The Price Of Success (Fighting For Fireworks)

by Lee, Corri

  Bethany called just as I switched on the console. “Hey,” she said in her husky and aggressively sexual telephone voice, “what are you up to?”

  “I was just about to get my geek on. I just dug out the Atari ST and I’m dying to finally finish Wizball.”

  She set to burst my bubble with a revelation. “You’d have a job. That game has a major glitch that removes the enemies from all zones after a certain point. It’s nigh on impossible to complete on the Atari.” Killjoy.

  “Well then,” I said with a sulk, “you’ve just put the kibosh on my plans to amuse myself with twenty-five year old video games until I find another job.”

  “Relax, Cici. There’s a remake lurking around somewhere.” This news warmed my heart and made my fingers twitch in yearning for a search engine. “But seeing as you’re free now, how about you come in to see me for lunch?” That was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Bethany worked for Alexander Publishing House, the place I hoped that would make my dreams come true.

  “I’m surprised you even had to ask. Shall I pick up food?”

  “No, I’ll order in. I’m free at noon.”

  Alexander Publishing House was every modernist’s deepest fantasy. Every wall was a blinding white, contrasting perfectly with the black marbled floors, and every piece of furniture was rounded and constructed from chrome and boldly coloured leatherette. Every time I went here, I instantly regretted forgetting to make a conscious effort to dress appropriately- every man wore a finely tailored black suit, black shirt and lime green tie, while the women wore pencil skirts with bell sleeved ruffled shirts and regulation naughty-secretary black rimmed spectacles. When I walked in wearing my distressed stonewash jeans and crude slogan t-shirt, my worn out blue Converse betrayed me by squeaking loudly as so to say ‘You’re dishevelled and homely. Turn around and go home. You are not worthy’.

  The fiercely beautiful Russian receptionist recognised me and buzzed me in without question but made no effort to speak. I was welcomed in but not really welcome, and she made sure I knew it.

  Bethany waved an arm to me from her desk and smirked at the bewilderment on my face. “You always look like Bambi about to get butchered when you walk in here. You should be used to this.” She waved a hand to the sumptuous miniature Cantonese buffet spread across her desk. “Tuck in, Cici.”

  I was plagued with bothersome questions about my wardrobe decisions for my date over lunch and was provided with a cornucopia of suggestions. “He’s only ever seen me in my staff t-shirt, Bethy. I don’t think he’s going to care if I’m dripping in Swarovski diamonds and Prada.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. Every man wants to be seen out with a supermodel. You have to set a good impression on your first date.” Why?

  “Only date,” I corrected her, “if going out looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedgerow will win me my freedom from his harassment, I’m only too happy to oblige.” My mind was set on collecting my free dinner and making a hasty exit before Cole made any more unwelcome advances or proposals.

  Bethany waved her hand dismissively at me and then raised it to her mouth to shield me from an onslaught of half-masticated spring roll. “No way. I’ll make you look fabulous and then, if you must, you can at least reject him in style.”

  The air suddenly chilled around me as though the Grim Reaper himself had entered the room. Bethany quickly scrambled to her feet wearing an expression I’d seldom seen- she was self-conscious. “Good afternoon, Mr Alexander.” She made a desperate attempt to smooth her skirt of creases and hid her greasy fingers below the top of her blackened glass and chrome desk. I didn’t turn to examine the visitor- his voice told me all that I needed to know.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Marshall. Is Eleanor here?” I knew instantly that he was powerful and eloquent, a force to be reckoned with. Each syllable was pronounced crisply and every letter enunciated so clearly by an unforgivably British accent, and yet his tone was beguiling and intensely sensual. My attention was piqued, but not enough for me to turn around and face the man interrupting my lunch himself.

