Page 2 of King of Hearts

Laughing at her I said, “Yes. I think that’s the one. But relax. I am not interviewing him; I’m only typing his words like a good little pleb. I’ve been doing it for Flick after she meets with him and it’s generally only like two sentences. But I really need to go. I’ll call you later if I don’t pass out under my desk.”

“Good luck with Dickhead Darren. Call me later, no excuses. I need to know more about this.”

Swiping my identification card I rushed into the building, noting I was five minutes late as Darren glared through the glass of his office. Never mind the fact that I was the only other employee in the office at this ungodly hour, on a weekend, or that I had planned to get my nails done and do some shopping. Ignoring his intimidating eyes, I knocked before entering and almost gagged as I handed him his drink. It had to be at least thirty-five degrees in this office, and I could never determine why he needed to have the heat on so high other than to thaw his ice-cold heart or to encourage young interns to wear as little clothing as possible. Either was a possibility with Darren.

He grunted as he took the cup from my hand and I turned to leave, rolling my eyes in an act of defiance, making myself feel a little better, but his whiney voice stopped me just as I was about to escape.

“I’ve left three pieces on your desk to be edited and the Hearts’ one will be there this afternoon. I will need all four by the end of the day. As I’m sure you can appreciate, we are on a tight schedule.” I wanted to slap his smug face as he turned around to his computer. I was certain if I glanced over at the screen, there would be a streaming service or sporting match playing, and the knowledge of how little work he would be doing made my eye twitch.

“No problem,” I said with as much positivity as I could muster, turning and heading to my desk. Hell would freeze over before I let him see how much he bothered me.

I also knew if I wanted to attain the position of senior editor, I was going to have to work much harder thanpilates arseFelicity to combat the incredible physique she had going. It wasn’t that I didn’t like my body. In fact, I was totally confident in myself, however, where most girls in the office were petite, I was tall and curvy, something Darren liked to remind me as often as he could, in a tone not even close to pleasant. I generally wore my long golden hair swept up into a bun and rarely applied makeup. Whereas Felicity and her gaggle of editing assistants, all spent hours blow drying and manicuring before they came to work each day. I often wondered if I missed the memo on why the size of your clothes mattered when it came to promotions – because sadly, it seemed capability was nothing if not based on aesthetics in this office.

I settled into my desk and mourned my final mouthful of coffee. I should have bought a double because I was already desperate for another hit of caffeine and my computer wasn’t even turned on. Opening my top draw, I counted the two Red Bulls I left in there for a time just like today and thanked my past self, getting comfortable for what was going to be a very long day.

Chapter Two

Arna

Darren’s door slamming into the wall startled me as he rushed out and I pressed pause on my music. He looked as bad as I felt and I quickly glanced down to the clock on my monitor, surprised to see it was already quite late in the afternoon. Despite the lingering thud in my temples, it had been easy to get into the groove of working and I was onto my final manuscript before I edited the one Flick would send through, hopefully sooner rather than later. The thought that Felicity should have already been here preparing was a passing notion as he approached my desk. It wasn’t often my boss was dishevelled and right now he appeared stressed. His tie discarded and his hair a mess, the lump in front of me was a far cry from the lackadaisical supervisor I was used to seeing.

“Arna, I’m going to need you to do something else for me today.” His tone was biting and I didn’t miss the way he avoided eye contact as he spoke. Whatever he was about to ask filled my stomach with dread because I only had an hour left and another task on my list was not going to get me any closer to some Pad Thai and my bed.

I blinked rapidly, withholding my innate need to tell him where the door was, and waited. Darren cleared his throat before continuing.

“Flick has just called in with a migraine. You’re going to need to do the interview today with Andrew Gloss.” He held up his hand to stop my immediate protest. “I would go myself, but I have a video conference with the head of marketing from the Melbourne office in thirty minutes.” He ran his hand through his hair and stared at me expectantly.

“Surely there is someone else available?” Even as I asked, I knew there wasn’t. I knew that I was going to have to do this stupid thing and attempt to speak to some arrogant football jock on what was always pitched as a ratings goldmine, given he apparently never gave interviews. In another life I would have jumped at the chance, however, not this one. In this one I was an editor, not a research assistant or media representative, nor a journalist or one of our writers.

