Читать книгу Her Sweet Surrender: The First Crush Is the Deepest - Нина Харрингтон - Страница 9

TWO

‘Tell me what you know about Bambi DuBois.’

The question hit Sam Richards right between the eyes, just as he was swallowing down the last of his coffee, and he almost choked on the coarse grounds in the bottom of the cup.

Frank Evans strode into the corner office as though he had a hurricane behind his back and waved a colour magazine in front of Sam’s nose.

Sam sniffed and gave his new boss a one-handed hat tip salute. Frank had made his name in the media company by being one of the sharpest editors in the business who only worked with the best, but Sam had already been warned that Frank had not earned the editor’s desk through his personnel skills.

‘And good morning to you too, Frank,’ Sam replied. ‘And thank you for your warm welcome to the London office.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Frank shooed a hand in Sam’s direction and pointed to the desk. ‘Take a seat. Monday madness. Worse than ever. You know what it’s like. The chief is on my back and it’s not nine o’clock yet. Time to rock and roll. You talk. I listen. Let’s hear it. Show me that you’re not completely out of touch with the London scene after all those years out in the wilderness.’

Sam stifled a laugh. So much for an easy first day in the new job.

Frank settled the seat of his over tight suit onto the wide leather chair on the other side of the modern polymer table and ran his short stubby fingers through his receding grey hair before drinking down what must now be cold milky coffee.

His cheap tie was already tugged down a couple of inches and his shirt sleeves had missed the iron, but in contrast his eyes sparkled with intelligence as he leant his arms on one of the cleanest and most organised desks Sam had ever seen.

Bambi DuBois? The shock of hearing her name kept Sam frozen to the spot, cup in hand, before his brain kicked in and he frowned as though thinking about an answer. A few manly coughs gave him just enough time to pull together a casual reply to the editor who he had previously only spoken to twice on the telephone.

The editor who had the power to decide whether he had a future career in this newspaper—or not.

This was definitely not the perfect start to his dream job that he had imagined!

Lowering his cup onto a coaster, Sam assumed his very best bored and casual disinterested journalist’s face. His career depended on this man’s decision.

‘Do you mean Amber DuBois? English concert pianist. Blonde. Leggy. Popular with the top fashion designers, who like her to wear their gowns at performances.’ He shrugged at the newspaper editor and new boss who was staring at him so intently. ‘I think she was the face of some cosmetic company a few years ago. And I would hardly call Los Angeles the wilderness.’

Frank slid a magazine across the desk. ‘Make that the biggest cosmetic company in Asia and you are getting close. But you seem to have missed something out. Have a look at this.’

Sam took his time before picking it up and instantly recognised it as the latest colour supplement from their main competitor’s weekly entertainment section. And any confusion he might have had about Frank’s question vanished into the stiflingly hot air of the prized corner office.

The cover ran a full colour half page photograph of Amber ‘Bambi’ DuBois in a flowing azure dress with a jewel-encrusted tiny strapless bodice.

The shy, gangly teenage girl he had once known was gone—and in her place was a beautiful, elegant woman who was not just in control but revelling in her talent.

Amber was sitting at a black grand piano with one long, slender, silky leg stretched out to display a jewelled high heeled sandal and Sam was so transfixed by how stunning she looked that it took him a microsecond to realise that his new boss was tapping the headline with the chewed end of his ballpoint pen.

International Concert Pianist Amber DuBois Shocks the Classical Music World by Announcing her Retirement at 28. But the Question on Everyone’s Lips is: Why? What Next for ‘Bambi’ DuBois?

Sam looked up at his editor and raised his eyebrows just as Frank leant across the desk and slapped one heavy hand down firmly onto the cover so that his fingers were splayed out over Amber’s chest.

‘I smell a story. There has to be some very good reason why a professional musician like Amber DuBois suddenly announces her retirement out of the blue when she is at the top of her game.’

Frank aimed a finger at Sam’s chest and fired. ‘The rumour is that our Amber is jumping on the celebrity bandwagon of adopting a vanity charity project in India to spend her money on, but her agent is refusing to comment. As far as I am concerned, this is a ruse to get the orchestras begging her to come back with a solid platinum hello. And I want this paper to get in there first with the real story.’

Frank sat back in his wide leather chair and folded his arms.

‘More to the point—I want you to go out there and bring back an exclusive interview with the lovely Miss DuBois. You can consider this your first assignment.’

