Beware of the Boss

by Leah Ashton

  Lanie laughed out loud as Teagan outlined a typically outlandish theory. More than once Lanie had suspected that Teagan’s preference for temping over a more permanent job was purely to get new material—whether they caught up for coffee, dinner or a drink, it was guaranteed that her friend would have a new story to tell.

  As they ate—and polished off the bottle of wine—Lanie flicked from channel to channel of the sports coverage—heats of rowing, horses leaping over huge fences across country, cyclists whizzing around a velodrome.

  ‘So, have you made a decision?’ Teagan said a while later, her tone much more careful than before.

  Lanie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Has my mother been in touch?’

  Teagan pulled a face. ‘God, no. And it isn’t like your mum’s not capable of nagging you directly.’

  Lanie’s lips quirked unevenly.

  Teagan drew her legs up so she sat cross-legged. ‘I was just wondering.’ She paused. ‘Worrying, maybe,’ she added softly.

  Lanie found herself biting the inside of her lip. When it happened twice in one day—first Bob, and now her best friend—that look really couldn’t be misinterpreted.

  They felt sorry for her.

  Her whole focus had been aimed in one direction for so long. But now the pool wasn’t calling her to training each morning. Her coach wasn’t yelling at her. Her times weren’t creeping down—or up. She didn’t have another meet to aim for.

  She had no goals.

  Even though she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry she reached for the cheese platter, busying herself with slicing bread and cheese and then taking her time to chew and swallow, not looking at Teagan

  She mentally pulled herself into shape.

  ‘I’ve decided not to go back to my old job,’ she said, finally answering the question. ‘It’s time for a change. Managing the swim school is too much the same thing I’ve been doing for ever.’ She attempted a carefree laugh. ‘Although I can’t imagine a job where my office doesn’t smell of chlorine!’

  Teagan, ever the good friend, smiled back, but she wasn’t about to let her off the hook. ‘So, the new plan is...?’

  On the TV a rider toppled off his horse when the big grey animal slid to a stop before a hulking log fence. Lanie watched as he immediately jumped to his feet. She could see what he was telling everyone with his body language—I’m fine!—but the commentator was explaining in a clipped British accent that this meant he was disqualified. His dream was over.

  The man patted his horse’s neck, then leant forward until his silk-covered helmet rested against the horse’s cheek.

  Lanie knew exactly how he felt.

  ‘I don’t know—maybe I’ll finish my business degree,’ she said with a shrug. Three-quarters finished years ago, she’d abandoned it leading up to the national titles, intending to defer only for a semester or two. But then she’d made the Australian team, and everything had changed.

  ‘Still living here?’ Teagan’s wrinkled nose conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea.

  Lanie didn’t know. She’d moved back in months earlier, after the selection trials. At the time it had seemed sensible—she’d taken extended leave from her job, needed a break from swimming entirely, and without an income she couldn’t afford the rent on her little one-bedder in Scarborough without putting a huge dent into the savings she had earmarked for a house deposit. Her mum and sister had been focused on Sienna—not unusual in itself—so she’d reasoned that it wouldn’t be too bad.

  But they’d both be back soon.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Teagan raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. You’re always welcome to crash at mine. Or I can put a good word in for you at my temp agency?’

  ‘And I can inadvertently work for an international drug cartel?’ she asked with a smile.

  Teagan stuck her tongue out at her.

  So the conversation was over—for now.

  Some time during one of the rowing finals Lanie noticed Teagan had fallen asleep sprawled against the front of her sofa. She padded over to extract the empty wine glass from her friend’s hand, and then took her time washing up and tidying the kitchen.

  She wasn’t at all tired. Quite the opposite. In fact with every passing minute she felt more alert, more awake.

  Before Teagan had arrived she’d considered not watching the race at all. She’d told herself that it wasn’t as if anyone would know—and she’d find out the result tomorrow, anyway.

  But she hadn’t really believed she could do that, and now she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t quite the same, but she recognised how she was feeling: as if she was racing today.

  The anticipation, the adrenalin, the nervous energy. Muted, but there.

  From her kitchen bench Lanie watched the swimmers walk out for the men’s hundred-metre breaststroke final. Watched them stretch and roll their shoulders, wiggle their legs about.

  Then she watched the race—listened to the crowd, to the increasing hysteria of the commentators, and then watched the moment the winner won gold.

  Automatically she smiled in reaction to the winner’s smile, and then grinned to herself when she realised what she’d done.

  See? She could do this. Tonight was just like any other night in front of the television. She’d watched her sister win two medals and been genuinely nervous and then over the moon for her. If she was going to have regrets, or be overwhelmed by jealousy or resentment or something equally unpleasant and inappropriate, she would have done it by now.

  It really was just another race.

  On the screen, groups of swimmers began to walk out to the pool. Sweden, in their uniform of vivid blue and gold. Japan, with all four women holding hands as they waved to the crowd. The Dutch in orange and grey.

  And then the Australian team.

