by Susan Lewis
His laugh was dry-throated and achingly familiar. ‘Lousy, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Did you see the Express?’
‘Yes.’
There was a long, tense silence as she waited for him to apologize, or at least refer to, the obnoxious and offensive diatribe he’d left on her machine last night, though there was a good chance he had no memory of it, which was partly borne out when he said, ‘Can I see you? I want to talk.’
Allyson’s chest was suddenly so tight, it was hard to breathe. Eight long and bitterly hard weeks she’d waited to hear those words, and now he’d spoken them she didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him, she was just afraid of what he might want to talk about. Please God, not divorce. OK, she’d put it in motion, but he wouldn’t have had the papers yet, and she’d been planning to call up and stop them. Then a few rays of hope struggled their way through the dread, reminding her that there was a chance he wanted to talk about getting back together. But she shouldn’t let herself get too carried away with that, so maybe she should ask him now what he wanted to discuss.
His answer was irritatingly and cryptically short. ‘Things,’ he said.
Up went her hackles. ‘You mean like money, and the fact you can’t get to yours any more,’ she snapped.
He sighed, which annoyed her even more. ‘Why did you do that with the bank accounts?’ he said.
‘Why did you leave?’ she shot back.
She actually heard his hand scrape over his unshaven face. Not the sound of a man who was getting ready to fight. ‘Can we talk?’ he repeated. ‘I’ll come over to the flat this evening, if you’re free.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him, gently, what day it was, but more self-protective hostility barged its way through. ‘If you think you can control yourself,’ she said tartly.
‘What the hell kind of an answer’s that?’ he snapped.
‘The last time I saw you, you hit me,’ she reminded him. ‘And you haven’t exactly been behaving in a way that suggests I’d be safe around you since,’ she added spitefully.
‘Well, if you’re going to be like that …’
‘No! You’re the one who’s being like that. I’ve always been prepared to talk – even if it is to discuss the terms of a divorce.’
‘Are you going to be there, or aren’t you?’ he growled.
‘Come about seven,’ she said. ‘And leave your temper at the door.’
After putting the phone down she went straight into Shelley’s office and closed the door.
‘So, what do you think he wants to talk about?’ she said breathlessly, when she’d finished recounting the details.
‘What do you think?’ Shelley countered.
Allyson shuddered. ‘Could be anything,’ she answered.
’Well, that narrows it down,’ Shelley commented dryly. ‘What if he wants to come back?’
‘Oh God, don’t even say it,’ Allyson groaned as her stomach churned. ‘I don’t know. I mean, obviously I want him back, but …’ She dashed a hand through her hair and started to pace. ‘I’ve got all kinds of things going through my head right now,’ she confessed. ‘I’m even managing to delude myself into thinking that he’s planning to spring another one of his wonderful anniversary surprises, but of course, he won’t, because he hasn’t even remembered, and if he does he’ll make himself forget again, which means he’ll probably turn up drunk and we’ll have a horrible fight and instead of threatening to beat up a policeman he’ll satisfy himself by beating up me.’ Her face turned pale. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’
Shelley almost laughed. ‘Are you serious? It’ll send him right off his head if he sees me there.’
‘That’s for him to deal with,’ Allyson replied.
‘Allyson, he’s not going to beat you up,’ Shelley said firmly.
‘He’d never hit me before two months ago,’ Allyson reminded her, ‘and think how you’re going to feel if he does beat me up and you weren’t there to stop it.’
‘Oh God,’ Shelley laughed, ‘you really know all the buttons to press, don’t you?’
‘You could hide,’ Allyson suggested. ‘He won’t even have to know you’re there.’
Shelley laughed again. ‘OK. I’ll be there,’ she said. ‘But I’m not hiding.’
Allyson grinned, and was on the point of leaving when she suddenly turned back. ‘In case you thought I’d forgotten, good luck with your lunch.’
Shelley’s smile vanished. ‘Don’t!’ she groaned. ‘I haven’t been this nervous in years.’ Then a light of mischief sparked in her eyes as she said, ‘But that’s nothing to what he’s going to be feeling by the time I’m through.’
Allyson laughed, and as she had no doubt about Shelley’s powers of seduction – or anything else – she left the office feeling perfectly secure in Shelley’s ability to pilot them through the turbulence of the takeover.
It was rare for Shelley to walk into a restaurant without turning heads; it was also rare for her not to run into several people she knew, and this restaurant proved no exception, as she was stopped several times whilst being shown across the clinically styled room of the Pharmacy to a reasonably secluded window table. Though she was five minutes late, there was no sign of Mark Reiner, nor had the hostess offered a message, but he had to come from the City, so was probably caught up in traffic.
Shelley looked businesslike and beautiful. She wore her luxuriant dark hair in a chignon, allowing full view of her exquisite, finely honed features that were, as usual, enhanced by an expression of detached serenity. The silk shirt beneath her soft black suede suit was vaguely transparent, with no lace bra to spoil the smooth plane of the fabric. Her long legs were sheathed in silk hold-up stockings, creating no unsightly evidence of suspenders beneath her skirt, nor was there any unbecoming trace of a panty line. It made her feel more powerful and feminine knowing how she was, or wasn’t, dressed beneath her outer garments.
