Love And Liability. Katie Oliver
do your readers a disservice, Ms James.”
“We give our readers what they want, Mr Barrington.” Holly heard the defensive tone in her voice. She sounded just like Sasha. “And we publish topical pieces, too,” she added.
He didn’t look remotely convinced. “Indeed.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “Such as?”
Good question. “Well, such as…” Holly groped around in her thoughts for a suitably weighty subject, and suddenly a half-formed but brilliant idea sprang to mind. “Such as teen homelessness in London,” she finished triumphantly.
“Homelessness?” he echoed. “But aren’t there shelters? Don’t the local councils take care of these things?”
“They try. But with so many people on the streets, it isn’t nearly enough. People fall through the cracks.” She thought of the homeless girl, and her glance swept over the bookshelves full of richly bound leather law books and the plush Axminster carpet before coming to rest on Alex Barrington. “We have so much. And they have nothing. It kind of puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”
“That’s all very well,” he agreed, his face still a thundercloud. “But asking me if I condone sex on a first date for the delectation of a bunch of immature teenage girls is ludicrous and…and ill-advised.”
Holly stiffened. She didn’t know what he’d said, exactly — all that lawyerly talk did her head in — but she was sure there was an insult contained in there somewhere.
“I’m sorry, Ms James, but this entire line of questioning is out of order.” He glared at her. “I refuse to condone underage sexual activity in the pages of a teen magazine, in between adverts for spot creams and flavoured lip gloss!”
“But the readers of BritTEEN want answers to these kinds of questions, you know. Our readers are young, smart, hip—”
“And have no need to know whether or not I approve of sex on a first date,” he snapped.
“Well,” Holly retorted, “I doubt that they’d care, anyway. I mean, let’s face it, you’re not exactly Justin Bieber.”
“And you’re not exactly a candidate for the Man Booker prize,” he shot back, “are you?”
Holly closed her steno pad and thrust it in her bag. “No need to be insulting, Mr Barrington,” she said primly.
“You started it—” he began, then let out a slow, aggravated breath. “Good God, I feel like I’m eight years old, having a row with my sister. This is ridiculous.”
“You could tell me the answer off the record, you know.”
“Out,” Alex said firmly, and came around his desk to grip her by the arm. “Off you go.”
“Wait a minute! My recorder—” Holly snatched it up, too flustered to turn it off, and stared at him in confusion. “What are you doing? You’re not throwing me out?”
“I most certainly am. Thank you very much, Ms James, but you need to go. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” And he pressed his lips together and pulled her unceremoniously towards the door.
Outraged, Holly pulled back, and as she did her handbag slid off her shoulder and landed with a soft thud on the carpet.
She groaned as all of her personal effects — tampons, Mentos, even the raspberry-flavoured condom she’d got as a consolation prize at her best friend’s hen night — spilled out on the thick pile carpet in full, inglorious display.
Holly bent down, hot-cheeked with mortification, and scrabbled to pick up the wayward items.
“Here, let me.” Alex knelt down next to her, and as he did the bit of red silk tucked in his pocket fell out.
Holly’s eyes widened as she saw the red thong lying on the carpet. “Oh, my God! That isn’t a handkerchief in your pocket — it’s a red thong!”
“Yes, it is.” His words were abrupt. He grabbed the thong and thrust it back into his breast pocket. “I had a wager with the boys in the office. Harmless bit of fun, that’s all.”
“I so don’t want to know,” she snapped.
“Ah — I believe this is yours.” His eyes met hers, gleaming with amusement as he handed over the foil-wrapped, raspberry-flavoured condom.
Holly opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out.
“Never mind,” Alex told her. “I so don’t want to know.” He raised his brow. “I’d say we’re about even on the embarrassment scale, wouldn’t you?”
Holly managed — only just — to nod. Mortified, she shoved the condom back in her bag, murmured her thanks, and fled towards the door.
“Ms James, before you go…”
“Yes?” Holly turned around.
“Have you never thought of pursuing a job as a serious journalist? Your talents are obviously wasted on BritTEEN.”
As her surprise gave way to anger, Holly’s mouth opened and closed like a trout just landed out of the water. Before she could form a reply, he spoke again.
“Oh, and one more thing before I throw you out…”
“Yes?” she snapped.
“Off the record—” he paused “—that means I can say something, but you can’t publish it — I do approve of sex on a first date. Absolutely. But having said that,” he added grimly, “I’m referring to responsible adults, not teenagers with spots and raging hormones. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy, Ms James. I haven’t time for any more of this nonsense.”
Before Holly could object to this latest insult — nonsense, really? — he wished her a curt “good afternoon” and ushered her out, shutting the door firmly after her.
Alex returned to his desk to get ready for his next appointment. As he leaned forward to press the intercom button a pink marabou feather floated in the air where Holly James had stood and drifted, slowly, to the floor.
He went around his desk and bent down to pick it up. It was soft, like the downy back of a newly hatched chick.
“Silly girl,” he murmured, and shook his head.
Absently he thrust the feather in his pocket, then turned back to his desk and pressed the intercom button. “Send in the next appointment, Jill.”
“How can I help you, Mr Russo?” Alex asked the famous chef when they were both seated a few minutes later.
“How can you help me? You can make me more fucking money,” Marcus replied succinctly. “That’s how you can help me.”
Alex was taken aback, but managed a polite smile. “You’ve come to the right place. Making money for my clients is, after all, my job.”
Marcus grunted. “I’ll give you the CliffsNotes version of my finances, then, shall I? I’ve expanded too quickly and my company’s losing money. I’m behind in payments to my suppliers, and I owe the bank seven million pounds. And to top it off, my wife has upped sticks and left me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The bottom line, Mr Barrington,” Russo finished, “is this: my new restaurant, Brasserie Russo, has to succeed, or else my company goes under. And I refuse to let that happen.”
Alex leaned back in his chair. “Well, Mr Russo, I’d recommend you file bankruptcy and restructure your debts. Then we’ll need to make your investments work harder for you.”
Marcus grunted. “And how do we do that?”
“I’ll