by Lucy Wild
“I’m only teasing,” she replied at once. I got the feeling she was still laid on the sofa where I’d left her, phone in hand waiting to see what I had to say for myself. “Sometimes I forget how innocent you are.”
“I’m not that innocent, it’s not like I’ve never done anything.”
“My ninety year old grandma gets more action than you, and she died last year.” She never mentioned the one thing I had done, or more accurately, what had been done to me. We had an unwritten rule, we never discussed the thing it. She was the only person I told afterwards and I knew I could trust her to keep it to herself. She was a lot of things but she was not a blabber.
I typed as I walked. “Just because I don’t have an entire rugby team’s uniform in my washing machine every weekend.”
“What’s your point?”
“Not sure. I’m nearly here. Will let you know how it goes.”
“Dare you to say cock while you’re in there.”
“See you in a bit.”
I slipped my phone away as I looked up at the building. Nineteen Hopper Avenue. A monument to glass and steel in a street full of the same. The receptionist inside looked like she was one white coat and a pair of glasses away from being the nuclear physicist in a Bond movie. “Can I help you?” she asked, flashing far too many white teeth for comfort. Nobody should be that happy about being a receptionist.
“I’m here because someone sent for me. I’m from Temps Ahoy.”
“Ah, you must be Natalie. Is that right?”
I nodded. “That’s me, Natalie Brook.”
“I was told to keep an eye out for you. Take the lift on the right and get out on the seventh. I’ll buzz up and tell them you’re on your way.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome. You have a great day now.”
I managed half a smile in response but she wasn’t going to get much more out of me. How anyone could be that perky was beyond all reason. The lift opened as soon as I pressed the call button and I stepped into a mirrored world that gave me far more angles of my windswept hair than I cared for. I was still trying to sort it out when the doors slid open again on the seventh.
I stepped out to find myself facing a set of glass double doors, marked with the initials W & M. On the other side of the glass, another receptionist was waving at me, beckoning me through. When I reached her, she smiled even more broadly than the one downstairs, perhaps it was something they pumped in through the air conditioning. If she’d burst into a song and dance routine, I wouldn’t have been that surprised.
“Miss Brook?” she asked, not giving me a chance to answer. “It’s just super to meet you. Mr Mitchell is expecting you. I’ll just let him know you’re here.”
I stood there as she pressed the buzzer on her desk, thinking to myself that if this was a book, this should be where I meet Mr Grey, not Mr Mitchell. Or was this my version? Instead of a helicopter, would he take me for a ride in his Mini Metro? The thought brought a smile to my lips.
“Miss Brook is here for you, Damien,” the receptionist said into her intercom.
He’d drive me to his pleasure palace, a third floor bedsit. Instead of a room filled with devices designed to bring me to the pinnacles of delight, there’d be a tickling stick and a Hammond organ. Maybe portraits of his mother on the wall.
“Send her through,” a man’s voice said back in the real world.
If he was my Mr Grey, he was hiding it behind a very squeaky high pitched voice.
“Straight through there,” the receptionist said, pointing through an open plan office to the door at the far end.
I thanked her and weaved my way through several office drones, wondering if I’d be joining them after I was finished with college. Was that my future life? Glued to a computer screen with a “You don’t have to be mad to work here,” sticker on the wall next to me?
Nobody looked up as I passed. They were all too busy. The far door had a plaque screwed into it with ‘CEO,’ carved into the brass. So I was meeting the big boss of this place. Shouldn’t I be interviewing him because my room mate was sick? It would be a chance encounter that would lead to a whirlwind romance of him stalking me, refusing to take no for an answer and being generally everything you don’t want from a partner. But fifty shades of rich, that’s what counts, right?
I knocked on the door and for some reason I felt nervous as I did so. What if he was handsome? It was a stupid thought, an immature one that I shook off as he called out, “Come in.”
If he was my romantic hero, he was hiding it well. He was the wrong side of sixty, his belly pressing against the desk, his face one shade of red away from a heart attack. “You must be Miss Brook,” he squeaked, coughing loudly as he waved me into the chair opposite him. “Please, sit down. I won’t be a moment.”
He turned back to his computer, squinting as he typed, one finger at a time, making me worry that he was about to ask me to be his P.A. I doubted I was fit enough to do the chest compressions he probably needed at least once a week. I know it’s a bit cruel but I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how he was alive, he just looked so ill from either stress or too much rich food. Or both.
“There,” he said, leaning back. “All done. Now, you are everything they said you were, aren’t you?”
His eyes ran down to my chest and a leering smile spread across his face as he made no attempt to hide his ogling. The tip of his tongue slipped out for a moment before I coughed loudly, bringing his eyes back up to my face at last.
“What’s this all about?” I asked. “The agency didn’t tell me anything.”
“Do you recognise this man?” he asked, sliding a photo across the desk.
