by Lee Winter
Bartell Corp was just the start. It was her ambition to go global. One of her earliest investors told her she operated just like a tiger shark. The tiger shark, the man explained, was the garbage disposal unit of the ocean, which could eat anything and not only survive it, but thrive.
It was true; many of the papers she acquired were junk, which was why she could buy them so cheaply. But more often than not, they all had something that was unique or worth salvaging. Elena became adept at sifting through the newspaper entrails, extracting the treasure, and tossing the rest aside. And as the years passed, Tiger Shark stuck. Not to mention a few other, less savoury, nicknames.
By twenty-seven, she had made her first million by flipping some bargain-basement newspapers into something worthier. By twenty-eight, she had enough cash flow to start a global fashion magazine to rival CQ. Style International. And by thirty-five, she’d conquered New York and half the rest of the print media in the US. That was when they named her Time’s Person of the Year.
When she called her mother, wondering if maybe her family had not heard the news, the older woman seemed more interested in telling Elena about Wit’s new fiancée. As though her younger brother’s banal love life was somehow the equivalent of Elena dominating the US publishing world in just one decade.
Her mother compounded the awfulness of the moment by adding—with an even more wistful tone—that it was high time Elena started dating again. Even Jenny Copeland was now “dating that nice boy, Billy Day, the baker’s son, around the corner”.
A cold prickle shot down Elena’s spine. Her mother, despite her good points, had all the perceptiveness of a wet sock. So why had she mentioned Jenny?
By the time she hung up, Elena was in no mood to celebrate anything. She opened a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac 2010 in her latest penthouse apartment—this one overlooked the Hudson—and sat alone, in the dark, watching the boat lights go by, as she drank it all.
Elena had married Richard the following year. Not for her mother. No, it was just that he was so, well, suitable. He wasn’t terrible company. A lawyer and a healthcare executive. He travelled the world. He had prospects. He could network like no one she’d ever seen. All that charm and all those connections? Watching him in full flight, she had come to see how it was done.
She’d learned a lot. Like how Emmanuelle Lecoq had beaten her so well. No one would beat her that way ever again. So when Richard, a man of the few skills she did not possess, asked her to marry him, his eyes aglow as though Elena was a delectable merger proposition, she’d immediately said yes.
He was, she supposed, adequate in the bedroom. Better than Spencer, at least, in that he had some interest in her. She felt no fireworks, though, not that she had expected any. But Richard was constant and clever, sharp, and bitingly funny. She had come to appreciate him. He understood ambition. He didn’t sneer at the excitement she felt at her newest acquisition. No, he would help her celebrate with that same look in his eye he’d had when he married her. Power was his ultimate turn-on.
BlogSpot: Aliens of New York
By Maddie as Hell
The loneliest place on earth, I think, is the New York subway after midnight. Not just for people like me, finishing their late shifts, who stare with tired, empty eyes out the window, drawing into themselves, tighter and tighter. It’s the others. The people who have nowhere else to be. They are there for the warmth or the escape. See, once you get off a train, you have to have a purpose. A destination. But on a train, you can just sit and contemplate with no pressure to do anything.
Sometimes I think I’ve spent too long just sitting, watching the shadows flash by at speed, not excited to get off and be wherever I’m supposed to be. It’s easy to be a passenger. Life is about purpose, not sitting still. It’s a shock to realise I allowed my whole existence to become something to be watched from a worn-out train seat.
I started really noticing the colours outside last week. When had they become brighter?
And today, I woke up and couldn’t wait to get on with my day. I had a story I was proud of in print, an idea for a follow-up that could make a difference, and someone fascinating who I’m looking forward to seeing again.
I examined myself in the bathroom mirror and didn’t recognise who looked back. I think I’ve been too long riding the rails, watching the world through windows. High time to get off the train.
What are you doing to me, New York? Playing with my affections like this? I may even start liking you if you keep this up.
CHAPTER 9
Collateral Damage
As Maddie dropped her bag at her desk the next day, Lisa bustled up. She nudged her in the ribs and plopped her curvy ass on Maddie’s desk.
“Hey,” the secretary said, “that was a great story this morning. The kid on the drugs charges? It really impressed Dave, and nothing impresses our boss.”
“Cool,” Maddie said with a grin. “I’m glad.”
“I really liked that you started and ended it with the same line—‘Tell Momma I didn’t do it’. It was…artistic.”
Maddie shook her head in disbelief. “Last night someone tried to tell me that the news machine could be beautiful, and today you say my story was artistic.” She laughed. “You’re all mad.”
“Oh, hon, it was classy. I liked it. Take the compliment, okay? Cos you won’t get too many around here.”
“I didn’t do it for the kudos, though. The kid has a college scholarship riding on this. He just needs good lawyer money now.”
“The FundMeNow campaign you mentioned in your article should help.” Lisa nodded. “I chipped in ten bucks this morning.”
“That’s great. He’s a good kid. He’s scared and feels so alone. It took courage for him to speak to me.”
“Dave says the day shift is following it up. There’s talk of an internal investigation into the charges. They look fishy.”
