When I walk through the door of The Black Penny in Covent Garden, my boss is already there. I’m ten minutes early but still look late compared to Nefeli. She’s got a bowl of fancy porridge and an Aperol spritz, because hey, it’s 10:30 in the morning, so why not? Surrounding her at the slab table is an open laptop,twomobile phones, and a legal pad crammed with notes in her all-caps script.
She slants a look at me over her square-framed glasses while simultaneously taking a bite of fruit-topped porridge and typing one-handed on the laptop. She’s always reminded me of a gray-haired version of costume designer Edna fromThe Incredibles: short, acerbic, intense. Her scratchy, rapid-fire voice sounds like a malfunctioning kitchen appliance.
Just to look at her, it’d be easy to discount her as an eccentric sixtysomething who probably has a house full of weird art and jazzLPs. But this istheNefeli Laskaris, the pioneering Athens-born British journalist who broke dozens of nineties scandals wide—political, corporate, art world—with ruthless determination and searing wit. She’s a legend.
She and her husband, Konstantin Laskaris, own a bunch of publications. Their only child, Alexander, is a gorgeous insufferable jerk who’s my coworker atARJ. We went on a sorta-kinda date earlier this year when I was trying to stop perseverating on Klaus, and suffice it to say the evening was a disaster. Fortunately, Nefeli has no clue it happened.
I pull out a chair and sit, unslinging my Kate Spade briefcase.
One of Nefeli’s phones rings. She peers at it and sends the call to voicemail. “Eeuugghh, that little weasel,” she mutters under her breath. Never one to waste energy on small talk, she fixes me with a look and adds, “Congratulations on your first successful season with the magazine. I’m giving you a raise, love. Twelve and a half percent.”
“Holy shi—I, uh… wow! Really? That’s incredibly generous. Are you sure?”
“Trying to talk me out of it?” she asks, amused. “Of course I’m bloody sure. Kon tried to wrangle me down to a more modest figure, butyoucertainly shouldn’t.”
“Of course not,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just surprised.”
“Know your worth, love. I don’t think it’s inaccurate to say you’re in part responsible for the growth of F1’s popularity with women this year. Your voice is spot-on. You bring the sexy and the fun, whilst making technical details approachable to new fans. Your program on our YouTube channel has massive views. Menwant to look at you, and women want tobeyou.” She takes a sip of her cocktail.
“Oh my God—thank you. I’ll do my best to make you proud.” I root in my bag for my legal pad and lay it on the table, rotating it Nefeli’s way. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you about a story idea that I think will knock everyone’s socks off. I’d like to do a deep dive on Emerald’s Cosmin Ardelean. Not only is he—”
“Nonono,” Nefeli says, planting a fingertip on the pad and scooting it away. “That’s too obvious.AutosportandRacerboth have splashy features on him in the works.”
“But I might have a unique angle to explore.”
One of her phones vibrates, and she silences it again while shaking her head. “No. I have something better. I’d like you to show the world what an F1 team principal really does. They’re practically celebrities these days, but who the bloody hell knows what theydo?” She picks up her spoon and waves it grandly like a scepter. “Sit on their thrones and bark orders, when they’re not spouting something quippy for that TV show everyone’s addicted to?”
There’s a tugging in my chest, a prickle of dread at where this could be headed. I slide the legal pad back into my briefcase. “Might be a hard sell. Making the businessy part of the sport, uh… exciting.”
“Bollocks.” Nefeli sinks her spoon into the porridge. “Business can be hot. Do you have any clue how popular those ‘billionaire romances’ are? The glamour, the power… of course most real billionaires look like fairy-tale goblins with expensive watches, but”—she holds my eye with a twinkle of mischief—“notallof them.”
At this point I’m praying she’s not going where I think she is. I force a patient smile and wait for her to continue.
“Allonby’s boss is rather a prick,” she states. “And Bruno at Coraggio could talk the legs off a chair, but he’s not ‘eye candy.’ And we want scads of good photos.”
Nonono, don’t say it…
“The obvious choice is Klaus Franke at Emerald. He’s handsome, rich as Croesus, and a bit tragic—dead wife and that.”
I try not to let my shoulders visibly sag. “True, but… maybe that’s exactly why he won’t love the idea of a big feature. I get the sense he’s weird about journalists.”
Yeah, I “got that sense” six months ago when my heart was breaking in a hotel room in Montréal…
“Rubbish. That sneaky little bitch fromChalk Talkdid him dirty a few years ago, but I’m sure he’s over it by now. Emerald’s star is ascending. He’ll cooperate to keep the momentum up. And I know you’re close with the team owner. Morgan could insist he comply if the old boy is a beast about it.”
My mouth is suddenly so dry, I have to excuse myself to get a glass of water. On my way back, I think of a possible out.
“What if Alexander took this one?” I ask my boss.
She lifts a pencil-thin eyebrow. “I love my Alekos, but thée mou, no. His writing doesn’t have the proper touch for this. He thinks he’s the second coming of Hunter S. Thompson. What we need is your warmth, your realness. The Natalia Evans sense of fun.”
“That’s flattering, don’t get me wrong. But—”
“I want female fans to swoon, love. You can make readersfall forKlaus Franke. After winter break, you’ll do a series of interviewsfrom the first race in March until silly season. Think of the photo ops! Women will go mad for it.”
It’d put me in far from a good light, but for a moment I consider spilling everything about Klaus’s and my history. I allowed myself to be swayed by our attraction, and the results were unprofessional. I have to own it, at least to myself. Giving him a second chance after that first night together was bad enough—there can’t be a third.
This assignment will be workonly. I’m not letting down my guard.
