‘What?’ Alexa frowned. That was the second time tonight she had heard that name.
Riz leaned over, smiling apologetically. ‘It’s your nickname.’
Alexa said it a few times in her head, rolling the words together. Ms Long. Alexa Long. AlexaLong.
‘Oh. Right.’
The shaking began to subside. Alexa let out a shallow breath. For a nickname, she considered, it could have been worse – and besides, it wasn’t the nickname that mattered. What mattered was the fact that one of Derek’s disciples was standing in front of her, grinning from ear to ear and offering her another drink.
Chapter 9
‘I thought Sienna and Derek were sleeping together,’ said Alexa, topping up Matt’s wine. ‘But then I heard a rumour that Sienna and Riz were an item, which just seems wrong. Riz is too straightforward. He’s . . . well, I just can’t see him getting involved with such a—’
‘Such a what?’ challenged Matt, as she faltered. ‘Go on, say it. Insult the poor girl.’
Alexa shook her head. ‘Sorry. Slut, I was going to say.’
She felt bad. Sienna hadn’t actually done anything to deserve such a name. It was just a combination of things. The way she dressed. The voice she used with the men. Her permanently puckered lips.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I heard another rumour on Friday, that Sienna was sleeping with Marcus.’
‘Who’s Marcus?’
‘News editor. You know, the one I told you about. Piggy-eyed, ginger guy. I’d be surprised if anyone wanted to sleep with him, to be honest.’
Matt raised an eyebrow, pushing the remains of his prawn cocktail away. ‘I hope nobody says that about me.’
Alexa rolled her eyes. She hadn’t asked, but she was willing to bet that Matt had never been turned down by anyone. Even first thing in the morning, he was irresistible – as she had discovered on New Year’s Day, nearly eight months ago. Alexa had woken in Kate’s spare bed with a crick in her neck as a result of Matt’s arm around her. She still remembered the look of surprise in his sleepy blue eyes, mirroring her own as they woke up and started to recall what had happened – still felt a rush of excitement when she pictured the scene.
‘Have you told your parents yet?’
Alexa emerged from her daydream. ‘I’ve decided . . . I’m not going to.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s only a short-term contract. They wouldn’t approve; they’d never see things from my point of view. There’s no need to tell them.’
‘Well . . .’ Matt looked at her, slowly shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘It’s up to you, I suppose.’
They sipped their wine in silence. Alexa felt angry, all of a sudden. She resented the way Matt judged her relationship with her parents. He couldn’t possibly know how it felt to be constantly striving to live up to her mother’s standards. He didn’t understand how appalled they would be to discover that their daughter was working for Banter. He just didn’t get it.
‘It is up to me,’ she declared, ‘and I’ve made up my mind. I just have to hit the fifty-four million, then I’m out of there.’
Matt nodded, leaning back to allow the waiter to remove his debris.
Alexa sat, staring into her expensive glass of wine, waiting for some kind of reaction to the mention of her ambitious target and realising, as the seconds passed, that she wasn’t going to get one. Deep down, she wanted Matt to be impressed by the scale of the task she had undertaken. He knew that Banter’s current revenues were only thirty-two million. The next eight months weren’t going to be easy. But Matt didn’t seem to care.
She took a large sip of wine and watched as the main courses were slid onto the table. It was becoming evident that the boutique Mayfair hotel specialised in exotic cuisine of miniature proportions. Alexa’s plate, despite being one of the largest she had ever eaten off, was almost entirely empty. In the centre sat a twisted, glazed noodle and three slim, perfectly formed slivers of duck.
‘Bon appétit,’ said Matt, eyeing his steak with glee. He seemed to have ordered the only dish on the menu that came in a standard size.
Alexa busied herself dissecting the duck, trying not to let her frustration show. What she wanted, desperately, was to find out what Matt really thought of her job at Banter. She had noticed that whenever conversation turned to her work then something changed in him. He became curt, indifferent. He would feign interest, but Alexa often got the impression he was thinking about something else.
She moved on to her second sliver of duck, her frustration finally winning over her composure.
‘You’re not interested, are you?’ Alexa looked at him. ‘You think my job’s a waste of time.’
Matt stopped chewing, recoiling in surprise. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘It just seems as though you don’t really care.’ Alexa waited for him to meet her eye. ‘I guess it’s just loose change, for you . . . child’s play.’
‘No.’ Matt seemed genuinely surprised. ‘No. That’s not true. Fifty-two million is fifty-two million. That’s not child’s play.’
‘It’s fifty-four million.’
‘Sorry.’ Matt flinched. ‘That’s what I meant.’
Alexa took a deep breath. She didn’t want to come across as a psychopathic workaholic but she really, really wanted to know why Matt seemed so disinterested in the things that occupied her mind for half of her waking hours. It was looking less and less likely that his reservations were borne out of concerns for her wellbeing in the ‘lions’ den’. Tales of her battles with Derek or the stalemate she seemed to have reached with Sienna were greeted with the same vague nods as the mention of financial targets.
‘I am impressed.’ Matt was looking at her intensely. ‘I’m impressed with everything you do. You’re . . . you’re amazing. I don’t know how you do it – how you keep going the whole time, always . . .’
Alexa watched as he struggled to finish his sentence. She felt instantly guilty. Matt’s blue eyes were looking intently into hers, pleadingly. He clearly meant every word.
‘Always living up to your own high standards.’
Alexa reached out and locked fingers with him across the table. ‘Sorry for being paranoid.’
Matt started to smile. ‘So go on, tell me.’ He was poised for a forkful of steak, but his eyes were still fixed on Alexa’s.
She frowned. ‘Tell you what?’
‘How the hell will you make the fifty-two million?’
Alexa smiled. ‘Fifty-four million.’
Matt winced. ‘Sorry.’
‘Well, if you really want to know . . .’
Alexa gave him one last chance to back out, but he didn’t take it. So she told him. She told him about the proposed tablet app, her plans for rejuvenating Banter TV, the new feature ideas that she and Neil had devised and the ways in which she was going to ‘up the nipple count’.
‘Ah,’ said Matt, nodding wisely as he polished off his steak. ‘I like that idea. Reckon that’ll net you at least ten million.’
Alexa smiled. It wasn’t quite fair to say that Matt had shown no interest in her work in recent weeks. He had, she recalled, sat through at least an hour of Banter TV and scanned the ‘Girls’ section of every issue she brought home. He therefore considered himself an expert in such things as