Page 20 of The Writer
Eventually, I bin my paper bag and walk into the building, swiping my card through the turnstiles once I get to them. A few minutes later, I’m striding through the corridors on the top floorand looking over the marketing team behind the huge glass wall. Several of them aren’t busy enough for my liking, and I end up stalling to glare at them. Not that half of them know who the hell I am because, once again, I’m just Ivy Broderick—the second child—the one of no real importance.
“Ivy?” The voice behind me makes me spin to find Willow Etherington looking at me, perfect hair and makeup in place. She smiles and looks at my coffee. “Do you need refilling?”
“Not with any of the crap my brother drinks.” We start walking towards his office. “I don’t know why he can’t just drink a Costa like the rest of the world does.”
She snorts and goes over to her desk. “I agree. He is a little particular about drinks,” she says, logging into her laptop. “He’s free, assuming you’re here to see him, but he’s got a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Oh, good. I feel so honoured to slide into a slot that suits him.”
She frowns and looks back at her laptop, presumably biting her tongue at my catty remark. I suppose she would. I expect she thinks she’s in love with him, or he’s in love with her, and because of that, she’s got a right to an opinion about sibling relationships. I’m not sure she has yet, but hewasnear besotted at the ball. Never seen him like that before.
She presses her desk phone. “Landon, your sister is here to see you.”
“Send her in,” he replies. She smiles again and inclines her head at the door before going back to whatever she was doing.
Walking in, I find him standing by the window and staring out of it. “What is it with this place and no one actually working?” I say, sitting in his chair.
My feet go up onto the desk, half knocking over one of his many stacks of files.
“Who isn’t working?” he replies, turning around.
“Well, you for a start, and half the marketing department.”
“I’m thinking. That is working.”
“Thinking about what?”
“Locke just called.”
“Locke?”
He nods and sits opposite me on the wrong side of his own desk, frowning at my feet on it. “Noah Locke. The man I have working on the dead author. How’s that feel?”
“What?”
“Sitting there?”
“Oh. Good. I might come after you and change the chain of command.”
“You couldn’t. You’re always one step behind me, and you know it.” He’s right. At least most of the time. Annoyingly. One thing my brother isn’t is weak when it comes to strategy. Something I remember well from childhood. “It’s good to see you alive, though.”
“So, now I’m here, how do you want to play this thing?”
“Me? I don’t have time to think about this, Ivy. It’s all on you. That’s what I’ll be paying you for. I’ve got some of the media to calm down about the technicalities, partly by paying some off and attempting to buy some out, but this isn’t going away until you get to the bottom of it.” He looks at his watch, sighing about something. “And as far as this Foxton thing goes, I want to know everything. Father has been hiding something for far too long. He's secretive about whatever it is, and while I might not like Scott, it has become an inevitability that he’s here to stay. At least for the foreseeable.” He stands and cricks his neck around, rolling his shoulders as he walks back to the window. “And now I have another meeting.”
“Rather short and sweet.”
“What do you expect? This is my life now. We can do dinner next week if you like. You can fill me in with what you’ve found out. You’re lucky you’ve managed to catch me in between meetings at all.”
My feet leave the desk, and I pick up my bag again. “Seffi says hi, by the way.”
He nods and goes back to looking out the window, clearly finished with our conversation.
That’s enough for me, anyway, and he looks about ready to blow his lid at someone or something. Not that anyone else would notice it on him. He’s too good at looking controlled, no matter his irritation levels. I can, though. That’s a tired Landon, and tired usually means stressed, and stressed does not bode well for any recipient.
I’m not hanging around to get on the receiving end of it, no matter how pissed off I might be at his inability to focus on the important things.
“Right, I’ll call you when I’m getting somewhere,” I say, walking away from him.
