Page 4 of The Muse
“Would you rather answer the question about sleeping your way to the top now, Ms Castlewood?” Foxton pipes up as I struggle to answer. His self-righteous smirk makes me see red.
“Suzie, you can handle the rest of the questions. I’m not putting up with this.”
I knock the microphone out of the way and storm from the room.
“Oh, God, what a diva.” That man’s voice again. He was meant to be in the room to support me. Not rip me to shreds.
But as I think the words, I know that’s not what Daddy or Landon would agree with. After all, he's a Foxton.
Chapter Three
SCOTT
Stalking through the offices like a bear with a sore head, I snarl at anything that gets in my way and sink some more pain killers. Phones ring loudly. Printers shutter out endless reams noisily. Some wanker starts shouting his temper tantrum about nothing relevant at all. And then the rest of the journalists that aren't arguing chime in with jolly good mornings as if there’s something good about Monday bloody mornings. There isn’t. The only thing remotely useful about Mondays is it’s the day I give myself off running.
Sadly, instead of resting, I was here typing out this fucking review, as of seven a.m. this morning, for print tonight. Which, much to my chagrin, is probably why I look like a bag of shit, and this sixth coffee I’m grasping is going nowhere near alleviating the banging head I’ve still got.
“OH, SCOTTY?”
Fuck.
I open the door to my office and ignore the high-pitched yell that comes through the corridors, absolutely sure Monday mornings are not meant for dealing with Ricky Pillingsworth either. He flounces in, flicking his long hair over his shoulder like the twat he is. “Didn’t you hear me?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“You’re such a tease, Scotty. You know you want all this love I’ve got to give.”
My head rears over the laptop I’m currently frowning behind. I do not, in any way, want any of the love he’s got to give. Don’t want any of that from anyone, let alone a man. “Haven’t you got a fashion show to deal with somewhere?”
He purses his lips. “I have. He's right here under my nose. Fine as anything God created with the body of a model. You should be draped in Tom Ford not ...” He tuts at my suit, “whatever that is.”
I swig my coffee and pinch my brow as I wonder if there’s a point coming any time soon. “When are you going to let me get my hands on you and do that photoshoot? Everyone will go wild for an artist in a tux.”
“Never. If that's all, get out.”
His hand drops to his hip, the other waving about in some millennial show of contempt. I think. Fuck knows what it is, actually. Ridiculous is a good start.
“You need a chill pill, girlfriend,” he says, clicking his fingers.
Idiot.
“Out, Ricky. I’m busy.”
“Fine. My heart can wait, but Daddy Foxton’s can’t. He wants you in his office.”
I eye him over the screen, pulling my glasses off. “Why?”
“Just the messenger, babe,” he replies, turning around to flounce his way out.
At least he’s closed the door.
I lean back and stare out the window, attempting to see the Eiffel Tower in the distance rather than the Shard. It’s bright out there again today. Full of colours for me to look at and think about. Cerulean blue skies, a strong cadmium-yellow orb sitting high within a bed of soft white clouds. Spring always was my favourite time of year. So many possibilities to play with, so many colours to temper and swell. Heat on my back, Parisian women in near sheer clothing.
The thought makes me smile a little and think of the April showers—of pert, tight nipples under thin, wet, silk shirts. Bare legs. Skirts that flirt at the knee and offer that tantalising glimpse as the light wind sways the fabric higher. Heels and tight calves, fine skin drenched in water from a downpour.
Unfortunately, the combination of mental images reminds me of another millennial and her tight, firm limbs that soared with an elegance she shouldn’t command at her age. And that, while stimulating enough to have had me engrossed in the whole damn ballet for once in my life, is enough to make me get up and pull the fucking blinds down.
The phone rings the second I sit back down, my father’s extension flashing.
