Читать книгу Love And Liability - Katie Oliver - Страница 13
ОглавлениеHolly blinked. “I-I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Go ahead,” he commanded, “ask me a question. I’ll do my utmost to make the answer interesting, despite my tragically dull life as a member of the legal profession. Never let it be said that Henry Alexander Barrington bored the average teenage girl. Carry on, Ms James.”
Holly sat before his desk with her pen poised over her notepad — she always took notes in addition to recording her subject — and before she could stop herself, blurted, “Are you married?”
Heat suffused her face. Oh, shit, what a stupid, stupid question. Where in hell did that come from?
He lifted his eyebrow. “Married? No.”
“What exactly is it that you do, Mr Barrington?”
He regarded her, baffled. “I thought interviewers generally knew a bit about their subjects beforehand.”
“Well,” Holly apologized, “usually they do, but I didn’t have any time to prepare.” Gamely she added, “It’s something to do with the law, and finance, isn’t it?”
He nodded cautiously, as if placating a lunatic. “Yes.”
“So you’re a barrister, then?”
“Solicitor,” he corrected her.
“I see. Do you wear a wig?” she enquired.
“No, thank God.”
“Why do they wear those wigs, anyway?” Holly asked with real curiosity. “They look ridiculous.”
“Well, originally the wigs provided anonymity, and ensured the judge wouldn’t favour one barrister over another. Now they’re mainly ceremonial.”
She glanced at her notes. “There’s a rumour you’re planning to stand for MP in the next election. True?”
“I’m considering it, yes. But I’d rather you didn’t put that in your article.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “My boss mightn’t like it. I’d have to quit if I won, you see.”
She nodded and crossed through her notes. “No problem. So what is it you do here, exactly?”
“Well, in my capacity as a solicitor, I research financial casework for my clients. Then I give my instructions over to a barrister, who presents the case in court.”
She scribbled a note on her pad. “You invest money for clients, too, don’t you?”
“Some of them, yes. And if I’ve done my job properly, my investments make my clients more money.”
Holly put an absorbed expression on her face and took notes as he talked in detail about index funds, buy-outs, and a lot of other incomprehensible and dead boring financial stuff.
Pro, she scribbled, her pen flying across the page, A.B. dresses conservatively, but well. She leaned forward slightly. And he smells divine. Con, she scrawled, no sense of humour; goes on relentlessly about dead boring financial stuff…
“Ms James?”
Holly started. “Oh. Sorry. What?”
“Have you any more questions?”
“Well…there is one thing…” She pressed the tip of her pen against her lower lip. “We always ask what we call our ‘One Outrageous Question’, you know.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
She couldn’t ask it. He was far too posh and upper-crusty. But Sasha would have Holly’s head if she didn’t ask the One Outrageous Question and get at least one memorable — i.e., sexy — quote from Henry Alexander Barrington before he threw her out.
“Well?” he prodded, with a trace of impatience.
She hated to ask him the Question; it was impertinent. It was cheeky. But if she didn’t ask it, she’d be sacked.
“Do you…do you…?” She tried to finish, but couldn’t. The question got choked up in her throat and wouldn’t come out.
“Do I what?”
“Do you believe in sex on the first date?” she asked in a rush.
“What?” he exploded. “What has that to do with anything?”
“Well,” Holly said defensively, “you did say you wanted to sex up the interview.”
“Yes, perhaps I did — but this? This is ridiculous! What kind of a question is that to ask me — a solicitor — for an intended audience of…of spotty-faced teenage girls?”
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s why we call it ‘One Outrageous Question,’ after all—”
His face darkened. “As a journalist — and I use the term loosely — don’t you find that question irresponsible? Don’t you think it wrong to present young girls with such salacious information? Wouldn’t they be better served to learn something useful, such as how to manage their money sensibly? You 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.
