by Zee Monodee
Maybe, for once, she could prove she’d be worth something outside the house—that she, too, could become acquainted with corporate career heights. Some days, she hated being the middle sister, the sensible, neutral ground, as her father affectionately described her.
Well, to Hell with neutral. She wouldn’t go to extremes, either, since Lara and Diya handled those really well already, but make her mark, she would.
“I’d be treated like all other candidates?” she asked.
“Yup. Do I call him?”
Neha gulped, then nodded. Lara pulled out her phone and tapped a number after scrolling through her call log.
“Griffin? Hi, it’s Lara,” she said as she stood and exited the kitchen.
A few moments later, she walked back in, a triumphant smile on her face. “You have an appointment on Monday, one o’clock. Their offices are located in cyber tower one at Ebène cybercity.”
Neha’s stomach did flips and somersaults, but she had to contain her jitters when she faced another, more dreadful, perspective lying in ambush for her.
“Now, you definitely need a makeover,” Diya said. “I’ll book us all at the spa tomorrow, in case you’ll think of escaping.”
Neha groaned. What had she gotten herself into?
***
That’s it. Today, I’ll finally kill him.
Logan Warrington stared across the steel and glass desk in his office at his business partner. “You did what?”
Why, in Heaven’s name, had he allowed Griffin McDougall to become his best friend? On some days, he swore Griffin didn’t have half a brain. Erasing him from the surface of the Earth would be no big loss for mankind. Might even be a blessing.
“Come on, Logan. I only gave a candidate an appointment.”
“For one of the most important jobs of the station. Someone you know nothing about, for whom you don’t have a CV, or an application letter.” He sighed. “What were you thinking? Or have you again blown the fuse on your logical reasoning?”
“It’s no big deal. An appointment, is all. Give her a chance.”
Logan stood and went around the large table, facing the man with whom he co-owned the Mauritian branch of Global Village Media Studios. Too much anger inside, beating a dull throb in his veins, for him to remain seated and exchange polite niceties with Griff.
“Forget about her. She, whoever she is, is not getting an interview. What I really want to know is how, and when, you’ve had the time to do all this behind my back, eh.”
Griffin shrugged, eyes downcast as he squirmed in his seat. Logan took a step towards him, and the repressed tension inside him must’ve been tangible, for his friend jumped up and backed away.
With every inch he advanced, he rolled up the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. The mere sight of his beefy forearms and clenched fists would be enough to make any man shit in his trousers, and he had the satisfaction of seeing Griffin’s fair face pale further.
But he was making the threatening gesture more for emphasis than anything else. Griff knew he’d never hurt him, or anyone else, for that matter, but he expected a modicum of respect and consideration in an operation equally half his responsibility. And here, the clown had gone and played him for a mighty fool. Rules and frameworks existed for a purpose, dammit. How would he extricate himself from this tricky situation? What would he do, first of all, with the sad case in his office?
Something akin to apprehensive doubt glinted in Griffin’s pale gaze. At least, he’d unsettled the little nitwit. For Griff must be the biggest nitwit this side of the equator … and for Logan, the one person he could count on in any circumstance. Griffin was a sensible man. Usually. If one didn’t count the time when he’d gotten tangled with the ex-wife of a gang leader. This stinking peat bog had to do with a woman, too, he’d bet.
Griffin had backed into the wall, forced to stop in his tracks. Logan came to a stop a few inches from him, his fists against the plaster on either side of the lanky man’s neck. Griffin’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed in trepidation.
Oh, yes, he must appear like a right arse, but Griff knew he never turned the other cheek. Face the consequences of all your actions, and no other way around—he did strive towards this philosophy from his upbringing in one of the most crime-ridden areas of Wellington in New Zealand.
“Cancel it.”
Griffin swallowed again.
He raised his voice, though he kept his tone chillingly cold. “Cancel. It.”
“I … I … can’t.”
“Why?”
“Security called before I came to your office. She’s … she’s on her way up.”
He clenched his fists, the sound of his cracking knuckles echoing in the stillness of the room. Griffin’s deep-set, pale-grey eyes grew as big as saucers, as if they would pop from his skull.
“Who the hell is she, Griff, that you’d be willing to risk my wrath? We had a deal. You don’t poke your nose in my side of the business, and I don’t poke mine in yours.”
The other man gulped audibly. “She’s Lara’s sister.”
Lara. Logan sighed and swore. He should’ve known. The woman—the married woman—Griffin had been hopelessly in love with at university. “She knew she could get you to bend the rules for her, didn’t she?”
“It’s not like that, Logan, I swear. This girl has all we’re looking for. She’s the perfect fit.”
Wrong, he yearned to scream. Instead, he stiffened his arms a tad more, making his muscles ripple with the coiled tension in them. Griffin swallowed hard again.
“Get rid of her.” He dropped his voice lower. “If you don’t do it, I will. Get it?”
Griffin nodded, and Logan moved away, taking a few steps back to place his hands on the back of the chair his friend had vacated.