“That’s what I was saying! Way I see it is the drug squad sees Ramel as collateral damage. Like, they’re not stupid, they probably know he didn’t do any of it, but they’re just letting his buddies go free so they relax and they can follow them to the drug suppliers or something. In the meantime, though, Ramel loses his scholarship.”
Lisa nodded. Silence fell, but still she stayed, fiddling with her wedding ring and looking pensive. That was weird because this was now the longest conversation Maddie had ever had with the woman.
“I…actually…we need a favour,” Lisa said.
“Oh?”
“I know you said you wouldn’t help before, but this is serious. We need you to get us the latest gossip on Bartell. Something’s going down. She’s had wall-to-wall suits in with her all morning, and it looks serious. I’ve tried talking to that stuck-up pit bull of hers, the blonde with the fangs and bun hair, but all I got was that we’d find out in ‘due course’.”
“Felicity is an acquired taste.” Maddie wondered why she was defending a woman who said horrendous things but always acted as if she’d said something perfectly reasonable. Maybe she was growing on her.
“So you’ll find out for us what all the fuss is, okay?” Lisa pressed. “We’re counting on you. And Stan and I need to know if I should be looking for a new job real soon.”
Fear was clear on her face, as was a hint of desperation, willing Maddie to agree. It felt wrong to use her personal connection like this. Besides, Elena would probably ignore any business questions she put to her. Rightly so. It was presumptuous to even ask. So Maddie should just say n—
“Please? I’ve seen the way Bartell watches you. She does it a lot. I think she hates you the least of any of us. You’re our best hope.”
She watches me? Madeleine bit her lip and then sighed. “I’ll try.” Hope leaked from Lisa’s expressive brown eyes, and Maddie’s heart sank. “Lisa, I can’t promise anything.”
“I know. Just ask. That’s all we want. Into the dragon’s boca you go. You can do it! You went into Queens in the middle of the night for
your interview, right? If anyone can get the dirt, it’s you.” With that, she sashayed back to her desk, shooting several milling reporters the thumbs up.
Maddie sighed and logged on, splitting her screen to see the newsfeeds coming in from the wire services. She also grabbed her obits folder to see who needed a write-up.
A low voice called from the office behind her. “Madeleine.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Maddie saw blue eyes watching her. She rose, headed for the glass office, and slid into the visitor’s chair. Elena was writing something in front of her. For two minutes, Maddie was left staring at the woman’s immaculate black hair, fine cheekbones, and aloof expression while she continued scratching her pen across her paperwork.
“Do you understand that most people who become journalists have ambition?” Elena suddenly asked, without looking up. “I know I did. They write with the hope of a breakthrough of a national story, in the hopes it will propel them ever higher. Not you, though. Do you know why that is?”
Maddie fought the urge to deny it. She waited.
“Because you aren’t a journalist.”
“What?… No!”
“Oh yes.” Elena stopped writing and fixed her with sharp eyes. “You have no ambition, no drive, no understanding of what it takes to be in this profession. You hate your job. You hate this city. You hate your life. So tell me why? Why, Madeleine Grey, are you even here? In New York? Still?”
No words came to Maddie, and she felt herself withering under her scrutiny.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Elena said. “Because, deep down, you’re as beige as your name. You have no killer instinct. You don’t like who you are, and you don’t even know who you are. But we both know what you’re not—a journalist.”
Maddie gasped, her hands forming tight balls. “I can write,” she protested.
“Yes, you can write. It may surprise you, but that is not the issue. You write well when it suits you. Your story today was exceptional. I believe I actually saw your hardened news chief tear up for half a second. You have a skill to evoke a response through words. I’ve been studying you, and you excel when you have an emotional connection to the subject you’re writing about. The obituary on the train guard who gave his life to save that passenger on the tracks, for example. An emotional piece which obviously touched you.”
Maddie nodded numbly.
“And did you reach out to the family, too? Offer them support? Maybe send flowers to the funeral? Or, knowing you, baked goods?”
Maddie looked at her hands. It was just some brownies. Practically baked them in my sleep.
“And we come back to your story on Ramel Brooks.” Elena eyed her closely. “It was you who set up that charity page to crowdfund a decent lawyer. Correct?”
“Um.” Maddie started. “Okay, yes. I sent all the passwords to his mother with instructions on how to get the money. She just needed a hand in getting started. The internet isn’t her thing.”
“Mm. How predictable of you. And then there was your story on the former property developer who carried out an armed hold-up. That was about as flat a story as I’ve ever read. And it’s because you didn’t care about him.”
Maddie shot her an indignant look. Who would care about some entitled ass terrifying everyone because his business had gone belly up?
“That’s what I thought. Madeleine, that’s not a journalist. A journalist needs to be able to find a way to do their job, regardless of whether the story’s speaking to them. So my conclusion stands—you might know how to write, but you are no journalist.”
Maddie’s heart sank, and she felt anger and humiliation warring. “I…” She stopped. “What’s wrong with always wanting to care about what you write? What’s wrong with having an emotional investment in the subject? No reporter has complete objectivity. That’s a myth. So what’s wrong with acting like a human and a reporter?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Elena’s eyes took on a flinty quality. “It’s an impossible standard. Most of what a journalist writes has no emotional resonance. You will burn yourself out trying to find one. You will suffer and flame out in very little time.”