“I can’t interview Alex Gloss, Darren. I don’t know anything about the sport let alone him. I look like shit...” I trailed off, eyes darting around my desk. I hastily collected the discarded Red Bull cans and threw them in the trash before looking up at him. He was still staring at me, his expression neutral.

“Arnabelle, his name is Andy and youwilldo the interview. You leave in fifteen minutes and I’ve ordered you an Uber. His game finishes in,” he glanced down at his watch, “Twenty-five minutes and his agent said he would be ready ten minutes after that. Felicity will forward you her questions and you will have five minutes with him. You just need to ask and write. Pull yourself together and for goodness’ sake, go and fix yourself up before you leave, you’re not representing Pulse looking like that.” His remarks brokered no argument as he turned and headed to his office, slamming the door on the way, dismissing any further rebuttal.

Wait. How long did I have? When did the game finish? How long did I have to be there?

The times blurred into a concoction of stress as dread dropped into my stomach like a lead balloon. How was I supposed to conduct an interview, and my first interview at that, with some ridiculously famous sporting star who played a game I knew nothing about. Clearing my desk, I turned off my computer, grabbed my bag and ran to the bathroom. I had ten minutes to sort myself into something resembling presentable and given the sweats and T-shirt I was wearing, I didn’t have much hope.

Fuck – My – Life.

To my relief, the driver didn’t attempt small talk and that alone was getting him a five-star rating. I opened my phone and checked my emails, my pulse intensifying when there was still nothing from Felicity. Manically, I shot her a text begging for her questions and refreshed my emails again. Nothing. I was two minutes from the stadium and eighteen minutes from the biggest opportunity of my working career so I called the only other person I knew who could save me in this situation.

Marlee answered after two rings sounding puffed meaning she was likely on the treadmill at the gym. The energy this girl had was something dreams were made of, and there was no doubt she was punching a solid speed.

“What’s up, how was —”

“Oh my god, Marls. I need your help. I am on my way to interview that bloke. Felicity called in sick, and Dickhead Darren is sendingme. What am I going to do?” I was out of breath as the car pulled up to the stadium, as if I too had played in some enduring sporting event.

“What?” Marlee screamed, and I heard what I knew was her jumping from the treadmill. “There is absolutely no way in the history of ever that you are interviewing Andy Gloss. Oh my god – do you know how delicious he is? Tell me you are wearing something sexy. Like a tight skirt, heels and that blouse which makes your boobs pop. Wait... are you going straight from work? How is your hair? What are you going to ask him? Ask him if he is seeing anyone.” Her rapid-fire questions were not helping, instead hitting me straight on the bullseye between the eyes. The headache from earlier was returning as I pressed my hand to my forehead and read the directions I grabbed from Darren’s desk.

“Marls, I don’t need a fangirl. I need help. Like is this soccer or what? What do I even ask? Felicity hasn’t sent me anything and I look like a troll who has not left her bridge in a long time. I’m going to get fired and my predator roomie is going to make me pay the rent in more complicated ways. And I think I’m going to cry.”

How had my day gone from bad to worse in the space of thirty minutes. I should have been finalising my last piece but instead I was about to commit professional suicide and destroy the company’s reputation.

“Loves, I need you to breathe. I mean, this is freaking everything, but you need to breathe. Open your notes and type what I’m about to say.” Her reassurance was exactly what I needed. I called her for her knowledge on the sport, however, I also needed her to calm me down and provide that safe space only she could.

“This is exactly why I called you. Okay, notes are open. Go.” I was shaking with nerves and after flashing my identification and work pass to security, I was following a lady down a tunnel and into what looked to be the training area while I scanned my surroundings. I could hear the cheers of the crowd as an obnoxiously loud siren sounded and I knew I didn’t have long.

“Marls, hurry!” I pleaded. I separated myself from what I was about to do because I needed to solely concentrate on her and my breathing. The lady in front directed me to stop and I stood in a roped area across the room from another dozen reporters. Why was I on my own? Was I in the wrong spot?

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