Bloody Griffin. He hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with this problem. In his book, people of privilege who thought they could pull strings for favours were not welcome. Because they’d been born with a silver spoon in their mouths didn’t mean the world owed them everything. Logan owed them nothing, especially not her, this woman coming for the interview.
How could she expect she’d barge her way in and get away with it? Maybe she pulled this stunt off with Mauritians, but hell, he wasn’t a local. New Zealanders weren’t known for their patience or for hypocrisy, either, so be it. Favours got you nowhere in New Zealand, and he wouldn’t tip the scale, not now, not ever.
Bloody hell, this woman didn’t come with a letter of recommendation. Worse—from the sound of it, she hadn’t even handled such a job. How could that egg deem her perfect for the job? Griffin’s brain had probably gone up in a scramble as soon as he’d heard from Lara, for whom he still carried a torch, it seemed.
“Logan?”
“What?”
Griffin flinched at the bark, but remained where he stood. “I … I … she …”
Logan threw him a withering glare. Griffin nodded towards the door.
His gaze bypassed his friend and settled on the luxurious lobby on the other side of the one-sided mirror making up his office door.
A tall, beautiful woman stood at the front desk. Chin-length black hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights and danced with every graceful move of her head. Her profile showed alabaster skin and exquisite features, the dark-lashed eyes hinting at a deep gaze. Softness and gentleness seemed to project off her, from the pretty face to the lush body clad in a white, long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length black skirt.
He forgot to breathe, until Griffin’s dreamy voice brought him back.
“Blimey, she could pass for Lara’s twin.”
Logan stared at his best friend, wishing he hadn’t heard what had been implied in Griffin’s words. The woman outside had come fishing for favours. She was also the only woman who’d managed to catch his attention for more than five seconds in the last decade.
“I guess I better go tell her she came for nothing,” Griffin said.
He cursed and whi
rled around to hit his clenched fist into the wall. A dull thud resounded, and he grimaced at the pervasive sting of air plunging into a knuckle cut. Blessed relief, but which this time did nothing to lessen his internal turmoil.
“Damn you, Griff, damn you,” he said in a low growl as he walked past his partner on his way to the lobby.
*
Neha stood in front of the curved marble desk in the station’s reception area, allowing her gaze to take in her surroundings. The room was bright, bathed in white artificial lights. Too bright. Almost revealing.
She reached up to touch her chin-length bob, the gesture as much a nervous tick as it had been when the strands had been three times the length. She couldn’t say she disliked the new cut, but having her hair so short that the wind whispered across the nape of her neck left her feeling exposed and vulnerable.
The haircut had been the first on her sisters’ and her daughter’s list of priorities on Saturday, and she hadn’t been able to put in a word at the salon. Barely giving her time to realize she’d been shorn of the tresses she’d cared for with tender love since the age of ten, they’d whisked her in front of an image consultant, who’d wanted her to—gasp—wear trousers as they would make her look more willowy.
At this, she’d put her foot down. She’d never worn trousers in her life, and she wouldn’t start because of them. She’d also always been round and had never had a trim silhouette, so anyone who had an issue with that could take said issues to Hell and back, but she wouldn’t budge. Skirts and dresses suited her fine. In the end, the compromise had been A-line or flared skirts and tailored blouses, as well as maxi-length dresses worn with long blazers.
The whirlwind had continued afterward, with facial, manicure, pedicure, leg waxing, full body wrap, and other beautifying nonsense the others had dragged her through. Neha had started to complain, but in the end, there’d been no point in talking to a wall, and she had to admit how being pampered had made her feel good.
A luxury, though, an indulgence. Like the thick, midnight blue carpet drowning her flat-sandal-clad feet into its soft pile.
While she waited for the receptionist to confirm her appointment, she shifted her weight from one foot to another until the pretty girl who looked no older than Suzanne motioned her towards the comfortable-looking, stuffed sofas at the other end of the lobby.
As she turned, the mirrored panel to her left swung open, to let out a big hulk of a man.
A raw, untamed force of nature.
The thought screeched into her mind as he walked towards her with long, confident steps, almost like a panther. He was big, all right. Not that tall. At first glance, she’d say a little under six feet, shorter than most of the men in her family. But the solid bulk on this man’s frame did more than compensate for the staggering impact a few more inches might have given him. His struck as an imposing stature. Despite the dark colours of his trousers and shirt with their rolled-up cuffs, he didn’t appear any less huge. How had he walked through the door, when he seemed to be of twice its breadth?
Yet, the most intimidating part of him was his face. He had short, sand-coloured hair, closely cropped. Arresting features, hard and taut. A mouth set in a grim line, as if to say he took no nonsense. A nose that appeared to have been broken a few times. Eyes dark with fire.
Neha took a step back as he approached. She couldn’t keep herself from trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and this daunting man.
He stopped in front of the desk, his deep-brown eyes scanning the length of her. Heat crept up her. Somehow, under his steady gaze, she wondered if she had a stitch of clothing on.
Who is he?
A lanky, blond man with thinning hair appeared from behind the hulk. His long, thin face looked cheerful, his pale-grey eyes sparkling. “You must be Neha,” he said with a deep Scottish accent.