As she glanced casually at the menu she was mulling over the rumours that had started to circulate about the changes Mark Reiner was planning. Though they were probably less than ten per cent accurate, she was fairly certain he’d want some, so she was ready to put forward her own proposals. She’d have liked to be even more sweeping and controversial than was currently reflected in the outlines she’d brought with her, but certain loyalties, and a conscience, had made her hold back. Even so, the documents in her briefcase contained ideas and budgets that were, if nothing else, audacious, though she would only hand them over if things appeared to be going her way. She felt confident they would, for she had already made up her mind to make a friend of Mark Reiner.
A few subtle enquiries had told her that Mrs Reiner had returned to the States and a divorce was in the offing, so Shelley had taken home a videotape of the programme he’d featured in, and watched it several times in order to better acquaint herself with the man who was about to become her new boss. It was why she was experiencing such anticipation and even apprehension about this meeting, for there had been a lot in the programme, which had been recorded during one of her rare absences, to convince her of how remarkably suited they were. And the first glimpse of the tall, extremely striking and well-dressed man, as he walked into the restaurant and was greeted warmly by the hostess, did nothing to alter Shelley’s view. If anything it only augmented it, for Mark Reiner in person appeared to be something else altogether from Mark Reiner, two years ago, on TV – and she hadn’t imagined it could get any better.
He had to be at least six foot three, which was extremely pleasing as it was rare for Shelley to meet a man she didn’t have to look down on. And the fact that he was six years her junior made him even more appealing, which was unusual, for younger men didn’t normally do it for Shelley, nor did long hair, but the way his was combed straight back from his face, and curled over the white collar of his shirt, lent him an air of unaffected yet trendy distinction that was wholly alluring. And the flui
d movements of what was clearly a well toned and muscular physique, clothed in a black Armani suit, were so entirely male that the sexuality he seemed to exude was, though subtle, totally compelling. In fact, to Shelley’s mind, he had the look of a man who would know a woman’s body more intimately, and more cherishingly, than she did.
Shelley stood up as he approached the table and smiled as she shook his hand.
‘Shelley,’ he said, his deep brown eyes looking directly into hers. ‘I’m sorry if I kept you.’
The American accent she had expected, even though she knew he was British by birth, but the warmth of his tone unsettled her slightly, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, until she realized that it was the discerning intensity in his gaze which seemed to be reading her in a way most men never could. Though it wasn’t possible to tell what he was thinking, her instincts were responding with the kind of shivers that suggested he too was making an assessment not entirely confined to the professional.
A light of humour flashed in her eyes as she said, ‘I’m glad to meet you.’
His hand was still holding hers, but he let go as he waved her back to her chair. ‘Did you order a drink?’ he asked, sitting down too.
‘Evian for me,’ she said to the waiter.
‘For me too,’ he said. He looked at her again and raised a single eyebrow in a mock- conspiratorial kind of way, which made her smile.
His face was slender and darkened by the few hours of growth since he’d last shaved. His deep-set eyes were narrow and remained quietly assessing within the lambent burn of their humour. Though in his way he was strikingly handsome, his features were irregular and individually ugly, for his nose was large and slightly hooked, and his mouth was too wide and rather thin. Yet the imperfections were obscured by the magnetic potency of his stare and the dynamic charm of a perfect white smile. And as their eyes continued a friendly, yet explicit appraisal Shelley could feel small waves of pleasure eddying through her at all the promise that lay within this one extremely confident and powerful young man.
‘Would it be suitable for me to offer congratulations on your acquisition of the company?’ she said, her dark eyes showing irony.
‘I’ll accept them if you’re offering,’ he replied, matching her expression.
She lowered her gaze to his hands, and allowed her imagination a moment or two with their unquestionable potential, then returned to his face. Barely two minutes had passed and already the chemistry was loading the air. She gave a fleeting thought to a time when they would be naked together, but though it was extremely tempting to let her mind linger, expand on it even, now wasn’t the time, so she dismissed it. On a personal level all she wanted from this meeting was to go away knowing he found her attractive, and if she was reading him correctly that goal had already been achieved.
‘Shall we decide what we’re going to eat first?’ he suggested, as he was handed a menu.
His manner had taken a few paces back from the intensity, which allowed an easier, less demanding tenor to the proceedings, so that after Shelley had chosen the veal special, and he had selected the lamb, they fell effortlessly into a conscience discussion on vegetarianism, which somehow led them to various places in the world they’d both visited, which led to a discovery that they had once been in Morocco at the same time. By the time their meals arrived they were talking about music and Shelley was forced to dab away tears of laughter as he told her some outrageous Country and Western song titles someone had recently sent him on the email.
