In the Rich Man's World

‘Oh, that!’ He gave a tight nod. ‘Thanks. Although it’s a touch premature. It’s far from in the bag, and, as I said—’

‘Off the record, or you’ll sue?’ Amelia second-guessed him and gave a wan smile. ‘Don’t worry; my next piece will be called “You heard it here last”.’

She slipped out of his office and into the hallway. The elevator must have been expecting her, because it slid open before she even approached, killing stone-dead any lingering hope that he might change his mind, might pull open the door and call her back in.

As if.

As if Vaughan Mason would even give their altercation a second thought.

Stepping out onto the street, she ignored the taxi rank and decided instead to walk. What was the point of rushing to the gallows?

She could almost see Paul’s thunderous face when she told him what had happened. Could imagine her bank balance sliding into the red as she struggled to find another gig.

The one major scoop of her life had practically been gift-wrapped and handed to her on a plate, and she’d somehow managed to mess it up.

But it wasn’t just her lack of journalistic acumen causing Amelia’s feet to drag. Glancing back over her shoulder, she stared up at the ostentatious high-rise building, squinting into the low, late-afternoon sun at the black-tinted windows, remembering Vaughan lying asleep on the couch… And she was suddenly assailed with regret of a rather more personal nature.

If only she’d dared kiss him!

CHAPTER TWO

‘PAUL said you were to go straight through,’ Clara greeted her. ‘And by the way he’s not in the sunniest of moods.’

Perhaps he already knew. Amelia sighed, picking her way through the practically empty office and knocking wearily on his door. Perhaps Vaughan had wasted no time picking up the telephone and complaining to her senior about the poor replacement he had sent.

Oh, well, if nothing else it would save her the indignity of repeating the debacle; living through it the first time had been bad enough

As usual Paul was on the telephone.

As usual he gestured for her to sit, with barely a glance, and sit Amelia did—nausea rising with every breath and the oppressive scent of a large bouquet of stunning orchids which adorned Paul’s desk doing nothing to help.

‘How did it go?’ Paul finally asked, hanging up the telephone and scribbling down a few notes. ‘Oh, and these came for you,’ he added when Amelia didn’t immediately answer, pushing the bouquet forward, watching her strained face as she fingered the pale pink waxy petals. ‘Most women would die to be in your position, you know? Most women would give their right arm to have Taylor Dean constantly sending them flowers and begging for forgiveness.’

‘No, Paul, they wouldn’t,’ Amelia sighed, wishing Taylor would just drop it, wishing his ego could finally admit that it was over and he’d realise that for once in his life he wasn’t going to be forgiven his sins.

‘What’s he got to say for himself this time?’

Amelia didn’t need to read the card to find out—no doubt it was another ream of excuses, another plea for forgiveness.

‘So, how did it go with Mason?’ Paul asked again, returning to his notes. And, given that it was the second time he’d asked, given that Paul didn’t like to be kept waiting, Amelia knew that her tiny reprieve was over. The curtain was lifting and the final act was about to begin

‘Not very well.’ She watched the smile wiped from Paul’s face, watched as his pen froze over the paper and he instantly reverted from colleague to boss.

‘Which means exactly what?’

Amelia swallowed hard, peeling open the envelope from the bouquet for something to do. Taylor’s pathetic excuses were preferable to Paul’s harsh, direct stare.

‘He wasn’t really up to an interview. He was tired…’

‘Vaughan Mason’s never tired,’ Paul hissed. ‘Vaughan Mason isn’t a mere mortal who needs six hours’ sleep to function, like the rest of us…’

‘He was tired,’ Amelia insisted, pulling the card out of the envelope and glancing down at the writing—anything other than meeting her boss’s eyes. ‘He’s just flown back from Asia…’

‘Did you find out anything about the motor vehicle deal?’

For a second she wavered. For a second integrity seemed a poor buffer against the harsh reality of a world without work. But unfortunately it must have been indelibly implanted, because after only the briefest of pauses she shook her head. ‘No.’

