Alison Fraser - The Boss's Secret Mistress

‘Simpson?’ Tory stalled.

‘Alex Simpson.’ He leaned on the doorframe, eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses. ‘At least I assume it was Simpson and not some passing bum, making himself at home in his office.’

‘Alex was here, yes,’ she confirmed and went on inventively, ‘He came in to catch up on his paperwork.’

‘He was catching up on some sleep when I saw him,’ countered Ryecart.

‘Really?’ Tory faked surprise quite well. ‘He did say he’d been in very early. Perhaps he nodded off without realising.’

‘Slept it off, is my guess,’ the American drawled back, and, pushing away from the door, crossed to sit on the edge of her desk. He removed the glasses and appraised her for a moment or two before adding, ‘Are you two an item? Is that it?’

‘An item?’ Tory was slow on the uptake.

‘You and Simpson, are you romantically involved?’ He spelt out his meaning.

‘No, of course not!’ Tory denied most vehemently.

It had little impact, as the American smiled at her flash of temper. ‘No need to go nuclear. I was only asking. I hear Simpson has something of a reputation with women,’ he remarked, getting Tory’s back up further.

‘And from that you concluded that he and I…that we are…’ She was unwilling to put it into words.

He did it for her. ‘Lovers?’

Tory found herself blushing. He had that effect.

He studied her, as if she were an interesting species, and her blush deepened. ‘I didn’t think women did that any more.’

‘Possibly not the women you know,’ Tory shot back before she could stop herself.

He understood the insult. He could easily have sacked her for it. Instead he laughed.

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘I tend to prefer the more experienced kind. Less hassle. Lower expectations. And fewer recriminations at the end…Still, who knows? I could be reformed.’

And pigs might fly, Tory thought as she wondered if he was flirting with her or just making fun.

‘What about you?’ he said with the same lazy smile.

‘Me?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I prefer the invisible kind. Much less hassle. Zero expectations. And absolutely no recriminations.’

It took the American an instant to interpret. ‘You don’t date?’

‘I don’t date,’ Tory repeated but without his tone of disbelief, ‘and I don’t need reforming, either.’

He looked puzzled rather than annoyed, his eyes doubting her seriousness.

‘Is that a targeted response,’ he finally asked, ‘or a general declaration of intent?’

‘Come again?’ Tory squinted at him.

‘Are you just telling me to take a hike,’ he translated, ‘or are all men off the agenda?’

Tory debated how much she wanted to keep her job. Just enough to show some restraint, she decided, so she said nothing. Her eyes, however, said much more.

‘Me, I guess,’ he concluded with a confidence barely dented. ‘Well, never mind, I can live in hope.’

He was laughing at her. He had to be. He wasn’t really interested in her. It was all a joke to him.

He straightened from the edge of her desk, saying, ‘Would you have some idea how I might contact Simpson? ‘

‘I…I’m not sure.’ Having denied any relationship with Alex, Tory could hardly reveal the fact he was holed up at her place. ‘I might be able to get a message to him.’

‘Fine. I’ve asked all senior department heads to meet me, nine a.m. Monday, for a briefing,’ he explained. ‘It would be advisable for Simpson to attend.’

Tory nodded. ‘I’ll tell him…I mean, if I get hold of him,’ she qualified, anxious to dispel the notion she and Alex had anything other than a business relationship.

‘Well, if you can’t, don’t worry about it,’ he ran on. ‘It’s Simpson’s problem if he can’t give Personnel a current telephone number.’

Tory frowned. ‘But you saw him this morning.’

‘So why didn’t I wake him up?’ he asked the question that was clearly in her mind. ‘Let’s just say I thought the morning after wouldn’t be the best time to meet a new boss. What do you think?’

Tory thought that remarkably fair of the American—to give Alex the chance to redeem himself. Of course, he might simply prefer to sack him when he was stone-cold sober.

‘Alex is a very good programme-maker,’ she declared staunchly. ‘He won a BAFTA three years ago.’

‘Simpson was a very good programme-maker,’ Lucas Ryecart corrected her, ‘and, in this business, you’re only as good as your last show. Simpson should know that.’

Tory said nothing. Speaking up for Alex had cut no ice with this man.

He also suspected her motives. ‘Why so concerned about Simpson? If he goes, it might do your own career some good.’

‘I doubt it.’ Tory wondered who he was trying to fool. ‘Simon is more experienced than me.’

He frowned, making the connection only when she glanced towards the second desk in the room. ‘More willing to promote his cause, too, as I recall. Is he the reason you’re loyal to Simpson?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You don’t want to work for this Simon guy?’

No, Tory certainly didn’t, but she didn’t want to do Simon down either.

‘You’re not homophobic, are you?’ he surmised at her uneasy silence.

‘What?’ Tory was startled by his directness.

‘Homophobic,’ he repeated, ‘Anti-gay, against homo—’

‘I know what it means!’ Tory cut in angrily, and, forgetting—or, at least, no longer caring—who he was, informed him, ‘It might be hard for an American to understand, but reticence isn’t always an indication of stupidity.’

‘Being brash, loud-mouth colonials, you mean.’ He had no problem deciphering the insult. He just wasn’t bothered by it.

Tory wondered what you had to do to dent this man’s confidence. Use a sledgehammer, perhaps.

‘Simon’s sexual preference is a matter of complete disinterest to me,’ she declared in heavy tones.

‘If you say so,’ he responded, as if he didn’t quite believe her.

‘I am not homophobic!’ she insisted angrily. ‘Whether I’d want to work for Simon doesn’t hinge on that.’

‘Okay.’ He conceded the point, then immediately lost interest in it as he looked at his watch, saying, ‘I have to go. I have a meeting in London. I’ll give you my number.’

He picked up her Biro and, tearing out a slip of paper from her notepad, leaned on her desk to write his name and two telephone numbers.

‘The top one is my mobile,’ he informed her. ‘The other’s Abbey Lodge. I’m staying there in the short term.’

Abbey Lodge was the most exclusive hotel locally, favoured by high-powered businessmen and visiting celebrities.

He held out the piece of paper and for a moment Tory just stared at it as if it were contaminated. Why was he giving her his telephone number? Did he imagine she’d want to call him?

‘In case you have a problem tracking down Alex Simpson,’ he explained, patently amused at her wary expression.

‘Of course.’ Now she almost snatched the paper from him.

‘Still, if you want to call me, regardless—’ his mouth slanted ‘—feel free. I’m sure we can find something to talk about…’

‘I…’ On the contrary Tory couldn’t think of a sensible thing to say. She’d been so presumptuous it was embarrassing.

‘Meanwhile—’ his smile became less mocking ‘—it’s a beautiful day. Why not play hooky for once?’

The suggestion sounded genuine but Tory felt even more uncomfortable, recalling the fact she’d played hooky yesterday.

‘I have some stuff to finish,’ she claimed, sober-faced.

‘Well, you know what they say: all work and no play,’ he misquoted dryly, ‘makes for a dull television producer.’