by Holly Rayner
“We’ve had an inquiry from the Middle East. The man’s a sheikh. He’s a billionaire, based in Al-Mabbar—oil-rich, a practical oasis in the desert.”
“He’s coming to L.A.?” Amity said eagerly. She reached into her purse and yanked out a notebook, squiggling notes across the page. This was surely big money for the agency—and, if she worked out her commissions correctly, big money for her.
“That’s actually why we’re contacting you, Miss Winters,” Charlie said. “You’d have to relocate to the Middle East, at least temporarily, to work with this client. I see, already, that your eyes are lighting up at the prospect.”
Amity blushed. She’d yearned to travel her entire life, and now: here was her opportunity, her last-ditch moment in the sun.
“And now, you have my full attention,” she said, laughing slightly in spite of herself. She eyed Martin and Craig Taylor, neither of whom had spoken since she’d entered. Were they the brains or the brawn of the operation?
Charlie laughed appreciatively. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Do you wish to proceed with this project?”
“More than anything.”
“All right. The Sheikh has requested that you begin work on arrival in his country. He doesn’t want you to be given any further details about his identity until that point, but we think it’s necessary for you to know that our Sheikh is in a tricky situation, image-wise.” Charlie’s eyes flashed.
“And that’s where I come in,” Amity said, stabbing her pen in the air.
“We hope so,” Charlie said, nodding gravely. “The man’s image is that of a hedonistic partier. His connections to the L.A. community, especially the rich and famous, are quite overwhelming.”
“Ah,” Amity murmured. She jotted down more notes, her eyebrows furrowed. With so little information to hand, this was already proving to be a complex task. “And do you know anything of his actual personality? Is he prone to this sense of excess?”
Charlie lifted his head and let out a mighty laugh. “Oh, Amity. I know you’re better than to ask that question. It’s not our job to understand who these people are, underneath it all. No, it’s our job to get a sense for what the public wants to see from them. It’s our job to paint a beautiful—if false—portrait of them, and make them believe it.” He shook his head, eyeing her with bright, mischievous eyes. “You’re a great exec, Amity. I’ve seen your numbers countless times. I’m surprised that you’d ask about his personality.”
Amity blushed again, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Like we should care about that… Sorry, it won’t happen again.”
“It’s quite all right, Amity. Such a big challenge should suit you.” Charlie lifted his coffee cup and sipped at it, making a face. His nose crinkled. “Cold coffee. One of the worst things in the world.”
Amity smiled, unsure of what to say. She bit her lip, her white teeth eking into a smile. “So. When will I fly over? I can complete a few things with my current clients in the following weeks and probably—” She thought for a moment, her head spinning. “Probably be out there by the end of April. May first, I’d say.”
But Charlie lifted his finger. “No, no, no. I’m afraid not,” he said. “This assignment is an extremely high priority for the agency. You will need to leave the office right now, pack your bags, and be prepared to fly out tomorrow.” His greying eyebrows waggled. “Can you handle that?”
Amity felt she would burst into laughter, happiness bubbling within her. “I’ll be ready,” she said confidently. “I’ve been ready for this my entire life.”
“Good,” Charlie said. All at once, he stamped his hand over a bell to his left. The moment it jangled, his secretary was at the door, glaring at Amity behind her cat eyeglasses. “Emery. I’ll need a flight booked for Miss Winters tomorrow evening. We’ll hire a taxi to pick her up and take her to the airport. And—oh, Amity?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll need an intern for your trip. Shall I book Flora on the flight, as well?”
This gave Amity pause. She bit her lip slightly, peering at her scrawled notes. It would be nearly impossible to do all the necessary organization herself, especially if she was the only person in Al-Mabbar who spoke English as a first language. But Flora? Ugh. She wouldn’t have time to find another intern who understood the game.
“I suppose so,” Amity sighed. “Flora it is.”
“Splendid. Emery, please book a ticket for Flora as well.”
“Shouldn’t we ask her first?” Amity asked, frowning.
“Nonsense. She’ll do as we say. What else are interns for?”
Amity shrugged her shoulders and rose to her feet, nodding to the secretary and Charlie. She brought her hand out and shook his, grinning. His skin felt like sandpaper. “It’s been quite a pleasure today, indeed,” she affirmed. “And I suppose I’ll see you when I return?”
“Oh yes. And we’ll discuss the potentiality of opening a New York office upon your return. I promise.” He winked at her, then.
It was then that Amity realized: if she brought her A-game for this project, if she truly elevated the status of this man in Al-Mabbar, she would have her way in the future of the firm. Potentially, she could find her way to this office, to sitting in Charlie Campbell’s seat. Of course, that was years away. But still possible.
She thanked Charlie once more, nodding to both the Taylor brothers, before tapping to the elevator and whizzing to the bottom floor.
Outside, she stood in the Santa Monica sunlight, facing the water. This was the moment in her career that everyone spoke about—the moment when everything was going to change. Every step and decision, every sacrifice she’d made had been leading up to now.
But now—before she could travel halfway across the world—she had some work to do. She ruffled her fingers through her hair and rushed upstairs to nab her purse and grab a few essential work supplies from her desk. God, all the years she’d spent there, hoping beyond anything else that she could escape.
As she passed Flora’s desk, she saw tears gleaming down the intern’s cheeks. Flora wouldn’t look at her.
Amity paused, bobbing her weight from left to right. Should she say something?
“Um. Flora?” Amity began, her voice hesitant. “Did you get the news?”
Flora blinked up at her, whipping her blond hair behind her shoulders. “I knew you hated me, Amity, but why are you making me go?” Her eyes swept toward Mark, whose back was toward them. She quivered.
