by Sarah Morgan
Gayle had known she wasn’t.
Her mouth thinned. When she gave people a chance she expected them to take it.
Even now, after all these years, people constantly underestimated her. Did they really think she’d see a jacket draped over the back of a chair and assume they were in the office? There had been no coffee on the desk, and Gayle knew that Marion couldn’t operate without coffee. And the office had had the atmosphere of a cemetery. Marion had a loud voice and an irritating compulsion to use it frequently—a flaw possibly related to the volume of coffee she drank. If she had been anywhere in the vicinity Gayle would have heard her.
She often thought she would have made an excellent detective. She noticed small details—like when people were lying, or hadn’t been home the night before. She could tell the difference between a wild guess and a statement based on fact.
‘Going live in three minutes,’ one of the film crew told her, and Gayle settled herself more comfortably, composing her features.
She’d done hundreds of interviews, both live and recorded. They held no fear for her. They weren’t in control—she was. If she didn’t like a question, she simply answered a different one. Like everything else, it was a matter of choice.
In her head she hummed a few bars of the Puccini opera she’d seen the week before. Glorious. Dramatic and tragic, of course…but that was life, wasn’t it?
Rochelle smoothed her hair and cleared her throat.
‘Live in five, four, three…’
The man held up two fingers, then one, and Gayle looked at the young reporter, hoping her questions would be good. She didn’t want to have misjudged her.
Rochelle spoke directly to camera, her voice clear and confident. ‘Hi, I’m Rochelle Barnard and I’m here at the offices of Mitchell and Associates in downtown Manhattan to interview Gayle Mitchell—more commonly known as GM to her staff and her legions of fans—one of the most powerful and celebrated women in business. Her last book, Choice Not Chance, spent twelve months at the top of the bestseller lists and her latest book, Brave New You, is out next week. She’s one of the leading authorities on organisational change, and is also known for her philanthropic work. But most of all she’s known as a supporter of women, and just this week she was presented with the coveted Star Award for most inspirational woman in business at a glitzy event right here in Manhattan. Congratulations, Ms Mitchell. How does it feel to have your contribution recognised?’
Gayle angled her head, offering her best side to the camera. ‘I’m honoured, of course, but the real honour comes from helping other women realise their potential. We’re so often told that we can’t compete, Rochelle, and as a leader my role is to encourage other women to challenge that view.’
She smiled, careful to portray herself as approachable and accessible.
‘You’re known to be a fierce advocate for women in the workplace. What drives that?’
Gayle answered, the words flowing easily and naturally.
Rochelle threw a few more questions her way, and she handled those with the same ease.
‘People either love you or hate you. There seems to be no middle ground. Does it worry you that some people consider you to be ruthless?’
‘I’m tough, and I make no apologies for that. There are people who will always be threatened by the success of another, and people who shy away from change. I embrace change. Change is progress, and we need progress. Change is what keeps us moving forward.’
‘In your company you run an internship programme with one of the most generous packages of any industry. You also offer scholarships. Why have you chosen to invest in this area?’
Because once, a long time ago, when she’d been alone and desperate, she’d vowed that if she was ever in a position to help someone like herself then she’d do it.
But she didn’t share that. Such an admission might easily be seen as weakness. And how could they possibly understand? This girl sitting opposite her had never experienced the hard grip of fear. Gayle knew how deeply those claws could bite. She understood that fear could make you a prisoner, holding you inactive. Breaking free of that wasn’t easy. She was willing to hand a key to a few worthy individuals.
‘I see it as an investment…’ She talked a little more about the role she’d played fighting for the underprivileged and saw Rochelle’s eyes mist with admiration.
‘Some people think you’ve been lucky. How would you answer that?’
Not politely.
Luck had played no part in Gayle’s life. She’d made careful choices, driven by thought and not emotion. Nothing had happened by chance. She’d designed her life, and now it was looking exactly the way she wanted it to look.
‘It’s easier to dismiss someone as “lucky” than it is to admit that the power for change lies within the individual. By calling someone “lucky” you diminish their achievement, and the need to do that often comes from a place of insecurity. Believing in luck absolves you of personal responsibility. Whatever you do in life, whatever your goals, it’s important to make active choices.’
She looked into the camera.
‘If you’re feeling dissatisfied with your life, find a piece of paper right now and write down all the things you wish were different. You don’t like your life? Do something about it! You envy someone? What do they have that you don’t? How do you want your life to look? Deciding that is the first step to redesigning it.’
Rochelle was nodding. ‘Your last book, Choice Not Chance, changed my life—and I know I’m not alone in that.’
‘If you have a personal story we’d all love to hear it…’
Gayle drew in the audience, as she would if she were speaking to them live. She knew that right now, in living rooms and kitchens across the nation, women would be glued to the screen, hoping for a magic bullet that would fix their lives. Phones would go unanswered, babies would go unfed and unchanged, doorbells would be ignored. Hope would bloom, and a brief vision of a different future would blast away fatigue and disillusionment.