I looked down at the image. It was a portrait of a man in his late twenties, arrogant smile on his lips. He wore a suit that looked as if it cost more than the GDP of Latin America, his stubble jarringly out of place above the white shirt.
“Is he out of a Rolex advert or an aftershave one?”
“Neither. Have you never seen Mason Radcliffe before?”
I shook my head. “Not outside of Smug Business Man Quarterly.”
He faked a laugh and I realised I had better tone down my sarcasm. “I would like you to get to know Mr Radcliffe very well. In fact, I’d like you to work for him. For a week, at least.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“It’s perfectly simple,” he said, tapping his finger on the photo. “I’ve been informed by a close friend of mine that his office are looking for a temp to help with some filing and I want you to take the role.”
“But why?”
“Ah, there’s the rub.” A quick glance at my chest and then back up again. “I want you to get to know Mr Radcliffe, get chatting to him. Find out if the rumours are true.”
“Rumours? What rumours?”
“That’s the point, what rumours? There’s been whisperings going around for years that he’s into some weird shit and I want you to get proof for me. Do that and there’ll be a reason for me to open that bottle of twenty year old malt I’ve been saving.”
“What kind of weird shit?”
“That’s for you to find out. Do whatever it takes.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You want me to spy on him?”
“I wouldn’t put it so indelicately but in a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose I do.”
“But why?”
“Because he is the reason I’m sat here and not in his chair right now. If I can get him to stand down, his board are likely to be far more amenable to my very generous takeover offer.”
“I meant why me? Why a temp? No offence, Mr Mitchell…”
“Damien, please.”
“No offence Damien, but isn’t this something more suitable to a John Grisham book? Or a private eye in a film noir? You want a temp to go in there and commit industrial espionage. Why not go and talk to him yourself?”
“Two things, you should know, Miss Brook. One, this isn’t a book. This is real
life. He’d never let me in his building. But a temp? Now, who’d suspect a temp of having anything to do with me?”
“But why’d you hire me? They said you specifically asked for me.”
“I asked for the hottest, youngest looking temp they had. I’m glad to say they didn’t disappoint.” Another look at my chest. “There are perks to being in my position after all.”
I’d heard and seen enough. I got to my feet, shaking my head vehemently. “I’m sorry, Mr Mitchell but you’ve got the wrong woman. I’m not interested.”
I had my hand on the doorknob when he replied, his words stopping me from leaving. “You forgot about the second reason.”
“What?” I asked, turning back to him. “What possible reason could you give to make me agree to this instead of calling you a sexist pig and reporting you for what you just said?”
I can think of twenty thousand reasons why you won’t do that.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll pay you twenty thousand for a week’s work.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I never kid. What do you say? All you have to do is spend one week in his office. That should be plenty of time to find me something, anything that I can use to get him to stand down. One week is all I’m asking. Think what you could do with twenty thousand.”
He motioned towards the chair and I was torn. He’d talked to me as if I was a sex object instead of a person. The feminist in me wanted to karate kick him across the desk before storming out. The economist in me was more realistic. Twenty thousand was a lot of money. It wouldn’t just clear my credit cards. It’d, well, it’d do a hell of a lot more than that. I’d be debt free and one step closer to my dream.
I should mention my dream, I suppose. Look, I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true so there’s not much I can do about the cheese factor of this, just don’t laugh, all right? I’d always planned to one day set up an orphanage in Africa, Gambia specifically. There was a foundation I’d donated to for years and in the back of my mind, I always said I’d go out there one day, make a difference before I got too old to do it. Twenty thousand meant I could do it at once. I could be booking my ticket next week.
“Please sit down,” he said.
“You’re serious?” I asked, looking down at the photo again. The arrogant grin struck me. Would it be so bad to wipe that grin off that face? What did I care who ran one corporation or other?
“Deadly serious,” Mr Mitchell said, digging a file out of his drawer and passing it over to me. “That’s everything we have on him though it’s not much. He’s one hell of a private son of a bitch. Take it with you and go through it tonight. You start work tomorrow morning at nine sharp. The board vote next Wednesday on whether or not to accept my offer. You’ve got until then to find me something I can use. After that it’ll be too late. If I don’t get this done, the shareholders will put me out to pasture. I promised them I’d get this sorted and if it wasn’t for Mason fucking Radcliffe, it would be. I know he’s hiding something, Miss Brook. Find it.”
Chapter Three
I wouldn’t say that me and Natalie got off to the best of starts. It was a Monday morning when we first met. Or, more accurately, when she poured hot coffee all over me.
I’d woken up that morning with a deadline looming over my head, a deadline that descended to weigh heavily on me as I dressed. A week and a half until the board decided whether to listen to me or the sultry tones of Damien Mitchell. I was the only thing standing between us and takeover. If Williams and Mitchell got their grubby hands on this place, we’d lose at least a thousand staff just in the first week, guaranteed. Not that the board seemed to care. All they saw was the amount they could make and to hell with the little guy.
