be happening?” I ask sarcastically, widening my eyes at Hank for dramatic effect.
“Friday.”
“What? That only gives me one day to prepare!”
“So? Think on your feet. All good journalists know how,” he says smugly, brandishing a wink.
Pfft, as if he knows anything about what being a good journalist entails. He might be at the top of his field when it comes to editing news stories, but in terms of actually sitting down and talking to a high profile figure, Hank doesn’t know squat. He hasn’t done an interview since Reagan was in office.
“Okay…well what hotel in New York is Windsor staying at?”
“None. He won’t be in New York.”
“Right…” I sigh tetchily. “So it’s a phone interview?”
But Hank is grinning like a jackass again. “No. You’ll be doing it in person.”
I roll my eyes and slump back in the chair. I hate it when he plays games with me like this. Why can’t he just spit it out?
“Okay, Hank, I’ll play along,” I say, clearly frustrated. “How am I supposed to interview this guy if it’s not in New York and not by telephone?”
Hank picks up the expensive fountain pen the staff gave him for his birthday last year and points it towards the ceiling. “You ever heard of those big metal things that fly in the sky?” he says smartly, obviously waiting for the penny to drop.
“Wait, you don’t mean—”
“First class too. You’re lucky the billionaire’s paying. We would’ve just put you in coach!”
But lucky is not exactly how I feel right now.
The expression on my face resembles more of the reaction you have when you’re trapped in a fighting ring and have just been given a stunning blow by your opponent.
Often it’s been the case with a celebrity like Jackson Windsor that they bail out of the interview at the last minute. Or worse, they give you one that’s D.O.A. and utterly boring.
“I’m not asking you to fly to Canada, Claire. I’m telling you to! It’s not negotiable. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Here!” Hank takes out a large sealed yellow envelope from the top drawer of his desk and throws it onto my lap. “Everything you need is in there. Boarding tickets, travel itinerary, address of his mansion out in whoop whoop. Make sure to keep all your receipts so I can reimburse you for needed expenses. And I mean NEEDED, Claire.”
I falter, still trapped in the fighting ring. “And if I refuse?”
“Well, I hear the ‘How To’ team could do with an extra contributor.”
“You wouldn’t dare demote me!” I hiss. But we both know who the snake is and who the mouse in this situation is.
“Try me, blondie. Besides, this is the scoop of the year if not the decade! You know as well as I do that you’re not going to turn that down.”
Unfortunately, the beefy and red-faced little man is right.
If I manage to find out why Jackson Windsor closed his mines and there’s a scandal at the heart of it, then this could propel me right to the top of my career. I could make editor at another publication or magazine, a dream ripe for the taking.
“Fine,” I cave, taking the envelope. “I hate how you know me so well sometimes, Hank.”
“You’re a journalist, Claire, eager to hunt down a good story and put a bullet right between its eyes. You’re an open book. We all are. Now, if there isn’t anything else you want to complain about, then get going will you! I have to finish red-penning the hell out of these drafts!”
I scowl at him contemptuously and go to leave, turning at the last minute to backtrack a few steps.
“Wait, I just have one more question.”
“Of course you do,” he sighs heavily, looking up from the piece of paper already marred with several red scribbles.
“How did you land this interview? This could potentially be big. REALLY BIG. And we’re not exactly 60 Minutes or Barbara Walters.”
“Look, all you need to know is that he reached out to me personally, and he’s ready to talk,” Hank says
“Friday.”
“What? That only gives me one day to prepare!”
“So? Think on your feet. All good journalists know how,” he says smugly, brandishing a wink.
Pfft, as if he knows anything about what being a good journalist entails. He might be at the top of his field when it comes to editing news stories, but in terms of actually sitting down and talking to a high profile figure, Hank doesn’t know squat. He hasn’t done an interview since Reagan was in office.
“Okay…well what hotel in New York is Windsor staying at?”
“None. He won’t be in New York.”
“Right…” I sigh tetchily. “So it’s a phone interview?”
But Hank is grinning like a jackass again. “No. You’ll be doing it in person.”
I roll my eyes and slump back in the chair. I hate it when he plays games with me like this. Why can’t he just spit it out?
“Okay, Hank, I’ll play along,” I say, clearly frustrated. “How am I supposed to interview this guy if it’s not in New York and not by telephone?”
Hank picks up the expensive fountain pen the staff gave him for his birthday last year and points it towards the ceiling. “You ever heard of those big metal things that fly in the sky?” he says smartly, obviously waiting for the penny to drop.
“Wait, you don’t mean—”
“First class too. You’re lucky the billionaire’s paying. We would’ve just put you in coach!”
But lucky is not exactly how I feel right now.
The expression on my face resembles more of the reaction you have when you’re trapped in a fighting ring and have just been given a stunning blow by your opponent.
Often it’s been the case with a celebrity like Jackson Windsor that they bail out of the interview at the last minute. Or worse, they give you one that’s D.O.A. and utterly boring.
“I’m not asking you to fly to Canada, Claire. I’m telling you to! It’s not negotiable. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning. Here!” Hank takes out a large sealed yellow envelope from the top drawer of his desk and throws it onto my lap. “Everything you need is in there. Boarding tickets, travel itinerary, address of his mansion out in whoop whoop. Make sure to keep all your receipts so I can reimburse you for needed expenses. And I mean NEEDED, Claire.”
I falter, still trapped in the fighting ring. “And if I refuse?”
“Well, I hear the ‘How To’ team could do with an extra contributor.”
“You wouldn’t dare demote me!” I hiss. But we both know who the snake is and who the mouse in this situation is.
“Try me, blondie. Besides, this is the scoop of the year if not the decade! You know as well as I do that you’re not going to turn that down.”
Unfortunately, the beefy and red-faced little man is right.
If I manage to find out why Jackson Windsor closed his mines and there’s a scandal at the heart of it, then this could propel me right to the top of my career. I could make editor at another publication or magazine, a dream ripe for the taking.
“Fine,” I cave, taking the envelope. “I hate how you know me so well sometimes, Hank.”
“You’re a journalist, Claire, eager to hunt down a good story and put a bullet right between its eyes. You’re an open book. We all are. Now, if there isn’t anything else you want to complain about, then get going will you! I have to finish red-penning the hell out of these drafts!”
I scowl at him contemptuously and go to leave, turning at the last minute to backtrack a few steps.
“Wait, I just have one more question.”
“Of course you do,” he sighs heavily, looking up from the piece of paper already marred with several red scribbles.
“How did you land this interview? This could potentially be big. REALLY BIG. And we’re not exactly 60 Minutes or Barbara Walters.”
“Look, all you need to know is that he reached out to me personally, and he’s ready to talk,” Hank says
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