Then Frank shrugged. ‘You can thank me for the opportunity later.’

The words stayed frozen in the air as though trapped inside an iceberg large enough to sink his new job in one deadly head-on collision.

Thank him?

For a fraction of a second Sam wondered if this was some sort of joke. A bizarre initiation ceremony into the world of the London office of GlobalStar Media, and there was a secret camera hidden in the framed magazine covers behind Frank’s head which were recording just how he was reacting to the offer of this amazing opportunity.

Sam flexed out the fingers of both hands so that he wouldn’t scrunch up the magazine and toss it back to Frank with a few choice words about what he thought of his little joke, while his normally sharp brain worked through a few options to create a decent enough excuse as to why Frank should find another journalist for this particular gig.

Sam inhaled slowly as each syllable sank in. It had taken him three months to arrange a transfer from the Los Angeles office of the media giant he had given his life to for the past ten years. He had worked himself up from being the post room boy and sacrificed relationships and anything close to a social life to reach this point in his career.

This was more than just a jump on the promotion ladder; this was the job he had been dreaming about since he was a teenager. The only job that he had ever wanted. Ever. No way was he going to be diverted from that editor’s chair. Not now, not when he had come so far.

Sam blinked twice. ‘Sorry, Frank, but can you say that again? Because I think I must have misheard. I’ve just spent the last ten years working my way from New York to Los Angeles on the back of celebrity interviews. I applied to be an investigative journalist not a gossip columnist.’

Frank replied with a dismissive snort and he bit off a laugh. ‘Do you know what pays for this shiny office we are sitting in, Sam? Magazine sales. And the public love celebrity stories, especially when it concerns a girl with the looks of Amber DuBois. It’s all over the Internet this morning that orchestras have been lining up and offering her huge bonuses to come and work for them for one last season before she retires. And then there is her publicity machine. The girl is a genius.’

He raised one hand into the air and gave Sam a Vee sign. ‘She has only ever been seen with two dates in the last ten years. Two. And not your boring classical musician—oh, no, our girl Amber likes top action men. First there was the Italian racing car driver who she cheered on to be World Champion, then that Scottish mountaineer. Climbing Everest for charity. With the lovely Amber at Base Camp waving him farewell with a tear in her eye. She is the modelling musical sweetheart and her fans love her—and now this.’

The pen went back to some serious tapping. ‘Think of it as your first celebrity interview for the London office. Who knows? This could be the last fluff piece you ever write. Use some of that famous charm I’ve been hearing about—the lovely Miss DuBois will be putty in your hands.’

His hands? Sam’s fingers stretched out over his knees. Instantly his mind starting wheeling through the possibility that someone had tipped off this shark of an editor that ten years ago those same hands had known every intimate detail about Amber ‘Bambi’ DuBois. Her hopes, her dreams, the fact that she always asked for extra anchovies on her pizza and had a sensitive spot at one side of her neck that could melt her in seconds. The way her long slender legs felt under his fingertips. Oh, yes, Sam Richards knew a lot more about Amber DuBois than he was prepared to tell anyone.

This job was going to make or break his career, but he had promised himself on the night they’d parted that, no matter how desperate he was for money or fame, he would never tell Amber’s story. It was too personal and private. And he had kept that promise, despite the temptation—but the world he worked in did not see it that way.

Sam had seen more than one popular musician or actor pull celebrity stunts to get the attention of the media, and he had learnt his craft by writing about their petty dramas and desperate need for attention, but Amber had never been one of them. She didn’t need to. She had the talent to succeed on her own, as well as a body and a face the camera loved.

Frank shuffled in his chair. Impatient for his reply.

Sam took one look into those clever, scheming eyes and the sinking feeling that had been in the bottom of his stomach since he had walked into the impressive office building that morning turned into a gaping cavern.

He was just about to be stitched up.

What could he do? He did not have the authority to walk into a new office and demand the best jobs as though they owed him a future. Just the opposite. But Frank might have waited until his second day as the new boy.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Frank. But I was looking forward to getting started on that investigation into Eurozone political funding we talked about. Has it fallen through?’

Frank reached into his desk drawer and handed Sam a folder of documents.

‘Far from it. Everything we have seen so far screams corruption at every level from the bottom up. Take a look. The research team have already lined up a series of interviews with insiders across Europe. And it’s all there, waiting for someone to turn over the stones and see what is crawling underneath.’

