Katie Oliver - Love And Liability

“You could tell me the answer off the record, you know.”

“Out,” Alex said firmly, and came around his desk to grip her by the arm. “Off you go.”

“Wait a minute! My recorder—” Holly snatched it up, too flustered to turn it off, and stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing? You’re not throwing me out?”

“I most certainly am. Thank you very much, Ms James, but you need to go. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” And he pressed his lips together and pulled her unceremoniously towards the door.

Chapter 5

Outraged, Holly pulled back, and as she did her handbag slid off her shoulder and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

She groaned as all of her personal effects — tampons, Mentos, even the raspberry-flavoured condom she’d got as a consolation prize at her best friend’s hen night — spilled out on the thick pile carpet in full, inglorious display.

Holly bent down, hot-cheeked with mortification, and scrabbled to pick up the wayward items.

“Here, let me.” Alex knelt down next to her, and as he did the bit of red silk tucked in his pocket fell out.

Holly’s eyes widened as she saw the red thong lying on the carpet. “Oh, my God! That isn’t a handkerchief in your pocket — it’s a red thong!”

“Yes, it is.” His words were abrupt. He grabbed the thong and thrust it back into his breast pocket. “I had a wager with the boys in the office. Harmless bit of fun, that’s all.”

“I so don’t want to know,” she snapped.

“Ah — I believe this is yours.” His eyes met hers, gleaming with amusement as he handed over the foil-wrapped, raspberry-flavoured condom.

Holly opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out.

“Never mind,” Alex told her. “I so don’t want to know.” He raised his brow. “I’d say we’re about even on the embarrassment scale, wouldn’t you?”

Holly managed — only just — to nod. Mortified, she shoved the condom back in her bag, murmured her thanks, and fled towards the door.

“Ms James, before you go…”

“Yes?” Holly turned around.

“Have you never thought of pursuing a job as a serious journalist? Your talents are obviously wasted on BritTEEN .”

As her surprise gave way to anger, Holly’s mouth opened and closed like a trout just landed out of the water. Before she could form a reply, he spoke again.

“Oh, and one more thing before I throw you out…”

“Yes?” she snapped.

“Off the record—” he paused “—that means I can say something, but you can’t publish it — I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely. But having said that,” he added grimly, “I’m referring to responsible adults, not teenagers with spots and raging hormones. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy, Ms James. I haven’t time for any more of this nonsense.”

Before Holly could object to this latest insult — nonsense, really ? — he wished her a curt “good afternoon” and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly after her.

Alex returned to his desk to get ready for his next appointment. As he leaned forward to press the intercom button a pink marabou feather floated in the air where Holly James had stood and drifted, slowly, to the floor.

He went around his desk and bent down to pick it up. It was soft, like the downy back of a newly hatched chick.

“Silly girl,” he murmured, and shook his head.

Absently he thrust the feather in his pocket, then turned back to his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Send in the next appointment, Jill.”

“How can I help you, Mr Russo?” Alex asked the famous chef when they were both seated a few minutes later.

“How can you help me? You can make me more fucking money,” Marcus replied succinctly. “That’s how you can help me.”

Alex was taken aback, but managed a polite smile. “You’ve come to the right place. Making money for my clients is, after all, my job.”

Marcus grunted. “I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version of my finances, then, shall I? I’ve expanded too quickly and my company’s losing money. I’m behind in payments to my suppliers, and I owe the bank seven million pounds. And to top it off, my wife has upped sticks and left me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The bottom line, Mr Barrington,” Russo finished, “is this: my new restaurant, Brasserie Russo, has to succeed, or else my company goes under. And I refuse to let that happen.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “Well, Mr Russo, I’d recommend you file bankruptcy and restructure your debts. Then we’ll need to make your investments work harder for you.”

Marcus grunted. “And how do we do that?”

“I’ll work out an investment strategy best suited to your needs. Decide how risk-averse you are, and go from there. And I’d suggest you find ways to cut costs in your current business operations, if you haven’t already. Have you any property you can liquidate and divert into stocks?”

Marcus shook his head. “I owe a seven–million-pound overdraft to my bank; if I sold my house today, they’d take every fucking penny.” He eyed Alex. “I just signed a deal with ITV to do a reality show, Chefzilla . The cameras will follow me at work and at home.” He frowned. “Of course, if I’d known my wife would do a runner, I wouldn’t have agreed to do it. We start filming next week. It should be lucrative…and entertaining.”

Personally, Alex had his doubts, but he nodded politely.

“Invest my television fees, Mr Barrington,” Marcus went on. “Slap the cash into whatever stocks you think best.” He stood. “You come highly recommended. I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you.” Alex stood as well and shook Russo’s hand. The chef’s grip nearly broke his fingers. “I’ll draw up a portfolio and have it ready next week.”

But Marcus, heaping abuse on some poor unfortunate at the other end of his mobile phone, was already striding out of the door, leaving a trail of Acqua di Parma and four-letter words in his wake.

Chapter 6

Late that same evening, Holly typed the last line of her interview with Alex Barrington. It was hopeless. She’d done what she could to make the article entertaining; but how entertaining could Quick Service Restaurant stocks and barristers’ wigs really be?

Answer: Not very.

Sasha would hate it. She’d say it was dead boring, not what their teen readers wanted, that it wasn’t sexy or “girly” enough…and even though Sasha was the one who’d given Holly the damned assignment, she’d be absolutely right.

But at least she’d sourced some great photos of Alex Barrington. In one, he stood at the helm —bow? — of a sailboat, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze; in another, he leaned forward with an absorbed expression as he listened to the Home Secretary talk — about financial law, no doubt.

Holly pressed her lips together. She couldn’t believe Alex had a thong tucked in his breast pocket, like a…a trophy!

What kind of man made bets with his office mates about having sex with someone? The same kind, she supposed, who threw journalists out of his office.

Obviously, Alex Barrington was a self-important arse. And he was a disgusting perv, to boot.

“Here you go, bitch boss from hell,” Holly muttered as she typed in Sasha’s email address and pressed send. She’d given up Friday night with her friends to work, sitting in front of the lurid blue glow of her laptop — all because Sasha expected to see the interview in her inbox first thing Monday morning.

Twenty minutes and three quarters of a vodka-and-grapefruit juice later, her email inbox pinged. Sasha.

Holly sighed, topped up her drink with a bit more vodka — well, she’d had a horrible day; she deserved it — and opened the email.