Amity kept her eye roll to herself. She leaned toward the girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, and pressed her palms flat on the wooden desk. “Flora,” she began. “I know it seems dark right now. Especially given whatever’s going on with Mark—”
Flora frowned, her eyebrows joining in the center of her face. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m sorry,” Amity said, sighing. “Listen. We won’t be gone long, I promise. This sheikh—he won’t know what hit him. We’ll be in and out of the country in a jiffy. And maybe you’ll learn something while we’re there. Who knows?” She gave the girl a subtle grin.
Flora struggled as she inhaled, exhaled. She nodded. “I’m sorry. It was just sudden.” She cleared her throat, taking on that faux professionalism once more. “I’ll clear your schedule. You go on home and pack. I’ll do the same when I’m done here.”
Amity gave Flora a genuine smile, warmth flooding through her. “Thank you,” she breathed, before standing and exiting the office, not stopping to wish anyone else goodbye. She had a long journey in front of her. She didn’t have time to dwell.
And this was very much her way. She didn’t dwell on the past, on any regrets she had about her life. She was centered on the here and now—and how this here and now could advance her future. First this gig, then New York.
In the back of her mind, she questioned when she’d have time to meet “the one” in all of that; when she’d have time to go on a single date, even. But she brushed her wavy brown
hair to the side and charged toward her little red car. She’d always done better on her own.
She stretched her manicured fingers over the steering wheel, listening to the engine purr, and reminded herself that a life fulfilled with a career, with the possibility of travel, was much better and stronger than any life of love. Love was volatile; love could ruin you. And, as a PR agent, she knew better than to put herself in danger.
THREE
Amity lined up her suitcases outside of her apartment door and checked her purse for her passport, which she thumbed through lightly. She had only one stamp—London, from that time, nearly nine years ago, when she’d journeyed with her mother. That felt like a lifetime ago: standing on the banks of the Thames, wondering at the life she would create for herself. Her mother, a child of divorce, and herself divorced from Amity’s father, had explained to her then that she must pursue her own destiny, without mixing it with the destiny of others.
“No wonder I’m so cynical,” Amity breathed, grabbing her suitcase and ensuring the door was locked once more. She had a taxi waiting for her to head to the airport, and she was already mentally saying goodbye to L.A.
She’d called her friends the evening before, explaining in ecstatic tones that she was heading off on a “near impossible” assignment in the Middle East. Her friends had seemed vaguely interested, but had soon diverted the conversation to talk of their beauty regimes and shopping habits. Amity had sat demurely, waiting for a chance to scamper from the phone and finish packing. She should have known better.
She swept into the taxi as the driver lifted her luggage into the trunk. “You’ve got a lot here. You moving away?” he asked her, winking.
“Just on assignment,” she replied, giving him a shy grin. Secretly, she was bursting with anticipation. What would meet her on the other side of the world? And would her work brain kick in immediately, despite the change of scene? Could she trust herself to focus on the task at hand?
The taxi lurched through traffic, edging this way and that, and Amity made her peace with the city she’d called home for so many years. She cracked the window and inhaled the polluted air; she caught a glimpse of the Pacific and longed to run on the sand just one more time.
But she’d done all she could do. She felt like the memory of it was running from her mind, like that same sand through her fingers. L.A. had never quite fulfilled its prophecy, and yet, she had to be okay with it. She was going to search for something else.
Amity entered the airport terminal nearly an hour later. She hated the smell of sweating bodies mixed with airport food, and she rubbed a bit of lotion on her fingers and hands, making a face.
As she reached the other side of security, she caught sight of Flora, sat cross-legged against a wall, her carry-on pressed up against her. Her blond hair swam in curls around her shoulders.
Amity lifted her fingers into a wave and crossed the room toward her assistant. Flora got to her feet and yanked a notebook out of her pocket, donning her professional face. “Miss Winters. So good to see you. I have our itinerary here—”
But Amity shook her head. “We’ll save the work for when we get there,” she said, her voice kind. “Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we?”
Flora looked relieved. She fell back to the ground and crossed her legs once more, tapping the carpet beside her. “Want to sit?”
“Sure.”
Flora popped a piece of gum in her mouth and started smacking loudly. “I told Mark I couldn’t see him,” she said then, her eyes distant. “I knew he would find someone else while I was gone, so I thought I might as well end things first. He’s kind of a jerk anyway.”
“Mark from the office?” Amity asked, not knowing what else to say.
Flora gave her a “come on” eye roll. “Of course,” she shrugged. “I mean. You see him every day, don’t you? He’s hot. Even though he’s younger than you, you have to admit that.”
“He’s actually older than me,” Amity said quietly, her eyebrows high. She’d hired Mark three years before, when she’d moved up in the company, but he hadn’t been promoted since.
But Flora just chewed on. “He wasn’t going to make it in PR anyway, and this is my dream. My dream.” She tapped her chest emphatically. “You know he just wants to be an actor. Just another one of those.”
“I see.” Again, Amity didn’t have any advice. She peered down at her fingers. “Well. I guess good riddance. You’re advancing your career while he’s—”
But at this moment, she noticed a single tear diving down Flora’s supple cheek. How wretched men were, she thought then. Toying with this girl’s heart, without any plans of keeping it.
Luckily, the plane began boarding then, the stewards calling their tickets and directing them down the long corridor to the plane itself. The interior was noisy, cramped—but their first-class seats were luxurious, offering wide cushions and a footrest. Amity collapsed into hers, having been unable to sleep the night before. Flora sat beside her and immediately buried her nose into a magazine—an article entitled “How