Gayle knew that once the interview ended most would just sink back into their own lives, but right now they were with her. They wanted to be inspired.
‘Hearing people’s personal experiences can be motivational and uplifting for everyone. My approach to life is relevant whether you run a household or a corporation.’
‘I ended a relationship.’ Rochelle gave a nervous laugh, as if surprised that she’d actually admitted that on prime-time TV. ‘After I read the chapter Obstacles to Ambition, I wrote down everything that might stop me achieving my goals and the guy I was seeing was top of the list. And that chapter on auditing friendships…? Decluttering your contacts…? Brilliant! Asking yourself, How does this relationship bring me closer to my goals? And I wanted to ask you, GM, is this something you’ve done yourself?’
‘Of course. My books are basically a blueprint of the way I’ve lived my life—but it can apply to anyone’s life. The main takeaway from Choice Not Chance is to challenge yourself. Brave New You focuses on confronting our innate fear of change.’
There. She’d slotted in a mention of the book, and because it was live it wouldn’t be cut. Her publisher would be pleased.
‘I want all women—from the barista who serves me my coffee every morning to the woman who manages my investments—to feel in control of their destiny.’ She gave the camera an intense look. ‘You have more power than you know.’
Rochelle leaned forward. ‘You’re famous for saying that no one can have it all. Have you made sacrifices for your career?’
‘I’ve made choices, not sacrifices. Choices. Know what you want. Go for it. No apologies.’
‘And you’ve never had any regrets?’
Regrets?
Gayle’s world wobbled a little. How well had this woman done her research?
She sat up a little straighter and looked at the camera. ‘No regrets.’
And just like that the interview was over.
Rochelle flashed G
ayle a smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Gayle stood up. ‘How did you get your start in TV?’
‘I applied for a ton of things after college but had no luck with anything.’ Rochelle was relaxed and chatty now the interview was over. ‘Then I was offered an internship at the studio. I shadowed a reporter, and then they let me present a little because they thought I looked good on camera. So I suppose you could say I fell into it.’
Gayle winced. You fell into snowdrifts and cowpats—not jobs.
‘Today is a crossroads for you. Doors will open. I hope you walk through them.’
‘Thanks, GM. I’m never going to forget today.’ Rochelle glanced at the crew and then back at Gayle. ‘We need a few photos so we can promote the interview on our site and social media. Is that okay?’
‘Of course.’ Gayle walked to her bookshelves and posed in what she knew was the most flattering position, careful that both her books were in the shot, face-out.
Did they know that today was her birthday? No, why would they? Her digital team had scrubbed all mention of her birth date from the internet, so her age was shrouded in mystery. Birthdays slid past like the seasons—unmarked and frankly unwanted.
The photographer glanced around him. ‘Could we have a photograph with the award?’
The award?
Gayle glanced upwards. The award had been placed on the top shelf of the bookcase that lined the only solid wall of her office. Had it been attractive she might have displayed it somewhere more prominent, but it was an ugly monstrosity, the brainchild of someone apparently devoid of both inspiration and artistic skill. The golden star itself was inoffensive, but it had been attached to a particularly ugly base. The first thing she’d thought on being presented with it the night before was that it reminded her of a gravestone.
Her opinion of it hadn’t mellowed overnight.
She looked at the award again, loathing it as much as she had when she’d received it—although of course at the time she’d smiled and looked delighted. What message would it send for her to be photographed with something so lacking in aesthetic charm? That she was ready for the grave and had the headstone to prove it?
She glanced outside to where Cole, her assistant, was supposed to be sitting during the interviews in case he was needed. Where was he? He should have anticipated this and had the statue ready.
She could either wait for his return—which would mean the TV crew lingering in her office—or she could get the damn thing herself.
Irritated, she slid off her shoes and pulled her office chair over to the bookcase.
The photographer cleared his throat. ‘I should get that for you, Ms Mitchell. I’m taller than you, and—’
‘Chairs were invented so that women could stand on them when necessary.’
Still, she was about to curse Cole for putting it on the highest shelf when she remembered she was, in fact, the one who had instructed him to do that.
Stepping onto the chair, she reached out.
Why had he put it so far back? Presumably Cole found it as loathsome as she did.
She rose on tiptoe and felt the chair wobble slightly.
She closed her right hand around the base of the award, remembering too late that it had required two hands to hold it steady when she’d been handed it the night before. As she swung it down from the shelf the chair wobbled again, sending her body off balance.
By the time she realised she was going to fall it was too late to recover.
She groped for the bookcase with her free hand, but instead of providing solid support it tilted towards her. She had time to make a mental note to fire the clueless individual who had forgotten to secure the bookshelves to the wall, and then she was falling, falling, falling… One of the points of the heavy golden star smashed into her head and she crashed onto the hard office floor.
She was conscious for long enough to wish the decorator had given her deep-pile carpet. And then everything went black.
She missed the sound of Rochelle screaming and the sight of the camera still rolling.