Sam scan read the first few pages of notes and background information for the interviews and kept reading, his mind racing with options on how he could craft a series of articles from the one investigation. And the more he read, the faster his heart raced.

This was it. This was the perfect piece of financial journalism that would set him up as a serious journalist on the paper and win him the editor’s job he had sacrificed a lot to achieve. And it had to be the London office. Not Los Angeles or New York. London.

‘Does your dad still have that limo service in Knightsbridge? We’ve used them a couple of times. Great cars. Your dad might get a kick out of seeing your name on the front page.’

Might? His dad would love it.

His father had sacrificed everything for him after his mother left them. He had been a single parent to a sullen and fiercely angry teenager who was struggling to find his way against the odds. Driven by the burning ambition to show the world that he was capable of being more than a limo driver like his dad.

Sam Richards had made his father’s life hell for so many years. And yet his dad had stuck by him every step of the way without expecting a word of thanks.

And now it was payback time.

This promotion to the GlobalStar London office was a first step to make up for years of missed telephone calls and flying Christmas visits.

Shame that his shiny new career was just about to hit an iceberg called Amber DuBois.

Aware that Frank was watching him with his arms crossed and knew exactly how tempting this piece was, Sam closed the folder and slid it back across the desk. This was no time to be coy.

‘Actually, he sold the limo business a few years back to go into property. But you’re right. He would be pleased. So how do I make that happen, Frank? What do I have to do to get this assignment?’

‘Simple. You have built up quite a reputation for yourself as a hard worker in the Los Angeles office. And now you want an editor’s desk. I understand that. Ten years on the front line is a long time, but I cannot just give you a golden story like this when I have a team of hungry reporters sitting outside this office who would love to make their mark on it. All I am asking you to do is show me that you are as good as they say you are.’

Frank slid the dossier back into his desk drawer. ‘If you want the editor’s desk, you are going to have to come back with an exclusive interview from the lovely Amber. Feature length. Oh—and you have two weeks to do it. We can’t risk someone else breaking Amber’s story before we do. Do we understand each other? Excellent, I look forward to reading your exposé.’

Sam rose to shake hands and Frank’s fingers squeezed hard and stayed clamped shut. ‘And Sam. One more thing. The truth about “Bambi’s Bollywood Babies” had better be amazing or you will be back to the bottom of the ladder all over again, interviewing TV soap stars about their leg-waxing regime.’

He released Sam with a nod. ‘You can take the magazine. Have fun.’

Sam closed the door to Frank’s office behind him and stood in silence on the ocean of grey plastic industrial carpet in the open-plan office, looking out over rows of cubicles. He had become used to the cacophony of noise and voices and telephones that was part of working in newspaper offices just like this, no matter what city he happened to be in that day. If anything, it helped to block out the alarm sirens that were sounding inside his head.

This was the very office block that he used to walk and cycle past every day on his way to school. He remembered looking up at the glass-fronted building and dreaming about what it must be like to be a top reporter working in a place like this. Writing important articles in the newspapers that men like his dad’s clients read religiously in the back seat of the limo.

The weird thing was—from the very first moment that he had told his dad that he wanted to be a journalist on this paper, his dad had worked all of the extra hours and midnight airport runs, week after week, month after month, to make that possible. He had never once doubted that he would do it. Not once.

And now he was here. He had done it.

The one thing he had never imagined was that his first assignment in his dream job would mean working with Amber.

Sam glanced at the magazine cover in his hand. And reflected back at him was the lovely face of the one woman in the world who was guaranteed to set the dogs on him the minute he even tried to get within shouting distance.

And in his case he deserved it. The nineteen-year-old Sam Richards had given Amber DuBois very good reason to never want to talk to him again.

He might have given Amber her first kiss—but he had broken her heart just as fast.

Now all he had to do was persuade her to overlook the past, forgive and forget and reveal her deep innermost secrets for the benefit of the magazine-reading public.

Fun might not be the ideal word to describe how he was feeling.

But it had to be done. There was no going back to Los Angeles. For better or worse, he had burnt those bridges. He needed this job. But more than that—he wanted it. He had worked hard to be standing on this piece of carpet, looking out, instead of standing outside on the pavement, looking in.

He owed it to his dad, who had believed in him when nobody else had, even after years of making his dad’s life a misery. And he owed it to himself. He wasn’t the second class chauffeur’s son any longer.

He had to get that interview with Amber.

No matter how much grovelling was involved.