My father wouldn’t have cared. He’d have sold out long before now. But he was dead and I was in charge. The decision was all on me. And I would see hell freeze over before Mitchell got his hands on the place. After all he’d done to my family, he could rot before I voted him in. If I was less bothered about staying out of prison, I’d have thrown him out of his office window long ago. That would have been a fitting way to end things.
I arrived at work a little after eight. I tended to get there early, there wasn’t much keeping me at home apart from a spider in the corner of my living room that had been there longer than I had. The office was just starting to come to life when I arrived, the last of the cleaners winding up vacuum cleaner cables as I passed. “Good morning Doris,” I said as I passed.
“Morning, Mr Radcliffe,” she replied. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said as I stepped into the lift and made my way up. I was already settled in my private office and buried in mountains of financial statements when nine o’clock came round and the working day began
Susie, my number two, knocked on my door just as my will to live began to ebb away. “Good morning, Mr Radcliffe,” she said, dumping another file on my desk whilst mouthing an apology. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, thank you, Susie. How did Jimmy’s game go?”
“How on earth did you know about that?”
“Got my spies everywhere, no one’s safe, not even you.”
“I’m sure my husband would have something to say about that.”
“Well?”
“They won, two nil in the end.”
“Good to know. Pass on my congratulations.”
“I will, thank you.” She pointed down at the desk. “Are those ones done with?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take them down myself,” I stood up, scooping up the two files nearest me. They were full of projections. Projections that might be irrelevant if the board voted yes to the takeover bid, yet still I had to keep going with them, ticking here, crossing out there. The work was a good distraction.
I’m sure there are some bosses whose entire working day consists of golf and ogling receptionists but that’s never been my style. How can you take charge of all those people if you don’t know what’s going on around you? And the best way to find out what’s going on is to take a walk through the building from time to time, listen to the conversations, watch the mood, just observe. I know that some of them find it intimidating when I pass by but that’s not such a bad thing, keeps them on their toes as social media pages and solitaire games vanish from screens the instant I appear.
I was walking between the cubicles when she appeared from round the corner, moving far too fast to stop. I barely had time to realise she was there before she slammed into me, the two coffees in her hands crushed between our bodies. Hot fluid soaked into my shirt, burning my skin as she stumbled backwards, mumbling an apology.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I replied, brushing myself down as best I could before looking back up at her. The first thing that struck me about her were her eyes, a little too big for her face, as if she’d been brought to life from a cartoon. If Walt himself had handed out an instruction to his animators to draw an innocent child, they’d have come up with something just like her. She was short with pale skin, though her cheeks were flushed as she continued to apologise. My heart gave out a pang of pain at the sight of her, she was actually trembling as if she expected me to yell at her. What the hell had happened in her past to make her so afraid?
“Just be more careful next time,” I said, resisting the urge to ask.
“I’m so sorry. You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Not at all. Look, I’m busy, I need to get on.”
“Of course, I’m just holding you up. I don’t even know why I thought it would work.”
“Why what would work?”
She dipped her head, looking at the floor before speaking. “I thought if I brought the boss a coffee, oh, it’s stupid, forget I said anything.”
“It’s your first day and you thought you’d make a good impression by taking a coffee to the boss?”
“Yeah,
silly, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I could do with a coffee.”
“You don’t mean, tell me you’re not the boss, please.”
I nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Oh, that’s just perfect. I might as well go home now.”
“No, hang on. Look, I’ve got to pop to finance but then I’d love a coffee. Bring one to my office in twenty minutes, just promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t throw it over me again.”
I buttoned my jacket as I left her standing there. I had an office full of people who would have leapt over each other for a chance to bring me a drink if I asked but I’d never done so before. I wanted one from her. Looking into those eyes of hers had made me want a lot more than a drink from her. A glance was enough to make me picture her bent over whilst I raised a whip. Stop it, you’re at work, concentrate.
Dropping the paperwork off at the finance office, I was glad my jacket hid the worst of the staining. I was even more glad of the fresh shirt that waited on my desk when I got back. Susie really was good. Someone who noticed you needed a shirt and had one ready was someone you wanted to keep.
I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of my chair before loosening my tie. I had it off a moment later and was unbuttoning my shirt before I realised I’d left the blinds open. Crossing the room, I slid them shut, blocking the world out so I could change in private. I threw the stained shirt into the bin next to my desk before tearing into the cellophane covering the fresh one. I was just pulling it from the wrapping when the door flew open and the coffee girl appeared.
“Oh God,” she said, shielding her eyes with her arm. “I’ve done it again.”
“Look out,” I replied. “You’ll spill it.”
She looked up at her hand and realised it was twisting sideways in her efforts to avoid looking at me. “I should go, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were changing.”
“It’s fine,” I said, unable to resist laughing. “Come in and close the door though.”
“Of course,” she mumbled, groping for the door handle. Once we were alone, she shuffled forwards with her eyes closed, fumbling for the edge of the desk.