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.
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.
Holly — This is crap. Forwarding to Valery for review and comment, Sasha.
“Shit!” Holly put her glass down, scrambled to hit reply, and typed, “Let me make any changes needed first!” and hit send.
“Not necessary. Want her to see as is,” came the immediate reply.
“Back-stabbing bitch,” Holly muttered.
Her mobile rang. Holly grabbed it and frowned at the number. Caller Unknown. It must be Sasha, already phoning to gloat and inform her in no uncertain terms that she was sacked.
“Look, Sasha,” Holly snapped as she answered her phone, “I did the best I could with that interview with Henry, but teen girls don’t give a rat’s arse about QSRs and derivatives!”
There was a pause. A posh male voice said, “Perhaps they would do, if they understood that the dividends from those dull QSRs would keep them well stocked in spot cream, lip gloss, and useless teen magazines well into their dotage.”
Oh, no! That upper-crusty voice…those multi-syllabic words…it was Henry — correction, Alex — Barrington. Holly closed her eyes and groaned. Could her day — this endless, endless day — possibly get any worse?
“How did you get my number?” she demanded. Was he a stalker, too?
“It’s on your business card. Which I found under your chair after you left, along with a keychain.” His words were stiff. “Which I thought perhaps you might need.”
“No, of course I don’t need it,” Holly said crossly. “I have masses of business cards.”
There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. “I was referring to the keychain, Ms James. Not the card.”
Oh, what a mess. It just kept getting worse and worse. Forget the grapefruit juice, she needed straight vodka…or, truthfully, perhaps the vodka was the problem…
“Look,” she said finally, “just put the keys in a Jiffy bag and mail them, okay? I’ve had a really bad day—” her voice wobbled ever so slightly, but she got it back under control “—and I don’t want to bother you any further.”
“It’s no bother.” He paused. “The reason I’m calling is twofold. One is to apologize.”
Holly took a steadying gulp of her vodka and…vodka. “Apologize? Whatever for? You were quite right, I wasn’t prepared, and, anyway, I write nothing but salacious dreck. That was what you called it, wasn’t it?”
He had the grace to sound uncomfortable. “I suppose I did. But you have to admit, BritTEEN isn’t exactly The Guardian—”
“But it isn’t meant to be!” Holly interrupted. “It’s entertainment. And what entertains teen girls are pop stars, and clothes, and the latest shades of lip gloss.” She took a gulp of her drink. “Maybe they’d be better served by articles on finance and — and educational stuff, but that isn’t the magazine’s focus. The focus is fashion. And make-up. And fun.”
“And whether I condone sex on the first date?”
Holly flushed. “I had to ask that,” she said defensively, “or I’d be sacked. Don’t worry, your answer won’t go in the article. It’s strictly off the record.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.”
“At any rate, I accept your apology.” She frowned. “What was your other reason for calling?”
“I wondered if you’re free for dinner next week.”
Holly held out her phone and stared at it in astonishment. Her first instinct was to say yes, of course she was free, and her second was to fling open the windows like Scrooge on Christmas Day and shout, “You, there, boy! Run and fetch me the biggest bottle of champagne you can find. Alex Barrington has just asked me out!”
“You’re asking me out on a…date?” she asked cautiously.
“Yes, a date,” he replied, and added, “wherein two people who like one another decide to go out together.”
She saw herself sitting across from Alex in some fancy restaurant, holding her champagne glass out as he topped it up with Perrier-Jouët, and she could almost taste the tart-sweet raspberries he fed to her across a candlelit table…
She bit her lip. If she said yes and Mick found out, he’d throw a four-colour, photo-op temper tantrum.
On the other hand, why not go out with Alex? It wasn’t as if she and Mick were engaged, or anything. With his electric-blue mohawk and multiple tattoos, Mick was as well known for playing bass in Dominic’s band as he was for chasing women.
Holly sighed. After the cock-up she’d made of her interview with Alex Barrington, not to mention that humiliating business with her bag, she couldn’t possibly go out with him. No matter how much she