Behind the desks are twenty- and thirtysomethings starting their workday. A few lounge on bright orange beanbags, chatting. There are a lot of denim and leather jackets, fingerless gloves, and teased hair. Eyeliner is prevalent, for both genders. And almost everyone issmokingor has a cigarette smouldering in an ashtray.
It’s eye-opening that people used to work like this. I can’t believe Sebastian sent me here. Does he consider getting lung cancer from second-hand smoke a better life? Or is this my punishment for not sleeping with him? I add ‘hazardous work environment’ to the list of things to speak to him about tonight. It’s becoming a long list.
I cough as someone blows a cloud of smoke right into my face. They slip a cassette tape into a boom box stereo, and staccato synth beats pump out.
‘Yeah, “Blue Monday”, turn it up!’ someone calls. ‘I’ve got a noon deadline, and with this hangover, I need motivating.’ There are mutters of agreement. The beats intensify along with the sound of clattering electric typewriters. Some journos are writing longhand, though I do spot someone using an ancient-looking word processor.
Everyone is too busy to take much notice of me, but a couple of people glance up when I tentatively creep past. Perhaps because I’m wearing all-black, they think I’m in a band? Spying a closed door at the back of the office, I surmise that’s where the editor-in-chief hangs out and head in that direction, my feet suctioning to the sticky, worn brown carpet.
Posters of various music artists line the walls of the office, glossy fold-outs pinned with thumbtacks. Most of which I know of course. I’d have to have been living under a rock not to recognise pretty boys Duran Duran with their coiffed hair, that vixen Madonna smirking saucily in her lace gloves and corset, and the Wham! duo with their fresh faces and suntans. But there are edgier ones too, one-hit-wonder bands with neon suits and hair gelled to impossible heights.
As I walk to the back office, my eyes zero in on a lithe guy in a white shirt, skinny tie, and tight black jeans. His dark hair is artfully messy and has bleached tips. A bulging leather satchel covered with badges is slung over one shoulder like he’s just come in or is on his way out. He’s lounging casually on the edge of a desk belonging to a woman with sparkly green eyeshadow. From the way she’s blushing and simpering, he’s been flirting with her outrageously.
OK, as ’80s guys go, he’s hot—as hot as anyone can look in this era anyway.
Our eyes lock, and I falter.
He takes a fag from his behind his ear, lights it efficiently with a gold lighter, snaps it shut, and blows out a stream of smoke outof the side of his perky mouth. That shouldn’t get my attention, but oh boy, it does.
‘Hello there. Are you lost?’ he asks in a baritone that makes my stomach flutter.
‘Um, no. Maybe? I’m working here. It’s my first day.’
‘Surely we’re not that lucky,’ he says, giving me a dashing smile that makes me want to blush and simper too.
The guy jumps up from the desk and saunters over to me, his cheekbones slicing the air.
‘Ash Delaney. Special features. And you are?’
‘Jade Jameson.’
‘Ah yes. Danny did mention he was hiring me a new assistant.’ He slides his warm, dry hand into my sweaty one and gives it a quick pump.
I look towards the closed office door. I assume Danny is the editor-in-chief. The hiring letter was quite vague and didn’t give any names—or mention that I’d be a special features assistant.
‘Danny’s busy right now,’ says Ash. ‘But you’ll meet him later. Today I’m going to take you under my wing. Show you the ropes.’ He takes another drag on his cigarette, grounds it out in a nearby ashtray, and slings an arm around my shoulder. From the way sparkly green eyeshadow woman is throwing daggers at me, she had her sights set on Ash Delaney. But he doesn’t seem particularly attached to her; he barely gives her a second glance. He’s more focused on steering me to an empty desk in the corner.
‘This is yours. But you’ll just be using it to type up articles. The rest of the time, you’ll be out with me.’
‘I ... I will?’
He grins. ‘Sure, I’ve got my finger on the pulse, baby. I interview all the big bands, and I’m top of the guest list for concerts and parties. George Michael and me? We’re like that.’ He winks and crosses his fingers.
I’m guessing he wants me to be impressed, but where I come from, George Michael is actually dead.
‘Anyway, I can fill you in on everything as we go,’ Ash continues.
‘As we go?’
‘Yep, we’re heading out now. No rest for the wicked. In this business, you have to roll with the punches. I’ve got interviews lined up for weeks. That’s why you were hired. I need an extra pair of hands.’
He winks again. He is gorgeous, but he clearly knows it, which makes him slightly less attractive.
‘First up is Odyssey Studios in Marble Arch,’ he tells me, seeing my querying look. ‘An up-and-coming act has agreed to an interview during their album recording. We can listen in and nab them when they take a break.’
‘What’s their name?’ I ask warily, hoping it’s not my dad’s band.
‘Candy Threat,’ says Ash as we walk out of the office together. On the way, he blows a kiss to a pretty blonde journalist with huge gold hoop earrings. She catches it with her fist, holding it against her heart. But from the way she rolls her eyes and he chuckles, I get the impression she’s not his girlfriend. A one-night stand? He totally seems the type.