“You can’t know that. Why are you writing me off?”
“Madeleine, you can’t actually believe this career is a good fit for you.”
Silence fell between them. Maddie’s hands balled into fists. Did Elena understand her so little—even after all their late-night chats—that she didn’t grasp how much Maddie loved to write? How was it Elena didn’t get that she could be a great reporter? No one could tell her otherwise. This was bullshit. She opened her mouth to say as much when Elena’s hand came up to stop her.
“Don’t bother. The rest of the office will find out at the end of the day. I am aware it’s only been a month, but some things have moved faster than I anticipated. I’m closing down the paper.” She pinned Maddie with a pointed look. “And I’m going to do you a favour. A big one—you’re fired.”
Maddie felt her stomach drop through the floor. How could she? Maddie realised she’d actually begun to put some trust in this woman. Elena’s betrayal stung, more than if she’d actually leaned over the desk and slapped her. “How is that a favour?” she ground out.
“I’m sparing you clinging to a failed experiment out of some misplaced sense of obligation. You don’t want to be in New York. And you don’t belong in journalism.”
“So that’s it, then? You’re just throwing me…all of us, to the wolves?”
Elena tilted her head. “No, not all of you. I have identified two staff members as worthy of redeployment within Bartell Corp. But I do not need a journalist with a talent as unpredictable as yours—a talent so pinned to whether she’s feeling her story.”
All Maddie’s rationalisations died on her tongue, as she stared into Elena’s eyes and saw only ice staring back. Cold. Empty. “I don’t know you.” Maddie glared at her and stood to leave.
Elena’s jaw twitched, and a small frown appeared. “I already told you who I was last night. I told you not to bet on my humanity. It’s just you didn’t believe me.” She nudged an open manila folder to one side.
Maddie’s attention fell to it, and she read upside down. It was a press release. The title said “Hudson Shard Announced”. What the hell was a Hudson Shard? A Post-it note was stuck to it.
Received from publicist, Feb 6. Pls approve.
Just under a month ago. Realisation slammed into Maddie. “You never intended to save anyone’s jobs or this paper, did you? You’ve always been planning on turning this building into a skyscraper.”
“This building is ideally sited.” Elena leaned back in her chair. “Close to the heart of New York City, easy transport access. The air above it is worth many more times that of the newspaper below. It will become an office space that will be highly sought after. Possibly a New York landmark by the time I’m done. It will be iconic. Beautiful.”
“So all this time, you’ve been pretending to check out the talent on staff, but, what, you’ve been running surveyors and engineers through? Keeping it on the quiet?”
“Staff tend to do intemperate things when they know they’re about to lose their jobs,” Elena said with a nod. “It’s smart not to reveal your hand to anyone. I told you before, I let nothing get in my way. I play the game well, because I play it smart.”
“Except it’s not a game for us; it’s our lives. And you told us…you said…” She swallowed back the lump in her throat. “You let us believe there was hope.”
“It’s business.” Elena regarded her. “Besides, I can talent spot people at the same time as I talent spot a building’s bones. My development plans were submitted this morning. You were the one who hand-delivered them to me last night. But you can read all about it in the Wall Street Journal tomorrow, along with everyone else.”
Maddie stared at her. “Why would you do this? Get into office space? You’re in the media business!”
“I’m in the profit business. And when I see an o
pportunity, I seize it. Wherever it might be; whatever it might be.” She gave Maddie an appraising stare. “As I tried to warn you last night—nothing and no one gets in the way of that. You really should have listened.” She slapped the folder shut and gave Maddie a look of finality, tilting her head towards the door. “We’re done.”
A coldness shot through Maddie’s bones. Holding Elena’s hard gaze, she realised she could see nothing at all of the woman she thought she’d known before. She stood. “You really are what they call you,” Maddie said with rising fury. “A calculating, icy, money-hungry bitch of a shark.”
* * *
Three days later, Maddie found herself semi-comatose on the sofa, staring at the debris of several chocolate and Fun Factory benders, and a wall of Simon’s packing boxes. Her head hurt. Stomach too. Not moving ever again seemed like a sound plan.
Her phone rang. With an indignant grumble, Maddie scrabbled around for it and answered.
“She’s going to Australia next,” Felicity’s clipped voice announced without so much as a hello.
“Screw you and your asshole boss.” Maddie slurped the remnants of her bright blue Car Seat Cover concoction.
“Whatever. Look, Style Sydney is in a tailspin, and she wants to fix it before it hurts the whole Style International brand. She’ll need a PA. The one here now is useless. Plus, she wears green eye shadow. Green! God, she makes you look fashionable.”
“Huh?” Maddie peered at her phone. “And you’re sharing this why?”
“Are you interested?”
“In working for Elena? She just fired me!”
“Yes, I am quite aware of that. She fired everyone. Moving on—”
“I’m not the PA type. I don’t do PA-ing. I. Am. A. Journalist.”
“Not. According. To. Elena.”
Maddie was beside herself with frustration now. “Do you not get that she just fired me? I may have also called her a shark.”