  “She’s in her office, sir. Just let me call through-”

  “No need.” Bethany wilted a little and dropped back into her seat as he swept past the desk and opened the adjoining door into the commissioning editor’s office without so much as a knock.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she announced as she made a lunge for a slice of sesame toast, “he fries my brains every time he walks in.” I refrained from commenting on the fact that anything with a penis fried Bethany’s brains and picked haphazardly at the batter on a chicken ball.

  “He certainly knows how to drain the atmosphere from a room.”

  “And so he should.” She turned and tapped a plaque on the side of her computer’s monitor that read Property of Alexander Publishing House. “He’s Nathaniel Alexander- the big cheese and managing editor. He’s insistent on being the one who approves anything that leaves this company with his name on it. He will be the last word on whether your novel is published. That’s if it gets through Eleanor, of course.” I groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to deal with powerful men with overly inflated egos, and flexed my fingers on the arm my seat. “He has a twin brother, you know. Isaac. Not half as intimidating.”

  “Clearly your man Nathaniel in there got the full dose of the genes which were devoid of personality.” I glanced up in time to see Bethany’s jaw drop open before that deathly breeze passed over me once again. I could have sworn that I could see my hot breath hit the icy air around me and mist as I felt three pairs of eyes bore into me with impatience and fury. Oh shit.

  “Thank you, Eleanor. That’ll be all.” His footsteps approached at an excruciatingly slow pace then began to fade on the other side of me. I heard them pause for a moment, then the shifting of fabric. “What is your name?” Bethany stared at me and nodded slowly, imploring me to answer as though our lives depended on it.

  I smirked to myself and continued to pick at my meal, unwilling to grace him with my full attention. “Cecelia Douglas.”

  “I’m sorry, were you talking to me or were you introducing yourself to your lunch?” Say what? I wasn’t used to sarcastic repartee that didn’t spill from my own mouth. I inhaled sharply and released a hum of irritation on my exhale. Slinging my arm over the back of the seat, I turned and looked at him over my shoulder.

  He was long and lean- hands casually shoved into the trouser pockets of his immaculate black suit. He wore a black shirt like the other men within the company, but his tie was taupe. His eyes narrowed at me as I examined him and a hand emerged from his pocket to sweep through the mane of chestnut that grazed the tops of his ears and the rim of his collar. Like Cole, he oozed sensuality and unabashed animal magnetism, but to his detriment he also oozed an air of American Psycho and I was certainly in no hurry to find out if he had implemented a rigid health and beauty regime, nor if he was in possession of a chainsaw.

  I raised an eyebrow at him and turned back to my chicken ball. “As I said- my name is Cecelia Douglas.” I heard him rock back onto the heels of his patent leather shoes and back again onto the soles.

  “Do you have business with us, Miss Douglas?”

  I opened my mouth when Bethany cut in- finding a voice that almost certainly was not hers. “Not yet. Cici has just finished writing a novel but it hasn’t been through the appropriate channels to reach you yet.” She shrugged at me apologetically with a weak smile.

  “Well, Cici,” it almost stung my skin when he spoke my pet name, “your interpretation of geneticism confounds me. Come with me.”

  I blinked in surprise for a moment before turning back to look at him and observed a hint of a smile on his lips. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come to my office and we’ll discuss genetic traits.” Bethany’s stilettoed heel imbedded into my foot and her eyes flared at me when I turned to object. Again, she nodded slowly and severely, and something envious glittered in her eyes.

  I dragged myself up from
my seat and shifted my weight onto my left hip. “With all due respect, Mr Alexander,” at this point I crossed my arms, “I was in the middle of a conversation and my lunch. I have no desire to abandon either aspect of my day to talk science.”

  “Then we’ll talk business.” Bethany cleared her throat with a tone that told me I’d be in serious trouble if I argued any further, and I sighed.

  “You have ten minutes.” I heard Eleanor stifle a laugh behind me as I followed him through the grand white office floor of Alexander Publishing house to a lift at the rear end of the building. He produced a key from the inside pocket of his blazer and, to my surprise, the lift ravelled down to the basement level. I began to fear that my petulance may have led me down to a dungeon or some sort of torture chamber, and regretted giving him such a generous time limit. Ten minutes was more than enough to murder or maim me, and he certainly seemed like the type to do so.

