Page 12 of The Lawyer
“And what do you think about the paintings? Quite provocative. I would assume a big brother might be a little disturbed by that.” My face slowly turns back to the interviewer rather than looking at the arse of my PA as she leaves, and I sigh.
“Persephone is an adult, Ms Watkinson. What she chooses to do with her body isn’t my concern. Do you have anything of interest to ask at all? I really am quite busy. Perhaps Ivy might be more entertaining to discuss. She’s closer to the industry we’re in.”
She frowns and looks at her notes, flustered because I won’t give her some sordid response she’s after. Whether I’m rattled about the Foxton situation or not, she should have known that coming into a barrister’s—now CEO’s office—and attempting to play chess with him wasn’t going to work. I’ve lived in a courtroom most of my adult life. An author on a mission to discredit my family somehow is not a concern in the slightest.
“Your mother is—”
“Here you go,” Willow says, skirting around the woman to put the coffee on my desk. She looks at her watch and then at the woman. “We only have about five more minutes before your next meeting, Mr Broderick.” I don’t have any meetings booked after this, as she well knows. Which means she’s just worked out that I am running out of patience with this conversation.
Clever girl.
I nod and take the coffee, eyes focusing back on this fucking woman that’s beginning to piss me off past pleasantries.
“Are you going to ask me if I have Mummy issues next? I can assure you, I don’t. But don’t be too disappointed, Geraldine. I’m just not that emotionally available for anything remotely close to attachment yet. You’re still a very attractive woman, though.” Willow snorts at something, then coughs to cover the noise.
“Actually, I was going to ask about your mother’s charity work and how that sits alongside a large corporation that seemingly eats anything it wants. If you could attempt to take this seriously, I'd very much appreciate it.”
My back stretches, neck rolling. “I would suggest you ask her about that. Mother takes the best of us and distributes the wealth where it can be most beneficial to the deserving. Again, it isn’t something I invest my time or thoughts in. But, for the record, we don’t eat our competitors, we simply nibble until there isn't much left and they submit. Power usually comes best in the form of tactical strategy, not grunt. You can use that if you like. I'm quite serious about it.”
Her eyes narrow, probably ready to go in for the kill. “Alright, Landon, how about you then? How do you feel about this take over as CEO? Presumably taking over The Foxton Herald was your first move?” I'm not answering another question about Foxton anything.
“Feel?”
“Yes.”
She crosses her legs and leans back, head tilted as if this is the question that’s going to make the headlines in her pathetic little book. I could strangle my father for ever allowing this in the first place. Who wants someone delving around in their company, for fuck’s sake? A narcissistic cunt is all I can think of. “How has coming back to the UK, and then having to alter your way of working, changed the way you think?”
“The way I think? Nothing changes the way I think. First and foremost, I’m a Broderick. The natural progression to lead this company was always with me, whether that involves The Herald or not.”
“Yes, but how do you feel about it?”
My lips quirk, a smile broadening. “That’s the wonderful thing about CEO’s, Geraldine, we’re not paid to feel a thing. We are here to be as cutthroat as necessary and as merciless as the job dictates. Asking me how I feel is like asking a shark whether it cares more for the chase or the eventual kill. Both things are completed without any feeling involved. They’re simply instinctual.”
I stand and walk over to the window to look out at the view, damn sure it’s time for this meeting to be over. I bought a penthouse over the weekend, and I’d very much like to get into it rather than deal with any more diatribe this woman has to offer. “But I suppose if you’re asking whether or not I’m happy to be leading this company into a new generation of governance, then the answer would be yes. I have a good team around me and my father’s knowledge, should that be needed.”
“Right, and would—”
“I’m afraid that will have to be all, Ms Watkinson,” Willow says, standing behind me. My brow arches. “Mr Broderick has another meeting now and as you can appreciate, he is on quite a tight schedule.”
My hands find my pockets, a slight smirk covering my face at her authority. Seems my little PA is taking over. “We could always set up another meeting if that would be convenient?” she says, ushering the woman up. No, we could not. There is nothing convenient about this woman in my face. “I’ll schedule you in as soon as I’m able.” Which will be never.
I turn to find the woman flustering and opening her mouth as if about to protest, but Willow has got her bags and is marching her out the door before she manages to get a word out at all. It isn’t until a minute or so later that I realise I’m still standing in the same spot and seemingly waiting for my own next instruction.
Willow's head pops around the door before I've worked out what that might be. “I’m assuming that’s a no on another meeting?” she asks.
“It’s a definite no.”
“Right. Do you mind if I leave now then? Nina’s already left to talk through some of the ball details with the venue, and it’s gone—”
“I’m aware what time it is. You can go.”
She smiles and half spins around to wave. “Okay. Enjoy your new place. I’ll see you in the morning. I'm really very jealous of it, by the way.” What did that mean?
Her shapely arse, in its conservative suit, is leaving before I manage to ask, and I keep looking at her as she sashays down the corridor. Enough so that I note the three guys in marketing craning their heads to watch her, too. It makes me grumble to myself at the stupidity of my wayward imagination, and I get back to working to drive my mind from the gutter. It eventually works, and after another hour passes, I actually do decide to get to my new home.
By the time I leave and head out through the building, it’s gone seven and the place is near deserted. A quick twenty-minute drive gets me straight to the private, underground parking, and I slip my card through the reader to gain entrance to the building. It seems that not even my cash purchase could ensure all the paperwork for the sale was complete over the weekend, but the hefty deposit ensured the move could happen. Thank Christ the official exchange and completion will happen in the coming weeks.
For all my irritation with her about the choices she picked out, and my lacking pleasantries about this last one, I do quite like it. The view mostly, but it also has a relaxed flow about it. Open plan everything, short of the bedrooms and bathrooms. Quiet—away from all the noise this high up. I think the balcony arrangement was what secured it in the end. Large, yet private. Spacious, yet cocooning. It reminds me of some of the bar terraces in Chicago. Perhaps that's what actually did it—a feeling of being somewhere more commensurate with what I’ve been before this.