‘So what exactly did you find out, Amelia?’ Paul clipped, with no smile to follow, no small talk to pad it out—it was a direct question that needed a direct answer. ‘That he looks beautiful asleep.’ Her voice was a pale whisper and she screwed her eyes closed. ‘You see, he was asleep when I got there…’

‘So?’ Paul thumped the desk. ‘You make the guy a coffee, wake him with a bright smile…’

If only…

She couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the card in her hand, listening as Paul took her on a virtual tour of a hundred ways to butter up a reluctant subject, his voice growing louder with each passing sentence. He was oblivious to the sudden shift in Amelia, totally unaware of the metamorphosis taking place before him, blind to the fact that the world had just tipped on its axis, that Christmas had come eleven months early, that Amelia was actually smiling—really smiling—back at him.

‘What did you get from him, Amelia?’ Paul’s voice was deadly serious, and at any other moment in time it would have had her shrinking in her seat.

‘Nothing,’ she said again, only more firmly this time, her smile still in place, enjoying for a luxurious moment the confusion in his eyes. ‘He’s picking me up here in an hour. We’re going for dinner.’

‘Vaughan Mason’s taking you for dinner?’ He didn’t even attempt to hide the incredulity from his voice. ‘Vaughan Mason?’

‘At seven,’ Amelia confirmed. ‘As I said, he was too tired to do the interview.’

‘Oh, my…’ Paul was on his feet now, pacing the office floor, staring at Amelia with undisguised and unprecedented admiration. ‘I told Clara you could pull it off.’ He waved his finger at Amelia. ‘She said you should have got changed before you went over, but I told her you’d win him over…’

‘You did no such thing, Paul.’

Confidence suited her, Amelia realised, standing up and picking up the bouquet, burying her burning cheeks in the cool waxy petals and inhaling deeply. The scent that had been so oppressive was truly beautiful now. She was scarcely able to comprehend that Vaughan Mason had sent it to her—and in record time too—scarcely able to believe that these gorgeous, tropical flowers had somehow beaten her back to work and saved her in the very nick of time.

‘I’d better get ready.’

‘Good idea.’ Paul jumped up. ‘I’ll ring one of the boutiques and ask them to stay open for you. And I can call Shelly the make-up artist to come and work her magic—’

‘I’ve got an outfit in my locker,’ Amelia interrupted, but Paul shook his head.

‘This isn’t one of your usual extended celebrity lunches; one of your little dark suits won’t do here, Amelia. This is dinner with Vaughan Mason!’

Which did nothing to quell her nerves!

‘I’ve actually got a gorgeous black dress in my locker,’ Amelia said airily, not adding that she’d had it hanging there for six months now, draped in plastic, waiting for this moment—waiting for the big break to come—so she could dash like Wonder Woman into the office loo and change from efficient to gorgeous. ‘But if Shelly’s available that would be great.’

Poor Shelly. Amelia smiled as she sank back in a chair and closed her eyes—summoned from the bowels of the car park as she attempted to creep out to the pub on a Friday with the rest of the mob. Called back in to work her magic on someone who wasn’t even famous—yet!

Gorgeous!

Okay, the dusty mirrors in the toilet had the same positive effect as a soft focus lens, but Shelly really was a genius. She’d been working on Amelia for forty full minutes, telling her sharply to stay still as Amelia had begged her to go lightly, sure she must look more like Coco the Clown from the amount of jars and tubes Shelly seemed to be opening. But now, staring back at her reflection, Amelia felt more than a flutter of excitement.

Cheekbones Amelia hadn’t known existed made her look positively gaunt, and her mouth looked all sparkly and animated, courtesy of the very latest in ‘stay put’ lipglosses. But it was on her eyes where Shelly had really come into her own. A smudgy grey eyeshadow, that Amelia would never have attempted made the green so much more vivid, like glittering emeralds, her eyelashes impossibly long, and yet somehow she’d made it look if not subtle then tasteful. And as she stood and admired her reflection Amelia was scarcely able to believe that the sophisticated, demure woman staring back was really her.

‘Oh, my,’ Paul said for the hundredth time, barely able to contain his excitement as he stood waiting with her in the lobby. ‘You’ve got spare batteries for your Dictaphone? Remember to turn off your mobile. There can be no distractions—not even from me. But if you need to call…’