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?"
Carlton laughed. "My age?"
"Plenty of men date younger women."
"Plenty of rich men," said Carlton. He held out his hands. "What was it about me that attracted her, do you reckon? My looks?"
Emily's cheeks flushed. Carlton wasn't outrageously handsome but he had a rugged face, winning smile and toned body, all five foot eight of it. He also had a glint of mischief in his eye which - something she had never admitted to anyone, not even her closest female friends - she found terribly attractive. Not that it mattered. She was 57; although botox was fighting a stalwart battle against the wrinkles and her shoulder lenght blonde hair still drew the eye, she was too old for him. Her breasts were still firm, she thought. And she was still tight were it mattered. She and husband Chris had been together for 30 years and he had always complimented her 'down there'. Her face turned redder. They had had sex the night before, at her instigation; it was a rarity, these days. She had just finished the last prep for Carlton's visit. She and Chris had been watching a film. She had taken his hand and put it between her legs. Then she had unzipped him. When he was hard, she closed her eyes and sucked his cock in the living room. She imagined it was Carlton's. Later, on all fours on the rug as Chris pushed deeper inside her she had thought of Carlton behind her. For the first time in four years of sex, she had come. She had yelped with pleasure. She shook her head firmly to clear the thought and she was back in the office.
"My looks?" said Carlton, drumming his fingers on the desk. "Or my bank balance?"
Emily's blood felt hot. "You're a good looking guy, Carlton," she said.
"I'm glad you think so. But I'm talking about a tennis star who most teenage boys in the world have wanked over. Who regularly poses in glamour mags. Whose body, let me tell you, is out of this world. You think she'd find me hot?"
"You're a handsome guy," said Emily, still thinking of last night's passion. "You're world famous. You've achieved pretty much everything. It's who you are that she's interested in." I was thinking about you as my husband came inside me, she could have added. When I went to the bathroom I touched the sperm running down my leg. I licked it and wished it were yours.
But she didn't say that, of course. You didn't make it to CEO without a little discretion. She could also have told him the Beacon diary editor had uncovered cracking story about Carlton's marriage - the fineprint of the prenup. It looked for all the world as though a paperwork error made it void, meaning... "she could get half of everything". Catherine took it to Emily and Emily had killed it. She had agonised over telling Carlton but decided against it. It was his business; he didn't like unsolicited forays into his personal affairs, least of all by his own staff. I'd sooner admit thinking about him fucking me doggy style, it struck her. He gazed vacantly over her shoulder, his face unreadable.
He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a joint, cannabis being another of his quirks. He lit it and offered it to Emily. She shook her head. She pushed an ashtray towards him. She always had one ready for Carlton's visits. She breathed in the smoke as he exhaled.
Carlton reached into the plastic bag. He pulled out a pile of loose leaf papers, held together with an old fashioned string binding. He pushed it to her. He nodded towards Emily's folder, sitting lonely on the table a few seats down.
"That's your boy, I imagine," he said, getting up to fetch it. He glanced back. "Let me have a look and you get stuck into the girl I've brought to the party. She's good."
He lowered his head to read. As he concentrated his demeanour changed, the frenetic energy gone, replaced by deep and focused thought. He was an easy man to underestimate.
Emily squared his papers into a neat pile. The front sheet said simply 'Project XY". The second was titled "Samantha Buxton."
Beneath it was a photo, a face, Samantha Buxton, presumably. She had a large forehead, chubby cheeks and slightly bucked teeth. Her hair was ginger, but light and frizzy. It curled round at her shoulders. She turned, and next page was a full length photo and a vivid description of Samantha. She was 24, five foot three and nine stone. Her blouse was large and loose but you could tell her breasts were small and her thighs large. Her eyes wouldn't meet the camera lens. She knows she's fat and plain, thought Emily, and felt some sympathy. She was never the cool kid at school and she'll never be the high flyer at work. She might marry a childhood friend, if she got lucky.
"Get used to her", said Carlton, without looking up. "She'll be coming to work for you soon." Emily raised an eyebrow. She knew better than to interrupt and she read on. Samantha currently worked as a junior reporter at a local paper in Oxford. She was 'shy, limited sexual experience, no boyfriend'. Not your usual CV, thought Emily. The final page showed Samantha naked in what looked like public showers. It was a full frontal shot, taken as she washed her hair. Her pubic hair was the same colour as that on her head but her bush was trimmed small. Her breasts looked pert. Emily wouldn't ask how Carlton had got the shot. Everyone had a price, even at the local swimming pools.
Carlton closed Emily's bundle. He looked up. She waited. He beamed.
