Syd Moore - Witch Hunt

As I walked towards the river, I had the sense of being swallowed up or, perhaps, it was more like joining in. Whatever, I was almost relieved as I went through the revolving doors of Cutt’s castle.

Portillion Publishing was originally situated in Mayfair, but when the mogul acquired it, the outfit was ‘streamlined’. Accusations of asset stripping and general nastiness were flung around but faded once the concern was relocated to this nerve centre. It was enormous, shaped like a glimmering spire: a cathedral to Capitalism.

The offices came off an inner courtyard that had the full height of the thirty-five-storey structure. Large glass elevators reached skywards to the ceiling where a crystal pyramid capped the top. Chrome fittings and mirrored pillars amplified the light. The effect was dazzling.

A tall, willowy PA in a black designer suit collected me from the reception area. Her chic asymmetric bob and red lipstick were so impressive I felt immediately underdressed in my beloved vintage dress and boots. To cover up my nerves I tried to make small talk as we walked towards the lifts.

‘This is a fantastic building,’ I gestured upwards. ‘So much light.’

Delphine, as she introduced herself, sniffed. ‘Yes. It’s a great place to work.’ Her voice dragged with vague ennui.

‘Is Cutt based here?’ I asked, following the tap-tapping of her kitten heels across the marble floor.

‘Mr Cutt’s office is there,’ she indicated a large tinted glass window that covered the whole of one side of the first floor.

‘All of it?’

Delphine managed to crack a smile. ‘It’s an expansive concern.’

His office directly faced the entrance, security checks and reception. ‘He gets a good view of everybody coming in

and out that way, I suppose.’

‘Oh, Mr Cutt is an extremely energetic man. Not one to drop the ball. Robert likes to keep his eye on things.’

‘Quite literally,’ I said and stitched on a chuckle. ‘He can more or less see everyone from that vantage point.’

She didn’t reply.

The short journey upwards was uncomfortable. We stood either side of the lift doors staring out of the glass sheets. Delphine didn’t speak and I didn’t bother to try any more conversation. She was one tough nut to crack, I thought silently, tension creeping along my shoulders as I contemplated the kind of fella this Felix Knight might be. His email had an old-fashioned jauntiness to it that had me picturing a white-haired man in his fifties, in a sort of geography teacher get-up – leather-elbowed tweed jacket and cords. But after the intimidating pillar of reserve that was his secretary, I was beginning to think he was probably more of a reptilian guy. To command authority over Delphine, he’d surely have to be older, wiser and far, far colder.

Both my visions were wrong. Felix Knight turned out to be a phenomenally friendly sort. My age, or possibly younger. He had fantastically clear skin that gave the impression he was fresh out of the shower. Despite an impeccable tailor, the rest of him was a little unkempt; his hair was a mass of carefree brown curly waves, week-old stubble was spread across a firm jaw. I wasn’t surprised he hadn’t shaved – you could cut yourself on those cheekbones. He had a very very wide smile that wrinkled up the sides of his eyes. Out of the context of the publishing house and out of that suit, he could easily have been an actor or an academic, or, because his build was tall and fairly broad across the shoulders, maybe a young farmer. There was a slap-happy aura about him that immediately put me at ease.

And he was rather attractive too.

We shook hands. His was a firm super-confident grip, his eyes incredibly sparkly.

‘Do come in, Miss Asquith.’ He pulled a chair out and helped me into it. Well-spoken but not intimidating, his body language communicated both bonhomie and impeccable manners. He thanked Delphine and asked her to fetch some coffee, ‘if it is no trouble. Otherwise,’ he said, ‘I’ll hit the canteen.’ Delphine assented with a nod and so Felix slipped round to the other side of his desk and plopped into a high-backed chair. I saw him steal a glance that swept over me from the top of my head downwards, taking in bust size, hips, and legs. For a nanosecond he lost his self-possession, as if surprised by some aspect – I didn’t know what. Was it the vintage dress? Knee-high boots? Leather jacket? Perhaps he’d expected me to rock up in a suit. Well, tough, I thought, that ain’t ever gonna happen. Anyway, it was fleeting: Felix Knight mastered himself so quickly the blunder was barely perceptible.

‘Well,’ he said brightly. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at

last.’

At last! He only introduced himself yesterday. But then again, the handover from Emma had probably occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was only I, the author, who had learned of Portillion’s plans twenty-four hours ago.

I told him I too was pleased to make his acquaintance and made myself comfortable in a jazzy chrome and leather chair.

The offices of Portillion Publishing were kitted out with an array of gizmos and screens, all carefully selected to compliment the vast oak bookshelves displaying some of Portillion’s top-selling authors.

‘I’m sorry that Emma had to take off so quickly,’ he said once he was seated back behind his desk. I watched him casually cross his legs, his large right hand smoothing over a wrinkle of fabric around the kneecap. He coughed and smiled. ‘These things tend to move rapidly once decided. However let me assure you I am very impressed by your proposal and can’t wait to read the first instalment.’ I liked the way his tongue lingered over the ‘r’s in a breathy maybe Irish, though more likely American style. Unlike other media types I’d encountered who aped the linguistic idiosyncrasies of the Super Power to evoke a cool cosmopolitan image, Felix’s accent sounded genuine. I guessed he was well travelled.

‘That’s great, thanks, Mr Knight.’ I nodded vigorously to match his level of enthusiasm.

He swung his chair and placed his hands on the desk. ‘Oh please,’ he said, lowering eyes and voice simultaneously. ‘It’s Felix.’

Bloody hell – was he flirting? No. Couldn’t be. Not on a first date. I noted my Freudian slip and corrected ‘date’ to ‘meeting’. It must just be that old public school charm offensive.

‘And actually, my friends call me Sadie,’ I said, and squeezed in a little self-conscious grin.

He stroked the skin behind his jaw and regarded me with a grin. ‘So, formalities over – how have you been, Sadie?’

It threw me a little. Was this publishing getting-to-know-you-speak? Or had he heard about my recent loss?

‘Well,’ I squigged myself forwards onto the edge of my seat, so that I could sit up straight and suck in my stomach. ‘I’m very pleased about the publishing deal. It’s come at a good time. You see, my mother passed away a couple of weeks ago …’

‘Oh I’m sorry,’ he said and assumed a concerned bearing; eyes down, head cocked to one side. I’d seen it before. It’s what people did. Felix went a step further and clasped his hands, his eyebrows pointed towards his nose. It was a sincere expression. ‘Was it sudden or … ?’

‘She’d been ill. But well, you’re never prepared for it, are you, no matter how expected?’

He glanced away and back again quickly. ‘Condolences to you and your family. That can’t have been easy …’

‘Thank you, I said and moved on. I wasn’t comfortable with this. I didn’t want to start my new career with negativity. ‘So, as you see, I’m ready to get on with the book right away.’

‘And I am certainly not going to stop you,’ he said, and his face began to shine again. ‘Shall we clear up the formalities and head off for a bite to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’ He sat back and touched his stomach. It looked as hard as a board.