Despite the fact that the whole place is in chaos—I have sixty seven new emails, a stack of memos three inches thick and fourteen voicemails, all bomb-related—my good mood won't quit. We're busy as ever, churning out breakthroughs every ten minutes on my huge twin screens; Carson has sent the SilentWitn3ss contract over; Leontine's stock, it seems, has risen by almost eight percent. In a little over thirty two hours, I'll be sitting with her at the Suicide Ball while she simmers in vague unease. Because I'll watch her, shamelessly. She'll notice. Everyone will. And they'll pull all sorts of interesting crap out of that.
I love media events. They tug at my ego, make it quiver and throb. What will my little lion think of the attention I'll get on the red carpet? Will she be intimidated or impressed? Both, probably; it will only coax her trusting nature further, make her fingers twitch for the contract and a pen. Still, discomfort will chew at her, running its rough tongue down the small of her back. And I'll watch for the telltale shudders.
Ten minutes after I arrive, Tuija waltzes in with my black coffee in one hand and a white envelope in the other. Today, her heels border on ridiculous, but she walks toward me with a practised, steady stride. Nice work.
"Morning." She positions the coffee on a glass coaster. "Somebody had a late night, huh...?"
"No. I wanted to have breakfast with Ash."
She cocks a red eyebrow. "Why? Are you ill?"
"You're a jaded bitch, you know that?"
"You beat it into me. It's like Stockholm Syndrome, but the office version." She perches on the edge of the desk and proffers the envelope. "I think you might want to see this."
I take a mouthful of coffee and wash it around my teeth and tongue. This good mood thing has all my senses on alert; I could eat Tuija's shoe right now and it would probably taste amazing. "What is it?"
"Well, I relayed your message yesterday to those lit agents—"
"Verbatim?"
"I did the shit sandwich. You know: Dear Sycamore Media, we thank you for your kind interest in our client. He respectfully asks that you suck a bag of dicks and die. Yours, Tuija Klein."
"This is why I hired you." Another mouthful of coffee. God, it almost tastes three-dimensional. "You're so professional."
She shoves the envelope down in front of me and tugs at a stray curl of hair. "Seriously, though. They hand-delivered that around half an hour ago. I haven't looked inside, but all my spidey senses are tingling."
"That sounds disgusting."
"Okay, okay. It's my professional opinion that you should give it a look. When you finish all your very important business, obviously."
Spidey senses. Jesus. She just can't stand the lack of a Big Reveal. "I'll pencil it in between pissing on kittens and Skyping Kim Jong Un. Alright?"
She grins to herself, stalking back toward the doors. "You're so fucking full of it."
"Hey—firecracker?"
"Yep?" She half turns. Clicks her fingers.
"Did you send Leontine that dress?" Anticipation squeezes me. Even my ankles are tight.
"Oh yeah. I sent one." Her grin widens. "You'll just have to wait and see."
She can't know how my cock swells to the music of those words, but she saunters out with the kind of satisfied pout that makes me suspect she does, regardless. I might even praise her later for the background check.
When the door swings shut again, I pick apart the seal of the white envelope. It bears the Sycamore Media logo across the flap's apex, a tree with bare branches that I tear in two. The front was handwritten in inky black calligraphy, though it only bears my first name, which is far too presumptuous for my liking. Do these shitstains have nothing better to do?
Inside is a single white card, thick and embossed with another naked tree. There is no greeting, no polite address, but the same flowing handwriting offers a single message.
We know about Rachel Fordham.
The room turns hazy.
Beige flashes red.
With a slow, steady hand, I put the note card and envelope down before flicking my monitor back on and Googling for Sycamore's website. A few swipes later and I'm dialling the direct line for their office.
"Good morning, Sycamore Media. Trent speaking," says the kind of voice that belongs to a guy who went to Cornell and wears black square-rimmed glasses.
Words fall from my mouth like ice chips. "Morning. This is Aeron Lore of Lore Incorporated; I'm calling regarding your proposal. Can you put me through to the agent handling the project, please?"
Cornell clears his throat. His tone goes up about three octaves. "Mr Lore. I...hi. Let me, uh, put you through now—you'll be on hold for just a second."
"That will be fine."
Beethoven's Fifth pours down the receiver. I stare at the words on the card until my vision turns double, until I'm aware that my finger is sore from rubbing the stubble on my jaw.
The music cuts off. "Mr Lore?" Cornell says, his voice uncertain.
"Still here." You idiot.
"Of course. Um...funny thing. It seems there's been a mix up. Nobody at Sycamore has actually sent you a proposal. But if you have any project in mind, any at all, we'd be delighted to—"
I hang up.
And yeah, I thought as much.
Deep breaths. Jesus. Coffee—shit, that's unpleasant when it's lukewarm.
I buzz through to Tuija.
"Yep?" she asks through the faint static.
"When's my next free evening?"
"Hang on...um..." Three vague mouse clicks. "Monday, I think."