  He stood silently with one hand still in his trouser pocket and the other hanging loose by his side for the duration of the mercifully short journey down to the basement, and barely acknowledged my presence when the doors opened and he stepped out into a long mirrored corridor. I seriously considered hitting the button in the lift and retreating back up to safety, but morbid fascination urged me to follow him.

  He held a magnetic key fob up to a door cut into a large wall of frosted glass and held it open. “After you, Miss Douglas.” I narrowed my eyes at him warily as I stepped past him and was caught off guard by what lay beyond.

  His office was warm and overtly baronial- painted in a warm blood red and laced with black timber beams that made the room look like it had been picked directly from the age of Henry VIII. Rich varnished mahogany lay underfoot and again my shoes squeaked and declared my inadequacy.

  He strode towards a large wooden desk with ornately carved edging and ran his hand over the head of a grand throne of a wooden armchair, tapping his index finger on it twice before taking his place in its much larger twin on the opposite side of the desk. I sat down tentatively as his arms lounged casually over the sides of his seat. Two backlit stained glass windows sat in the walls on either side of him. He was completely at ease and looked almost regal.

  A second glance around the room highlighted a wall full of fully stocked rich black bookcases and a bearskin rug in front of an extravagant black granite fireplace. Fire hazard, I thought as my gaze passed over a personal bar and an oversized red chaise longue that plagued my mind with thoughts of him sprawled across me, screwing me blind while my legs hung over his shoulders. The idea sent an unwelcome siege of lust coursing through my loins. His office was deeply seductive and I was way out of my depth.

  “Tell me about your book, Miss Douglas.” My head snapped back around to him and I felt my cheeks heat defensively.

  “What do you want to know?”

  He leaned forward so his elbows rested on the surface of the desk, which was heavily burdened with paperwork and stationary. “A brief synopsis will do.”

  I took a deep cleansing breath and braced myself for scrutiny. “It’s a story of a young actress who hires a notorious man as her coach and agent and implores him to make her wildly successful at any cost. He primps and preens her, trains her into a starlet and grants her wishes. She is thrust into a world of glamour, fame, luxury and deviance, but it comes at a price. She is unrecognisable to her friends and family and is left with nobody but him. He sweeps her off her feet and romances her, having turned her into a woman worthy of his arm. He indulges her co-dependency until another client comes along who has more promise and allure. He leaves her as a broken hearted and lonely inhabitant in the lifestyle she so desperately craved, and no amount of press coverage and public interest can heal her wounds. When her loved ones won’t accept her apologies, she resorts to a tragic suicide and leaves a grand legacy- richer in death than she was in life.”

  He reclined back into his leisurely slouch and looked at me impassively. “You’re very articulate, Miss Douglas. Where did you find your inspiration?” That was not the response I was expecting.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your storyline. What drove you in such a direction?” He had caught me off guard and I had to think fast.

  “I believe that the key to writing a convincing novel lies in an emotional attachment and empathy for your characters.” But I would never admit that I cried when my protagonist cried and nearly climaxed when my antagonist ploughed her like a corn field.

  He put his finger tips together and kept his eyes low. “That still doesn’t answer my question, Miss Douglas. What drove you? Do you want to be built up, swept off your feet and destroyed? Is it a hidden desire?” His probing was starting to unsettle me. What did my motivation matter? That was a closed book, so to speak, and bore no relevance.

  My feet shuffled slightly and my shoes squeaked again. “I certainly don’t want to be destroyed, Mr Alexander.” I preferred to destroy myself.

  “So what do you want?” He rose from his seat and strolled across to the personal bar. “What would you hope to achieve from becoming a published author? Fame, fortune and romance?” I didn’t move from my seat, but took the time when I was freed from his line of sight to compose myself.

