I started to fill the bath and pressed my ear to the door, wondering if he’d left yet. The snap of the door closing told me he had.
I sighed and stumbled back, taking a seat on the edge of the bath. Nathan Cove had been the perfect distraction and now I had to focus on my future.
Seven
Madison
I pushed through the turnstile at the bottom of the pair of escalators in the lobby of the Post’s offices. This Monday was a little different from the last. Yes, I was still staring down the barrel of a clear desk. Article-less. But this Monday was different because it was the Monday after Saturday night. The Monday after Noah and Truly’s wedding, meeting Nathan Cove, and an untold number of orgasms.
But it wasn’t just the actual sex that had been so . . . invigorating.
It was the way I’d just walked away from that evening with no expectations. There’d been no, I’ll see you arounds, Maybe I’ll call yous or Fancy dinner on Saturdays. And it felt great. I’d had amazing sex with an amazing guy and that was enough.
Maybe it was because Nathan had been so intense. Focused. On me. Maybe it was because I’d just needed a good shag. Whatever it was, I felt more like myself than I had done in a long time.
My boss’s assistant, Joan, appeared at my side before I’d even sat down. “Bernie wants to see you in his office ASAP.”
ASAP was Bernie’s favorite acronym from what I could tell.
“No problem,” I said, shrugging off my jacket. I picked up a pen, pad, and my phone, and followed Joan across the office. It was only just after half past eight, and there was only a smattering of people at their desks. I hoped this wasn’t the you’re sacked conversation. I was feeling so positive—this week was the start of something. I could feel it in my bones.
“Madison. Take a seat,” Bernie said as I arrived at the entrance to his cool, modern office overlooking Regent’s Canal.
I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to pitch him my latest ideas. I’d come up with a few on the trip back to London yesterday, but nothing that I could present without a lot of further research.
He was scribbling something on some papers in front of him as he sat behind his desk. Then he handed them all to Joan and looked up. “I have an assignment for you.”
I was pretty sure I saw fireworks exploding from the top of his head and two girls in sequined bikinis and feathered headdresses unrolling a congratulatory banner.
Then again, I might have imagined it.
I freaking knew this was going to be a good week for me. Life after sex with Nathan Cove had started.
“It’s important,” he said. “And you’ve been requested especially.”
My heart lifted in my chest. Was I beginning to make a name for myself already? I couldn’t be. I was covering a maternity leave and hadn’t run a single article with a solo byline.
He scratched his chin. Bernie’s salt-and-pepper beard was a little too long. If he’d been twenty years younger, he would have been a hipster. If he’d been twenty years older, he would have been a hippy. But he was stuck in middle-aged no-man’s land, where the only acceptable beard was a very short one. Bernie was either holding on to his youth or nostalgia—I couldn’t tell which.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said even though I hadn’t said anything. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Why would they request you?”
Given that I wasn’t going to call my boss out for being straight-up rude, I swallowed down the implied insult and tried to solve the problem for him. “Perhaps they just wanted a fresh face?” I wasn’t quite sure if he was asking me the question but I was here to be helpful.
“I think it’s your history. With Rallegra.” He shifted back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “They think you’re going to be a pushover, easily manipulated by his PR and eager to write a puff piece.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling irritation start to rise in my belly. Bernie was making all sorts of generalizations but I didn’t even know what assignment he was talking about. How was I supposed to defend myself when I was in the dark with my arms tied around my back? “What’s the assignment?”
“Oh yes, right.” He shuffled some papers around on his desk and pulled out a single typed sheet of A4 with a paperclip attaching exactly nothing to it. “Nathan Cove.”
My heart drummed loudly in my chest and the reverberations chased the breath from my lungs. What the hell was Bernie bringing up Saturday night for? How did he even know about it?
“You know him?” Bernie asked.
I nodded. “A little.” While it was true that the kind of sex I’d had on Saturday night should be written about, I didn’t think the Post was the right platform. It should be projected onto the screens in Leicester Square. Women all over Britain should know that it was possible to have sex that amazing. And then they should demand that their husbands and boyfriends shape up.