Chapter 17 London #2
“Yes. Well, if you called me in for an update on my so-called internship with Emerald, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve redeemed myself with Salv—erm, Sage.” I clear my throat. “Miss Sikora, that is.”
I make the mistake of angling my eyes away after my verbal stumble. I can feel Mother’s laser focus cut into me even as I continue, trying to keep my tone even and adjusting a cuff link that hasn’t a thing wrong with it.
“I hope you’ll consider my penance served,” I go on, “and allow me to… erm…” Finally I acknowledge the Grinch-like smirk that’s overtaken my mother’s features. “What?” I snap.
“You’re sleeping with her.”
I scoff. “Obviously not. She despises me.”
“Of course she does. But I’m not wrong, am I?”
I don’t know why I bother engaging in staredowns with Nefeli Laskaris. I’ve never won, not once. I take an audible, long-suffering breath through my nose. “That has no bearing on whether I get my job back.” Seized by a sudden worry that it might, I rather timidly add, “Does it?”
She taps her keyboard and shouts at her ARJ assistant, Rhys, “Tea, darling! Why am I staring at this empty cup like a beggar?” Directing her focus back at me, she says, “You’re not going to work here, Alekos.”
I straighten in my chair. “Why not? Because of Sage?”
“No. I have something better for you—not that you deserve it. The more fool me. I coddle you indecently.” She shoves her empty teacup to the edge of her desk.
“And it’s nothing to do with Sage Sikora.
Christ, I’m just relieved to hear you haven’t entangled yourself romantically with that stick-insect American who writes the sport-mum blog. Eeuugghh, the woman is so—”
“Steady on,” I interject. “The… do you mean CJ Ardley? Why on earth would you think I was involved with her?”
“Oh, stop it this instant—you with the same manufactured indignation you’d wear when ‘falsely accused’ of stealing biscuits from the kitchen as a child.
A hustler from the cradle.” She chuckles in a disparaging way.
“Murmurs got back to me the night of the publishing gala. You canoodling with that classless mare.”
Rhys enters, setting down a fresh cup of tea and whisking away the empty. He gives me a sympathetic nod as he passes. I’m hardly well liked around the office, but working so closely with my mother, Rhys knows how trying she can be. The door closes quietly behind him, and I renew my refutation.
“Ms. Ardley cornered me for a bit of conversation,” I insist, “but it went no further.”
“Relieved to hear it, love.” She picks up her tea and sips, shooting a sly look at me over the golden rim of Spode Stafford White.
“At any rate, the editor of the jazz section of Caterwaul is retiring this summer, and… well, frankly it can’t happen soon enough.
He’s an old bore, and the section is dull as ditchwater.
I’d like you to step in, shake things up. ”
I’m honestly surprised. I made my pitch to work for one of our music magazines a decade ago but got stuck with ARJ. “Me?” I manage.
“Your heart was never in racing. I said as much to Kon years back, but your father has his own mind about things.” She pulls a wry face.
“He saw music as rather soft—despite having been the one who was militant about your piano lessons—and hoped to point you at something… hmm, grittier, in adulthood?” She sits back.
“So. Enjoy a few more months of being a skiver. Provided you don’t disgrace yourself again, you’re gainfully employed in August. Does that suit? ”
“Yes! I’m chuffed. Great news.”
A chirp from Mother’s laptop draws her attention, and she taps at the keyboard. “I need to take that call. Why don’t you poke around in the back issues of Caterwaul and send me a report about what’s shit in the jazz section? End of the month?”
“Good as done.” I stand and button my jacket.
“Lovely.” She skewers me with a look over the tops of her glasses. “As to the issue with Sage, at least now we’ll avoid a libel suit—however you achieved it.”
“Erm, glad to have been of service.” I take a step toward the door.
“Not to be one of those tedious old marrieds who must offer ‘wisdom,’ but if you care for the girl… do work on this one a bit. You two might be a good match. She’s fierce.
She doesn’t bloody need you, and that’s exactly what you need.
” Before I can muster a reply, she taps open her call and starts chattering in Italian.
As I leave the ARJ offices and head downstairs, I’m overtaken by anxiety. It’s as if my mother saying all this somehow increases the chances of a miserable irony wherein I get my hopes up and Sage has already moved on.
I pull my mobile out in the lift and stare at it, wondering what message I could send her that would sound suitably casual.
I keep staring as I wander through the lobby, nearly colliding with a tall ginger beauty who glares silently at my apology in such a way that I have to assume I slept with her at some point, and things didn’t end well.
After getting into my car, I spend another minute strategizing a message, finally typing, I’ve landed on my feet—new job starting in August. Thank you for not suing me. Am I approved to see you in Ravenna?
I’m gratified to note that she’s activated read receipts for our texts—not the case before. The Read 14:13 pops up immediately, and I cautiously smile, both eagerly anticipating and dreading her response, which could be a brush-off.
After what feels like an eternity of studying three blinking dots, a reply:
Salvia officinalis: You’re approved for more than seeing me, honeybee. Ci vediamo in Italia.