  “I simply want my work to be out in public reach to be enjoyed. Nothing more, nothing less.” I heard the seal of a whiskey decanter release and the clink of glass on glass.

  “An admirable sentiment, but wrong. Money should always be a motivation. Everyone needs money.” I severely doubted that he wanted for a single penny.

  “I have enough money. I lead a stable lifestyle.” I grimaced as his footsteps approached behind me, and his hand brushed past my shoulder to place a glass of whiskey down in front of me.

  “Enlighten me, Cecelia. How do you support yourself outside noting your literary emissions?” It was clear from the way that he took his seat and from the way that he addressed me by my forename that he was trying to disarm me with a disingenuous interest in my life.

  “I work in the distribution of beverages of the alcoholic persuasion.” I smirked to myself a rose a few inches taller in my place.

  The hint of the smile I’d seen at Bethany’s desk hit his lips again. “You’re a bar maid.”

  “I’m a publican’s wet dream, Mr Alexander.” My aim was to disarm him and for a fraction of a moment I dared to believe that I’d succeeded.

  But then he dove away from the subject. “How do you afford accommodation on the wage of a publican’s wet dream?” I felt my impatience escalate and bristled slightly. Questioning my motivation was one thing, but questioning my accommodation status and financial situation was way beyond the call of a potential publisher.

  “I brought my townhouse outright with the sizeable amount left to me in my parent’s wills. My champagne-taste-lemonade-money lifestyle is subsidised by what is left over and the outlandishly excessive salary you lavish upon my friend Bethany Marshall for her line of work.” His eyes closed for a moment before he took a large mouthful from his glass and swished it around his mouth. I hoped that I hadn’t inadvertently forced him to rethink his salary budget.

  “My condolences on the loss of your parents.” He nodded at my glass as an encouragement to drink but I held my nerves and remained still. “But you are by no means rich?” Define rich.

  I leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair and settled back onto it. “As I said, I have enough money. I didn’t grow up surrounded by affluence- I know that money is imperative to survival, but I know that luxury most certainly isn’t.”

  “So you know not of luxury. What do you know of deviance?” I was certainly not going to tell him that my exploits went as far as taking LSD during college hours and regular quickies with my English Literature professor in university.

  “Both too little and far too much.”

  He breathed in slowly and exhaled with an inquisitive murmur. “How can you write with conviction about situations which you’ve never experienced?” Shaking his wrist free
of his sleeve, he examined his expensive looking watch with a frown and shook his head critically. “Sixteen minutes. I owe you six minutes. Good day, Miss Douglas.”

  I scooped my glass up off the desk and swallowed the entire amount of whiskey in one gulp as I stood. I slammed the glass back down on his desk and ensured that he saw the contemptuous sneer that I gave him. “Good day, Nathaniel.” And with that, I left.

  Chapter Three

  I slunk down at Bethany’s desk and inhaled deeply to cleanse my mind- rolling my eyes under my lids before opening them to flash her a bemused and begrudging smile. No single aspect of that meeting seemed to have gone well. She cocked her head at me awkwardly and her eyes darted towards a small silver digital clock next to her monitor. Five minutes past one- her lunch break was over. There had been a reason for my giving Nathaniel Alexander a time limit.

  “Oh, Bethy. I’m so sorry. I’ll see you at home.” I reached over to pat her hand and rose to leave, but found myself paused by a voice.

  Eleanor stood in the doorway of her office, arms crossed. “Hold it right there, Douglas.” Her tone said that I was in deep trouble, but we were friendly enough for me to know that her smile said she was looking for none other than gossip. “What the hell was all that about?” She was asking me? I was coping that she might have provided a little insight having worked with him for five years.

  I took my seat again and shook my head in exasperation. “I honestly haven’t the faintest idea. He asked me about my novel, if the plot was based on a deep set desire to have my heart broken and told me that I was wrong for not lusting after a fortune.” What a terrific waste of sixteen minutes.