‘You’re making this up,’ she accused, breathlessly.
‘I swear,’ he protested. ‘Apparently they’re all genuine. What about this one? “Drop Kick Me Jesus, through the Goalposts of Life.”’
Shelley had just taken a mouthful of water, and almost choked. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped when finally she could. ‘Stop, I can’t laugh any more.’
‘ “Mama Get the Hammer there’s a Fly on Papa’s Head,” ’ he quoted.
They were both laughing so hard that it was infecting those on nearby tables.
Shelley picked up her fork and watched him do the same. She was still on the brink of laughter. ‘I thought we were here to discuss the future of Soirée,’ she said finally.
‘Indeed we are,’ he agreed and took a mouthful of food.
‘Do you want to give me your comments, or shall I start with my proposals?’
He seemed amused. ‘You’re that confident that I intend to keep the programme going?’ he said.
Shelley didn’t miss a beat. ‘Do you?’ she said.
He arched an eyebrow. ‘Let’s hear your proposals. Just give me bottom lines. If need be we can go into detail later.’
She cut a slice of veal and ate it first, giving herself a moment to regroup her thoughts. In many ways they were off to a good start, but that hint about axing the programme had thrown her, and though she couldn’t really believe that was his intention, she was still wondering if her defences had been shanghaied by an extremely effective though utterly ruthless modus operandi, which entailed disarming a person completely before going in for the kill. If she was right, then he was about to discover that she was not easily felled.
‘To begin with I’d like to propose a fifty per cent increase in budget,’ she said, expecting an immediate protest, or at the very least a widening of the eyes. However, she received neither, so taking advantage of his controlled composure, she continued. ‘The extra funds would enable us to travel around the country and transmit from other cities, maybe even other countries, lending a more international appeal.’
He nodded, and carried on eating.
‘Allyson, that’s Allyson Jaymes, the presenter,’ Shelley said, ‘wants to devote one show per week to humanitarian efforts and causes.’
‘Do you support that?’
Shelley was briefly halted by the sharpness of his tone, which suggested that perhaps he didn’t. ‘I’m ambivalent,’ she answered, deciding now wasn’t the time to take up arms.
He nodded for her to go on.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘We’re a successful programme, so I don’t see any reason to make changes just for the sake of it.’
He picked up his glass, finished eating then drank.
He had now become impossible to read, which perversely, considering the threat he might be posing to the programme, was making him more attractive than ever, and almost as a reflex action Shelley took off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair.
For his part, though he was looking into her face, at that moment he wasn’t really seeing her. He was thinking, considering what she’d said, and evaluating the body language that wasn’t at all hard to read. He’d heard what a powerfully sexy, and intelligent, woman she was, and he certainly wasn’t going to argue, nor was he going to deny that he greatly admired women like her, who made their sexuality work for them. However, it was going to be interesting to see how far she would go with it – or perhaps, more relevantly, how far he would go.
‘I’ve been watching the programme these past few weeks,’ he said.
Shelley sat back as a waiter cleared the table. She could feel her nipples brushing against the silk of her blouse.
His eyes drifted upwards to hers again. ‘I’ve also looked at the ratings and read the audience straw polls,’ he continued evenly. ‘Unless you can convince me otherwise, I think the programme should be reduced to three nights a week, and a new presenter should be brought in. Cocktails is too stuffy and elitist. It should be reinvented as Happy Hour with younger guests and a much younger host.’
Though she didn’t show it, Shelley was reeling. ‘What brought you to these conclusions?’ she asked.
Impressed by the deliberate mildness of her tone, he said, ‘The general trend of the ratings is down. Some shows do well, but the figures indicate that the programme, if it’s to continue,’ if it’s to continue! ‘is in need of a shake-up. I often find where people have been involved in the same project for a number of years, they either be
come too close to it to see its flaws, or so attached they simply make excuses for its weaknesses. I say this, because I don’t want you to feel that I’m criticizing you as a producer. Everything I’ve heard about you assures me you are excellent at your job, and I think, hope, you will find the challenge of a new shape to your programme extremely stimulating as well as rewarding. To focus on three nights a week will make your team sharper in their choice of material, and to bring in new, and certainly younger, blood is vital for the image of the programme.’
Shelley might have laughed had it not seemed such an inappropriate thing to do, for what he’d just outlined were all the changes she longed to make herself, but loyalty to the team, and particularly to Allyson, had always prevailed. ‘I want to get this straight,’ she said carefully. ‘Are you suggesting we get rid of Allyson Jaymes?’
His eyebrows rose and he couldn’t help wondering what she would do if he said yes, that was in his mind. ‘Not at all,’ he answered. ‘What I’m saying is we need someone younger to front the show.’
‘So where does Allyson fit in?’
‘She could continue with the Night Cap slot.’
Shelley was watching him closely. Though relieved that he wasn’t suggesting they cut Allyson altogether, she was still wary. ‘And Allyson’s suggestion for the humanitarian show?’ she said.