Emily Cole gazed over London from her office on the 15th floor. It was the best view at the firm. On a fine day you could see right across the capital; St Paul's, Tower Bridge, the Dome. To her right, a little north, lay Hampstead, lovely Hampstead, which she could finally call home. Not many could afford it. She could. She smiled at the thought. It had taken her a long time to get there. It hadn't been easy. It had required some tough decisions. But it had been worth it.
She caught the ghost of her reflection and she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She wanted to be at her best. Today, Carlton Hughes, to whom she owed everything, was flying in for a visit. She dug her nails in to her palm. She thought of her tough decisions. She squinted in the sunlight and she turned back to the room.
A folder lay on the boardroom table; it had taken a month to compile but looked painfully thin. She paced the room from one side to the other, wondering how she could be anxious and excited, exhilarated and terrified, all at the same time. She glimpsed back at the large oak desk; the file was starting to worry her. She had been confident it met his criteria but now, as the clock ticked on the wall, she wasn't so sure. She sighed and she stared back out the window. An army helicopter buzzed past on its way down the Thames.
Emily's office was on the top floor of a modern block purpose-built for CH-Plus, the media company named after its owner. She had worked in the industry for more than 30 years now, 20 of them for Carlton. She had started out as a cub reporter, covering council meetings and petty crime. She made it to the nationals in the early 2000s, just as the internet was taking hold. She played the game and rose the ranks. Then Carlton had burst onto the scene, fresh from making his first billion in the growing tech sector. He purchased the Beacon, a mid-market tabloid with an aging readership. He needed an editor. He poached Emily from a rival title after seeing her once on the TV paper review. "I knew you'd be the right fit", he later disclosed. He often worked on instinct alone.
The Beacon had flourished under her leadership and, ten years later, he promoted her to CEO. Fewer papers and more paperwork. Fewer scoops and longer hours. She missed the heat of the newsroom. But she was now in charge of a 2000 strong team and a multi-million pound budget, with a pay check to match. She was a regular feature in lists of the most influential people in the UK. She had a direct line to the top of the British establishment. An establishment which, in the main, despised Carlton.
She could understand why. He was a maverick. He behaved like a teenager but he set the news cycle. He could make or break a government minister. He could swing an election. His fortune was in the double digit billions, and rising. He was not a man to take lightly.
By and large he had left Emily to run things. But, when he was in London, he made a point of seeing her. She had grown to like him, trust him, even. He had a quick and inquisitive mind, asking questions her most experienced reporters hadn't considered.
He had mentioned this latest scheme in passing on his last visit. He was, he said, designing a project to answer 'one of life's most interesting questions'. Her newsroom would be his Petri dish. The answer would make a great story.
My newsroom, she thought, arms crossed. It might be five floors down but it was still hers. She could still control the editor. Don't like the front page because it embarrassed an acquaintance? Emily would tell her not to run it. Friend of a friend needs a favour? No problem, we'll get in up, in print, online and on airwaves.
But, ultimately, it wasn't her newsroom and it wasn't her paper. It was Carlton's. It was his money that had refreshed the titles, the Beacon itself and the regionals which made up the stable. It was his largesse which had led to the studios, the expansion, the turnaround in fortunes. The Beacon was a pioneer in digital news thanks to Carlton. She owed him - everyone in the building did.
She looked again at the file. She'd worked hard on it, but it just looked so... meagre. There again, she had been given little to work with.
She glanced at her watch; it was nearly three. Carlton was always punctual. He made a point of it. The hand glided across the face, smooth and carefree. It had made three circuits of the dial when her desk phone rang.
"Cole", she said. She liked that. Her surname was all that was needed. She was a powerful woman; sometimes it made her tremble.
"Mr Hughes is here for you,", said Alice, her PA. Her voice was bright and giggly. She usually sounded as though you'd caught her in the middle of doing something naughty. Emily briefly wondered if Alice wasn't looking at porn. She blushed, unknowingly.
"Send him..." she began, but the door had already barged open. The Californian burst through, bright eyed and excitable. He's only just part 50, she thought. Five years younger than me. But he's got the energy of a 20 year old.
"Emily, so great to see you," he said, kissing her on both cheeks. Carlton was an Anglophile, and, unusually for the modern industry, preferred to dress formally. Everything from Jermyn Street, it was a must. Today he was in a charcoal grey suit and a silk patterned tie. Clothing aside he could be less discerning; he was carrying a plastic Sainsbury bag full of documents. He dropped it to the floor.
"Any breaking news?"he said.
"I'l ask Catherine," said Emily, reaching for the phone. Catherine Hawkins was the Beacon editor, the first woman to hold the post in its 120 year history. Sometimes, Emily envied Catherine; she was 20 years her junior and attracted the kind of male attention Emily herself had once enjoyed. She had a great body; the two were tennis partners and, Emily had to confess, she looked great in a short skirt. More than anything, Emily admired her. She was a fantastic editor.
"No need, no need," said Carlton. "Let's leave her in peace." He pulled back a chair and sat.
"How's Olivia?" asked Emily. A shadow flickered across his face and he frowned. Then the smile returned. "Fine, fine," he said. Olivia Bell was his wife, 25 years his junior and a tennis pro. Number six in the world (she'd made sure of checking that morning). Currently preparing for the French open. Drop dead gorgeous, of course, with her sponsorship deals dwarfing her not insignificant prize money.
"She's... well," Carlton said. He spun the chair around 180 degrees so his back was towards her.
"Juan made a joke when she won last week," he said, addressing the window. Emily walked up the table. She took the seat next to him.
"Santino?" She said. Juan Santino was an e-commerce giant who switched from being Carlton's greatest friend to his nemesis. Their wealth rivalled one another's. They sought solace in yacht size.
"Yeah, of course Santino," said Carlton. "Guy's a fucking asshole, sometimes."
He still had his back to her.
"What did he say?"
He paused. She knew he was arching his hands together, something he always did when weighing up an answer. He let out his breath. "He reckoned she'd be fucking one of the other players if I hadn't come along," he said. "Some fit young buck, few million in the bank, all his own hair, probably keep it going all night. Reckoned she probably had, already."
Emily poured a glass of water for each of them. Hughes only ever drank water.
He spun round suddenly, his dark blue eyes staring right at her.
"Is he right?" he demanded.
Emily shrugged.
"If you hadn't come along, sure. I mean, she's stunning. Someone's going to snare her. But you did. Santino's just jealous. She's not cheating on you, Carlton. Why would she?"
