank had given me in the yellow envelope, the precise location of Jackson Windsor’s mansion represented as a large red dot right on the coastline, about thirty miles from the nearest town of Metchosin.
Although it shouldn’t be too much further now, I’m dreading the arrival.
Alone in a remote location with a tall, strong man who I have severely criticized to the public and accused of enforcing slave labor in his diamond mines.
What part of that sentence seems like a wise idea?
After another few miles of curving back roads lined with Blackberry bushes, and with the late summer sun slowly sinking on the horizon, I finally spot the grand waterfront estate sitting high on the cliff’s edge.
“Oh,” I whisper as I drive through the property’s tall wrought iron gates. “This place is huge…”
When I finally come to a stop out front, I squint up in sheer wonderment at the glowing mansion.
Its overall design is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, distinctly Canadian but abstractly so, with small varying square and rectangular windows scattered across its entire length.
From the outside their positioning seems strange, but the true purpose of the windows is probably for lead light, which will have a greater impact once I’m inside and looking out.
The roof is unusually straight too, except for a sharp peak like a witch’s hat pared on the far right.
Just on the architecture alone the value of the property must be at least ten million.
But then again for a billionaire I suppose that’s rather cheap.
“The size of this place has to be at least 10,000 square feet,” I say, stepping nervously out of the BMW.
But just as I do a great thrust of westerly wind threatens to knock me back in again, the car door swaying rebelliously in my hands.
It’s like I have managed to arrive in the middle of a gale force windstorm.
When I finally manage to shut the door, I make my way towards the swirled white marble porch that marks the mansion’s entrance.
I knock twice on the solid oak front door, my knuckles reddening under the impact with a few shoots of pain before I notice the doorbell shaped like a leaf on my lower left.
But even after pressing that several times there is still no answer.
What the hell could he be doing in there?
I contemplate getting back in the car and checking in early at the hotel in Metchosin Ha
nk had booked me in for the night, but the thought of delaying the interview until tomorrow and potentially having to reschedule my flight back to New York for Sunday turns me off instantly.
I decide to try my luck around the side, taking care not to damage the intricate landscaped garden of pebbles and strange plants that look like cacti, until a long bay window extending from the second story down to the ground floor comes into view.
Through it I see a grand, chic black dining table and numerous large paintings hanging on the walls, the faint outline of an extravagant open planned kitchen and stunning lounge room further into the house.
Wow.
So this is how the rich and powerful live in seclusion huh?
It’s nice.
Very nice.
If only the rest of us could be so lucky!
I continue on towards the rear of the mansion until the obstacle of a river meets me.
Well what appears to be a river, only it’s contoured like a manmade canal and runs through the center of the entire house.
Typical.
Even billionaires can confine Mother Nature to their demands.
Heading back around to the front I try the door again, but still no answer.
Finally, I figure I’ll just try the handle…
And it opens.
Obviously, Jackson Windsor doesn’t care much about security.
But then again, look where I am.
How many people even know this place exists, let alone would be bothered to drive all the way out here to rob it?
It’s like a hidden sanctuary, gracefully blending with over 7,000 square feet of rugged coastline, which I’m also assuming is the reason he chose to live here.
As I push open the heavy Oak door and enter the mansion, another flurry of wind blows up, a myriad of leaves and twigs flying past me to litter the foyer.
“Shit!” I cuss loudly, pushing the entire force of my body against the door until it eventually obeys and slams shut.
That’s some gnarly wind out there.
If I didn’t know any better, and judging by the dark clouds rolling in, I’d guess a storm is about to hit. Even a city girl like me can take a guess at that.
