Stefanie London - The Fling

PRES: And don’t do that thing where you shut everyone out before they have a chance to get to know you. You might make a friend!

Three hearts punctuate my sister’s text. If ever there was physical evidence of the difference between us, this is it. Shaking my head, I continue down Clarendon Street toward my temporary residence in South Melbourne. 21 Love Street is the most ridiculous name for an apartment building, even one as swanky as this. But I’m grateful to have the cushy place to stay until the wedding is over.

And truthfully, the people here do seem nice. It’s been so long since I lived in Melbourne that I don’t have many contacts in this city—and the one friend I do have is away and letting me crash in her apartment. My friends are scattered all over the world, a product of working as a flight attendant all my adult life. Do a stint in Dubai and another in Singapore and one more in London and you’ll end up with a globally fragmented social circle.

But that suits me fine. I make do wherever I go, and my colleagues are always up for some fun when they’re in town.

I enter the building, marvelling as I usually do at the foyer’s softly glowing chandelier that manages to somehow not be tacky. A couple of velvet chairs are dotted around and some pretty art hangs on the main wall.

Capital P Perfect!

I stifle a laugh and head to the elevators. The concierge desk is empty, with a sign stating they’re currently “on patrol.” That’s been happening a lot ever since they found out a crime ring was operating out of this building last week. Yeah, that happened. Doesn’t bother me, though. I enjoy a little excitement in my life.

I tap my foot, waiting while the elevator does its thing. But it’s taking forever. Five minutes pass. Then ten. The concierge still hasn’t returned to his post. Grumbling, I head toward the service stairwell and start making my way up.

“FLYNN ANDREW LEWIS, what are you still doing here?”

I drag my eyes up from my screen to look at my assistant, Francis, standing in the doorway to my office—arms folded, lips pursed. She’s the only person who can get away with using my full name because she’s also the only assistant who’s lasted more than five minutes working for me.

Still, I won’t let her get too big for her boots.

“How do you do that?” I wave my pen in her direction.

“What?”

“Channel my mother so effectively.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you calling me old?”

The ironic thing is that if my mother were still alive, she would actually be younger than Francis by a good decade. And while I might be known as “that jerk in the navy suit” to most people who work in this industry, even I know not to call a woman old.

“I would say more...draconian.” This gets the result I predict—intensified lip pursing.

“It’s nine p.m.”

“I know how to tell the time.” I turn back to my screen, trying to make the numbers spin a different story. It’s futile, but still more productive than looking at my inbox—which resembles the aftermath of a toddler toy-flinging rampage.

“Flynn.” This time my name is softer.

I know she means business when she talks like that—because to everybody else in this company Francis is a stony-faced, rule-spouting gatekeeper. She’s all: you shall not pass . It’s why she’s so good at her job. But I know she’s actually a lovely woman with a heart of gold—a fact she prefers to keep hidden.

Generally, I prefer it when she keeps it hidden, too.

“You haven’t left this place before midnight in over a month. It’s not healthy.” She sighs. “I know you care about these trials. I do, too. Everybody does.”

My niece, Zoe, stares at me from a photo on the side of my desk. She’s like a laser burning into my skin, reminding me over and over. Pushing me. Driving me to stay one more hour. “Then we have to keep working.”

“If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m going to walk in here one day and find you dead on your desk from a heart attack.” When I don’t take my eyes off my screen, she claps. The sound is a bullet through the room.

“Did you just clap at me?” I gape. “You know I sign off on your bonus, right?”

She folds her arms. “Trust me, I don’t work solely for the money.”

“Then why am I paying you more than most people here?”

“Because you’re trying to convince me not to retire so you don’t have to churn through twenty more assistants before you find another one who will put up with you.”

Damn, she got me there. “I did not enjoy that.”

“Neither did they, I’m betting.” Her face is full of concern. “It’s one night. You won’t solve the world’s problems today. Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.”

I want to tell her that I don’t own a television, just to wind her up...but I feel like she might explode from frustration. And she’s right, I don’t want her to retire. Not yet.

“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to shred every document in the office and then set it all on fire.” She stares pointedly at me.

“You know our servers have a triple-redundancy that backs up to a secure off-site location, right?” I can’t keep my face straight and she shakes her head at me. “See, you’re doing it again. Better stop or I’ll start calling you Mum.”

“Get. Out. Of. Here. Right. Now.” She punctuates each word with a clap.

“All right, all right.” I shove my chair back and smooth my hands down the front of my suit pants. “No need for the aural abuse.”

Francis watches as I grab my trench coat and look longing at my laptop—my inbox exploded past two thousand emails earlier this afternoon and I could use a night of digital filing.

If only Mum could see you now.

My mother, who believed wholeheartedly that life was a party, would be appalled by my lack of social life.

Good.

Besides, I go to charity balls and cocktail parties on the regular—it’s part and parcel of being a CEO. Though I have to admit, even when I’m there in body, my mind is always on work. The picture of my niece continues to watch me from the desk and I make her a silent promise, as I do every day, that I will help her.

“Come on, out with you.” Francis herds me into the common area, which is mostly empty. I spy my head of IT bent over someone’s desk and the CFO talking on his phone. I have a great team—built from scratch with my own bare hands. I’ve met a lot of top dogs who surround themselves with sycophants, but I always promised myself I wouldn’t do that. I want people who are renowned in their fields. People who challenge me.

Maybe not as much as Francis challenges me, mind you.

On the way down on the elevator, my mind spins.

Go home, eat some crappy takeaway food and watch television like a normal person.

Is that what normal people do? I can’t remember the last time I did anything in my apartment that wasn’t changing my clothes, sleeping or taking a shower. It’s basically a hotel room at this point. I don’t eat there. I don’t entertain. The closest thing I get to free time is the hour I spend at the gym every morning running on the treadmill and lifting weights while I listen to the notes that Francis voice-recorded the evening before.

I live for my job.

How many people can say that? I threw in a seven-figure salary as the youngest equity partner with a boutique consulting agency to start my own company. A company with a purpose that is more than raking in zeroes. I wanted to do something important with my life, not be another thoughtless corporate drone whose only care in the world is whether to holiday in Europe or the Maldives.