For a brief period of time she was blissfully oblivious to the chaos erupting around her.
Her return to consciousness was slow and confusing. She heard a low humming sound…a whirring in her head. Was she dead? Surely not. She could hear things.
She could hear people panicking around her, even though panic was an emotion specifically banned from her office.
‘Oh, my God, is she dead? Is she dead?’
‘Not dead. She’s definitely breathing.’
Gayle was relieved to have that confirmed by an outside source.
‘But she’s unconscious. I called 911. They’re on their way.’
‘Is that an actual hole in her head? I feel a little faint.’
‘Pull yourself together.’ A rough, male voice. ‘Did you get the shot, Greg?’
‘Yeah, the whole thing is on camera. It’ll be a happy day for the headline writers. My money is on STARSTRUCK!’
‘Could you be just a little sensitive here?’ Rochelle’s voice, sounding traumatised. ‘She’s badly injured and you’re writing headlines!’
Didn’t they know she could hear them? Why were people so clueless? She had no idea how long she’d been knocked out. A minute? An hour? A day? No, if it had been a day she’d be lying in a hospital bed now, surrounded by a chorus of beeping machines.
Her chest hurt. Why did her chest hurt?
She remembered the bookshelves falling with her.
Someone must have caught them, or lifted them off her. As for the fate of the award—she had no idea. If the pain was anything to go by there was a possibility it was still embedded in her head.
There was a crashing sound and the doors to her office burst open.
Really, did no one knock these days?
Gayle tried to open her eyes and give someone her scariest stare, but they felt too heavy.
She heard more voices, this time firm and confident—presumably the EMTs.
‘What’s her name?’
Why was he asking her name? Didn’t he recognise her? Everyone knew who she was. She was a legend. She’d just won an award for being inspirational, and if they couldn’t see the actual award then surely they could see the award-sized dent in her skull.
She was going to write to the organisers and suggest a brooch for the next winner.
‘Gayle, can you hear me? I’m Dan.’
Why was he calling her Gayle when they’d never met? She was either Ms Mitchell or GM. Young people today had no respect. This was why she insisted on formality in the office.
This ‘Dan’ barked out some instructions to his partner and proceeded to assess her injuries.
Gayle felt herself being poked and prodded.
‘Has someone contacted her family? Loved ones?’
‘Her…what?’ That was Cole, sounding stressed and confused.
‘Loved ones. Nearest and dearest.’ The EMT was pressing something to her head.
‘I don’t think—’ Cole cleared his throat. ‘She doesn’t have loved ones.’
‘She must have someone.’ Dan eased Gayle’s eyes open and used a flashlight.
‘That’s probably the first time anyone has looked into her eyes in a long time.’
Funny, Gayle thought. Until that moment she hadn’t even realised Cole had a sense of humour. It was a shame it was at her expense.
‘Partner?’ Dan again, doing something that apparently was meant to support her neck.
‘No. Just work. She loves her work.’
‘Are you telling me she has no one in her life?’
‘Well, there’s Puccini…’
‘Great. So give this Puccini guy a call and tell him what’s happened. He can meet us at the hospital.’
Gayle wanted to roll her eyes, but her head hurt too badly. She hoped this EMT knew more about head injuries than he did about culture.
‘Puccini was a composer. Opera. GM loves opera. People? Not so
much. She isn’t a family type of person. GM is married to her work.’
Dan clipped something to Gayle’s finger. ‘Oh, man, that’s sad.’
Sad? Sad?
She ran one of the most successful boutique consulting firms in Manhattan. She was in demand as a speaker. She’d written a bestseller—soon to be two bestsellers if pre-orders were anything to go by. What was sad about that? Her life was the subject of envy, not pity.
‘Makes her a bitch to work for, actually,’ Cole muttered. ‘I couldn’t go to my grandmother’s funeral because she had a ten o’clock and I needed to be here.’
Cole thought she was a bitch?
No—no! She wasn’t a bitch. She was an inspiration! That journalist had said so. Yes, she worked hard, but there was a perfectly good reason for that. And if she hadn’t worked hard and turned the company into the success it was now, her team wouldn’t have their nice comfortable secure jobs. Why couldn’t they see that? Maybe she should use that award to knock some sense into her staff on a daily basis.
It was time she showed them she was awake—before she discovered more about herself she didn’t want to know.
‘I don’t get it,’ the EMT said, slapping the back of Gayle’s hand to find a vein. ‘I guess if you don’t have family then you work. It’s that simple.’
He slid a needle into Gayle’s vein, and if she’d been capable of speech or movement she would have punched him—both for the pain and his words.
It wasn’t that simple at all. They were implying she worked because she was lonely, but that wasn’t the case. Her work wasn’t her back-up plan—it was her choice.
She’d chosen every single thing about her life. She’d designed her life. Written a book about it, dammit. Her life was perfect for her. Custom-made. A haute couture life. Everything she’d ever wanted. It was—