Wynan looked on with incredulity as Fletcher hung up the phone.
“Lyle, what’s your take? Do we ‘elaborate’ on the Phoebe Ellington piece and ‘suggest’ that she had to have been coked out of her mind to wear that schmatta to a premiere, or should we leave that to the readers’ imagination?”
Fletcher tried to concentrate on the blathering of his editorial director and ignore the stiffness in his pants, a throbbing reminder of the flirtatious moment he and his new reporter had just shared. Yet he was grateful for the raging hard-on straining against his fly—it felt good to have something, someone, remind him that he was still a man. For that someone to be a girl almost half his age sniffing the back of his hand? That’s something he could never have predicted two months prior.
“Earth to Lyle. What do you think?”
He sighed as he forced himself back to the issues at hand, superfluous as they might be. In the overall scheme of things, with his investment on the line and his cock on high alert, some pubescent model’s fashion misstep seemed somewhat immaterial. He grabbed a pencil and weaved it absentmindedly between his fingers. “Print what you want but just be sure to stick to the facts. No innuendo. I want us to start moving in a more serious direction, and honestly, I can’t afford a libel suit right now, especially over something that isn’t going to significantly spike circulation. Got it?”
“This again. I know you want to make Trend more ‘serious.’ But are you serious? Or just infatuated?”
Fletcher stared at the blond Dutchman and tried to feign innocence. “You’re crazy. She’s young enough to be my—”
“First sexual harassment lawsuit? Yes, Lyle, she certainly is. Fuck, I’ve known you how many years?”
“Too many.”
“Right. Through Cassie Manos. Through Brenda Baez. And, of course, through Margaret. So yeah, to me, your infatuation is pretty obvious.”
Fletcher sighed, annoyed at how easily his close friend could see through him, especially since he’d almost convinced himself of his lack of romantic interest toward Camarin. “Think she knows?”
“She’s not old enough to know that McCartney was in a band before Wings. So, no, probably not. But still, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
“So maybe it’s not the best time to start learning Snapchat and shopping at Vineyard Vines just to be able to relate.”
He half-admired and half-resented Hans’s unflinching clarity, the way he targeted the essence of an issue without allowing himself to be muddied by empathy or emotion. “She’s not like that, she’s—”
“One step past jailbait?”
“I was going to say an old soul. There’s this uncanny wisdom about her. Very goal-oriented and resolute. But guided by some deep sadness I can’t put my finger on yet.”
“Maybe a safer bet not to put a finger on any part of her until we sort out our editorial and budget problems. If ever. In the meantime, let’s keep her busy with the copyedits until Perla comes back from Iowa.”
Fletcher cleared his throat as he changed the topic. “In terms of budget, everyone I spoke to yesterday is on board. We’re solvent for another six months at a minimum. I need you to give Camarin some space. Leave her alone for part of each day to do some research on her own stories. It will keep her happy. Meanwhile, I’ll drum up a few choice assignments to keep her busy, more on target with our plans. Who knows? Maybe she’ll attract an entirely new crop of advertisers.”
Hans’s expression was a mixture of relief and skepticism. “That’s encouraging, at least about the advertisers staying on. We’re going to have trouble finding enough competent editorial to support all these ad pages. You’re clearly as persuasive as ever. I’ll go tell the guys to tone down the Ellington angle. And if you want to talk about this more over dinner…”
“Not tonight, but thanks, Hans. I knew I didn’t make a mistake when I brought you aboard.”
“Brought me aboard? You fucking begged me to help save you from yourself when you bought this rag.”
“Hey, we can’t all be Business Day.”
“Uh-huh. But at least when I was over there, I didn’t have to lower my voice in shame when people asked me where I worked.”
“No, but you also wore less expensive suits than you can afford now, didn’t you?”
Wynan stuck up his middle finger and walked out of the office as Fletcher sat back in his chair, reveling in verbal triumph. Then, turning his mind to more serious matters, he unlocked his top desk drawer and pulled out a thick booklet with Lehming Brothers Annual Report printed on its cover.
He flipped through the worn pages yet again, looking for the profile of Blubber Be Gone. And there it was, on page twenty-six, just one of the conglomerate’s thousands of businesses promoting weight loss and personal improvement. He grabbed a magic marker and drew a giant X on the page.