She nodded. “You must be Griffin.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Neha, but—”
“Newsroom’s this way,” the hulk said in a growl as he brushed past her, heading right across from the desk into a wide corridor.
He expected her to follow.
She glanced at Griffin, who appeared as struck as she, and only stepped towards the big man as his voice floated over to her.
“Station hasn’t been launched yet, but we have live conditions all the time to get used to the pace. News editor’s job is to prepare all the news bulletins for the radio, the hourly recap, as well as the longer bulletins to be aired three times a day. Station broadcasts twenty-four hours, but news starts at six and ends at eight at night. I head the TV section and work with the newsroom for the TV bulletin at six every evening …”
He entered a room to his left, and Neha quickened her step to follow him and more importantly, to hear the explanations he spewed forth like a machine gun. Drat, would she remember all the details he pushed her way?
She screeched to a halt at the sight of the half dozen people in the newsroom.
The hulk had stopped by a large, paper-strewn desk. “Here’s your material. Compile a three-minute bulletin for the radio, and then put together a TV news report of the information you deem more newsworthy.”
He finally peered at her, and she froze under his fiery gaze.
“You have one hour,” he said, then walked past her out of the room.
What had that been about? In all this time, she’d hardly understood a word he’d said. He spoke with a strange accent. It sounded British, but wasn’t. Too jumbled. Aussie, maybe? Not drawling enough. Definitely not South African, not thick enough.
The only words she recalled clearly of his diatribe were “three-minute radio bulletin” and “TV news report of newsworthiness.”
Neha heaved for breath. Tempted after what she couldn’t term a conversation with the frightening man to turn tail and leave on the spot, a part of her knew she’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t see this through to the end. She’d always prided herself on finishing whatever she started. Well, today wasn’t the day she’d prove this wrong. She could, and would, do this. The exercise sounded no harder than a university exam for the media papers. She’d done such exercises over and over for her degree.
Your one hour is ticking down.
After pulling a typist chair at the heavy steel desk, she sat down and glanced at the other people in the room. They gave her quick peeks from under their lashes, yet, not one stepped up to offer some help or show her what material she needed to work with.
Fine. She’d get no help? No bother at all. Didn’t she deal with her kids on a daily basis? This couldn’t be any worse.
Taking a deep breath, she browsed through the piles of papers on the table. News reports from wire services. Bingo.
Neha banned all thoughts from her mind as she skimmed the sheets. Pulling all the relevant information for the day, she classified them according to the five categories of newsworthiness. Timeliness, extent and importance, prominence, proximity, and oddities or deviations.
Having found the ones she’d use for both sections, she tackled the five “wh—” questions of news writing—who, what, where, when, why. Gathering the answers as she went along, she drafted her news reports, taking particular care in formulating her leads with appropriate and concise language.
Finally, she set it all down in the appropriate format, with each news item on a different page for the radio bulletin, and using the two-column layout of TV news reports.
She stacked the sheets in front of her and glimpsed at her watch. Ten to two. She was well ahead of her deadline. Standing up, she addressed one of the girls in the office. “Excuse me, could you please tell me where I may find the man who gave me all those instructions?”
The girl smiled faintly. “That’s Mr. Warrington. He should be in his office. It’s behind the mirror, at the left of the entrance lobby.”
Neha thanked her and made her way out towards the office.
Logan Warrington. The co-owner of this branch of
the network. New Zealander, former heavyweight boxing champion. No wonder he looked like a hulk.
With a wince, she recalled how Lara had barged into her place the previous day, armed with a folder on the company and its owners. How did Neha think she’d prepare for an interview when she didn’t know who she’d be dealing with, Lara had questioned.
Aghast and with fury smouldering in a steady boil under her skin, she had bitten back her words and let her sister give her a run-down of Global Village Media Studios, its functioning, and also who was responsible for what at the offices. Feeling like a small kid an adult took tremendous patience to teach, Neha had let Lara rattle on about the information.
She had to thank her sister, though, for otherwise, she really would’ve had no idea who, and what, she was up against. Logan Warrington’s reputation painted him to be as tough as they came, someone who’d put the worst reality TV bosses to shame, Donald Trump and Gordon Ramsay combined. When he’d become a sportscaster after his retirement from the ring, he’d said everything like it was and had taken no bull.
And to think she would go up against this man … Could she stand up to him? Did she want to?
On the threshold of his office, she stopped, right in front of the mirror that had swung open to let the big man out. Probably a one-sided mirror only. Logan Warrington must’ve already seen her approach. He had the advantage everywhere. Did he believe it gave him the right to be rude, though? He hadn’t introduced himself. Manners counted for something even if you stood at the top of the food chain, didn’t they? This notion fuelled her with the grit she needed to face him and, after a steeling breath, she knocked on the mirror.
After a few seconds, a “come in” resembling a roar resounded from the other side. She pulled the door open and walked into his office with resolution making her feet light and her step purposeful.
Her buoyant tread however grew heavier as she approached his desk, like she were dragging her sandals on the thick carpet. He fixed her with his penetrating eyes, their intense depths sucking the breath from her, his commanding presence drawing the air around them.