  ‘Lanie?’ Teagan poked her head over the top of the couch and blinked sleepy eyes in her direction.

  ‘Perfect timing!’ Lanie said, managing to sound remarkably normal. ‘The race is just about to start.’

  Her friend raised an eyebrow.

  Okay. Maybe she didn’t sound totally normal. But surely a little bit of tension was to be expected?

  The swimmers had all discarded their tracksuits and onto the blocks stepped the lead-out swimmer. Australia was in lane four, sandwiched between the United States and the Netherlands.

  Teagan’s eyes were glued to the television when Lanie sat beside her, but her friend still managed to reach out and grab her hand. She shot a short glance in Lanie’s direction as she squeezed it—hard.

  ‘You okay?’

  Lanie nodded. ‘Totally.’

  ‘Take your marks.’

  Pause.

  Complete silence.

  BEEP!

  And they were off.

  The first leg was good—strong. The United States touched first, but there was nothing in it. By the end of the second lap Australia had drawn level.

  Then the third Aussie girl dived in, sluicing through the water like an arrow.

  This was her leg. The girl was just like her—the fastest of the heat swimmers, awarded with the final relay berth amongst the more elite girls.

  She was doing a brilliant job. Holding her own.

  Would Lanie have?

  She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight.

  She imagined herself in the water. Remembered the way her focus became so narrow, so all-encompassing, that she didn’t hear the crowd—didn’t hear a thing. It was just her body and the water, and all she could control was her technique.

  Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke...

  The crowd—a world away—was suddenly much louder, and Lanie’s eyes popped open. The anchor swimmer was in the water, and Great Britain had a chance for a medal. The crowd had gone wild.r />
  Teagan squeezed her hand again, harder, and Lanie blinked, refocussing her attention.

  Australia had pulled ahead. They were going to win.

  And just like that—they had.

  The girls had done it, and done it in style—in record time. They deserved every accolade the over-excited commentator was bestowing upon them.

  They filled the television screen, swim caps stripped off, damp hair long around their shoulders, as they completed the standard pool-side interview.

  ‘Lanie?’ Teagan’s voice was full of concern.

  Despite her own mental reassurances that she was fine, and the many times she’d told herself she was a bigger person than to be jealous or resentful or whatever, she suddenly realised she wasn’t.

  A tear splashed onto her hands, and she looked down to where her fingers were knotted in the flannelette of her pyjamas.

  She’d been wallowing. Treading water until this moment—waiting for tonight, for this race.

  Why?

  Because tonight was the end. The end of her swimming dream.

  Teagan silently shoved a handful of tissues in front of her and Lanie dabbed at her cheeks. Blew her nose. And considered what to do next.

  She needed to do something—anything. And she had to do it now. She couldn’t wake up tomorrow and be the also-ran swimmer.

  She turned to face Teagan on the couch. Her friend was so close to be as good as shoulder to shoulder with her, but she’d wisely not made a move to comfort her.

  ‘I need a job,’ Lanie said.

  Teagan’s eyes widened, but then she smiled. ‘But no drug cartels?’

  ‘Or anything involving swimming.’

  Her friend’s smile broadened. ‘Consider it done.’

  TWO

  Grayson Manning shoved his chair away from his desk, then covered the generous space between the desk and the door in quick, agitated strides.

  Outside his office, his assistant’s desk was empty.

  He glanced at his watch, confused. It was well after nine a.m., and Rodney was always on time. Gray insisted upon it.

  He frowned as he walked into the hallway. Thankfully a woman sat behind the glossy white reception desk. Behind her, ‘Manning’ was spelt out in ridiculously large chrome block capitals.

  What was her name again? Cathy? Katie?

  ‘Caroline,’ she said, unprompted, as he approached—reminding him he’d guessed wrong last time he’d asked her a question, too.

  ‘Caroline,’ he repeated. He’d been told doing so was useful when remembering names—not that it had helped him so far. ‘Where’s Rodney?’

  The woman blinked. Then bit her lip, glancing away for a moment. ‘Um...Mr Manning, Rodney resigned...’ A pause. ‘Yesterday.’

  Gray’s jaw clenched. ‘Our agreement with the agency specifies at least two weeks’ notice must be provided.’

  The woman nodded, her blond ponytail bouncing in agreement. ‘I believe he asked your permission that his resignation be effective immediately.’

  ‘I didn’t agree to that.’

  Caroline’s lips twitched. ‘I’m pretty sure you did. Rodney forwarded me your e-mail so he could organise cancellation of his building access and so on. It was there in writing.’

  Gray pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and quickly scrolled through yesterday’s sent messages. Yesterday had been stupidly busy—back-to-back meetings, a major issue with one of his contractors, and a lead on a new investment opportunity in South East Asia.

  Even so, surely he would have noticed if... Letter of Resignation.

  It wasn’t even a vague subject line. He really needed to start paying more attention to his inbox. But then, that was one of the reasons why he had an assistant: to prioritise his mail, to nag him to respond to anything important, and to allow him to pay no attention to anything that wasn’t.

