A Billionaire Affair

I grimace with irritation at myself in the mirror. Dammit, my hair - it simply won't cooperate, and damn Clara Benson for being unwell and exposing me to this torment. I should be studying for my final exams next week, and here I am, attempting to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this phrase multiple times, I try again to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in annoyance and glance at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too wide for her face gazing back at me and giving up.

My only alternative is to contain my unruly hair in a ponytail and hopes I seem half respectable.

Clara is my roommate, and she has picked today of all days to succumb to the virus.

Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd scheduled to conduct with some mega-industry-alist billionaire I've never heard of for the student newspaper. So I have volunteered. I have final examinations to study for, one essay to do, and I'm meant to be working this afternoon. Still, no - today, I have to travel a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle to see the mysterious CEO of Davis Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an extraordinary entrepreneur and big sponsor of our University, his time is exceedingly valuable - far more precious than mine - yet he has allowed Clara an interview. A tremendous coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

Clara is snuggled on the sofa in the living room.

"Amber, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to obtain this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't brush this off. Please," Clara begs me in her rasping, hoarse throat voice. How does she do it? Even unwell, she appears gamine and attractive, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes brilliant, albeit now red-rimmed and runny. I suppress my sting of unexpected pity.

"Of course I'll go Clara. You should head back to bed. Would you want some Tea?"

"Tea, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll record it everything."

"I know nothing about him," I whisper, trying and failing to contain my mounting terror.

"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a lengthy drive. I don't want you to be late."

"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I cooked you some soup to heat up later." I gaze at her warmly. Only for you, Clara, would I do this.

"I will. Good luck. And thanks Amber - as always, you're my savior."

Gathering my backpack, I grin wryly at her and proceed out the door to the vehicle. I cannot believe I have let Clara persuade me into this. But then Clara can convince anybody into anything.

She'll make a fantastic journalist. She's eloquent, forceful, persuasive, combative, and attractive- my closest best friend.

As I take out from Vancouver, WA, the roads are clear, toward Portland and the I-5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Clara's loaned me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my vintage VW Beetle, would make the voyage in time. Oh, the Merc is an incredible drive, and the kilometres slide away when I stomp the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr Davis's worldwide firm. It's a massive twenty-story office structure, all curving glass and steel, an architect's functional dream, with Davis House engraved discreetly in steel above the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, delighted that I'm not late as I walk into the massive - and simply scary - glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the strong sandstone desk, a very gorgeous, groomed, blonde young lady grins cheerfully at me. She's sporting the best black suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

"I'm here to visit Mr. Davis. Amber James for Clara Benson."

"Excuse me one minute, Miss James." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I wish I'd borrowed one of Clara's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and donned my only skirt, practical brown knee-length boots and a blue pullover. For me, this is sensible. I tuck one loose strand of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't terrify me.

"Miss Clara is anticipated. Please sign in here, Miss James. You'll want the final elevator on the right, push for the twentieth floor." She grins warmly at me, amused, no doubt, as I sign in.

She delivers me a security pass that has a VISITOR very strongly marked on the front. I can't help my smirk. Indeed it's evident that I'm only visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

Nothing changes; I internally groan. Thanking her, I go over to the bank of elevators past the two security guys, who are significantly more neatly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth level. The doors glide open, and I'm in another vast foyer - all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm met with another desk of sandstone and another beautiful blonde lady dressed perfectly in black and white who stands to meet me.

"Miss James, could you wait here, please?" She indicates a sat area with white leather seats.

Behind the leather seats are a big glass-walled conference room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty similar chairs surrounding it. Beyond it, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline across the city into the Sound. It's a breathtaking panorama, and the scene briefly transfixes me. Wow.

I sit down, pull the questions from my backpack, and go through them, internally cursing Clara for not supplying me with a short history. I know nothing about this individual I'm going to interview. He may be ninety, or he could be thirty. The ambiguity is annoying, and my anxieties reemerge, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the obscurity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously in the back of the room. To be honest, I like my own company, reading a classic British book, snuggled up on a chair in the college library. I was not sitting twitching anxiously in a colossal glass and stone structure.