  The irony was not lost on him.

  Without another word he headed up the hallway to the opposite end of the floor. To his father’s office.

  A mirror image of his own, Gordon Manning’s office also had a smaller adjacent waiting area—although his was complete with an actual assistant.

  ‘Marilyn—’

  Unlike Caroline, the older lady didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. She shook her head. ‘Gray, Gray, Gray...’

  ‘I need a new assistant.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  His lips thinned. ‘Does everyone but me know that Rodney resigned?’

  ‘A group of us had farewell drinks last night. Lovely guy.’

  ‘I was unaware you were so close,’ he replied dryly. ‘He was only here a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Two months,’ Marilyn corrected smoothly.

  Really? Since his father had announced his impending retirement six months ago, Gray could barely remember what day it was. He was working seven days a week, and easily twelve-hour days.

  ‘Is my father in?’

  ‘No, not today.’

  His father hadn’t been into the office in months. Initially his transition to retirement had been gradual—and Gray had been unsure if his father was capable of retiring at all. But soon Gordon’s days in the office had been reduced to only a few hours, and then to nothing. And while Marilyn continued to manage his dad’s life, now she did so exclusively via e-mail.

  A month ago Gordon Manning had had his no-expense-spared retirement party and that had made it all official. But Gray wasn’t silly enough to clear out his dad’s office just yet—apart from the fact it contained about forty years’ worth of god-knew-what paperwork, it would be a while before Gordon—or Gray, come to think of it—could imagine a Manning Developments office without a desk for its founder.

  ‘So you can help me today? Fantastic. I need you to accompany me to a meeting in West Perth. And to sort out my flights for next week. And—’

  But Marilyn was shaking her head. ‘No need. Your new assistant should be here soon.’

  Oh. The agency must already be on to it. Even so...

  ‘I’d rather not have someone completely new to Manning with me today. This is a very important meeting. It’s essential that—’

  Marilyn’s look froze him mid-sentence, exactly as it had frozen him many times before—although the vast majority of such glares had been twenty-five years ago. A kid learnt quickly not to mess with Marilyn.

  ‘If you don’t want a new assistant, be nice to the assistant you have.’

  ‘I am nice.’

  Her eyebrows rose right up beneath her dead straight fringe.

  ‘Be nice to this one, Gray. Let’s try for three months, this time, hey?’

  * * *

  Almost an hour later, Caroline ushered Gray’s new assistant into his office.

  ‘Mr Manning?’

  He was just finishing an e-mail, so he barely glanced in the direction of the figure in his doorway and instead just waved an arm in the general vicinity of one of the soft leather chairs in front of his desk.

  Absently, he heard the door thud quietly shut, and then the click of heels on the marble floor—but all his attention was on the e-mail he was composing:

  I look forward to discussing the proposal further...

  No. He hit the delete key half a dozen times, maybe a little harder than was necessary. He didn’t want any discussion. He wanted a decision. The deal was already behind schedule. He needed a yes and he needed it last week.

  I trust you’ll agree...

  That was even worse. He held down the delete key again, thinking.

  But that was the problem. He was thinking too much. It was just an e-mail—an e-mail to an investment partner with whom he already had an excellent rapport. The proposal was little more than a formality.

 
Or at least it should be. But their last meeting had been...off. It had been subtle—more questions than he’d normally expect, more careful perusal of the numbers Gray had shown him. All perfectly normal things for a wise investor to do. The thing was that this particular investor had so much confidence in Manning that he was usually rather relaxed about conducting his own due diligence.

  Quite simply—he’d trusted Manning.

  But now...

  Maybe it was a coincidence that this new-found caution coincided with Gray’s father’s retirement...

  Gray didn’t believe that for a second.

  And it was damned infuriating.

  Gray glanced up. His eyes landed on the woman’s hands—long, elegant fingers, unpainted, neat, short tips. She was sluggishly rubbing each hand down her thighs, the movement slow but clearly triggered by nerves.

  She wore trousers, not a skirt, he noticed.

  ‘How do I finish this e-mail?’ he asked. His tone was sharper than he’d intended, and Marilyn’s words echoed momentarily.

  His gaze shot to the woman’s face.

  As their eyes met her body gave a little jolt and she gasped—quite loudly.

  Immediately one of those long-fingered hands was slapped to her mouth.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at him.

  And they were very lovely eyes, he acknowledged. Big and brown, framed by dark lashes—even though he was almost certain she wore no make-up. They watched him with unexpected intensity and an expression that was impossible to read.

  He didn’t understand. Surely his request wasn’t so shocking? Abrupt, maybe, but hardly earth-shattering.

  When the silence continued he shrugged, his temporary interest in her reaction rapidly morphing into frustration.

  He didn’t have time for this. The agency would just have to send someone else.

  ‘I don’t think this is going to work out,’ he said, very evenly. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  He didn’t bother to wait for her to leave, just gritted his teeth and got back to his e-mail.