“I’ve approached Bob Goode a thousand times and offered to turn it around, but he just won’t have it. It needs a new owner. And I’d still be completely happy to go in with my team and do the restructuring and transformation piece.”
“With someone else’s money,” Gabriel said.
“Yes, I always do turnarounds with someone else’s money.”
“Right, but this isn’t just any turnaround,” Beck said. “And you’re looking at restoring a legacy, not putting a business back in the black.”
“Verity can operate at a profit. There’s no doubt about that.”
“It will be a challenge,” Tristan said. “Magazine publishing isn’t a cash-rich business anymore.”
“It never was.” What the hell did Tristan know about magazine publishing?
“Have you not thought about buying Verity yourself?” Beck said. “There’s no one more passionate about the publication, and that’s what you need when you have such an uphill struggle ahead.”
“As I said, that’s not what I do. I restructure and turn around. I don’t run businesses for the medium and long term,” I said.
“I struggle to see how you’re going to convince someone to buy it,” Beck continued. “Private equity investors might see an opportunity in it, but not if the goal is to turn it back into a highbrow magazine with super-expensive running costs.”
That was true. A traditional private equity investor would drive it deeper into the gutter. “So we need a trade buyer,” I said. “Someone who already knows the business.”
“Like Goode,” Tristan said, ever the irritant.
“Look,” Gabriel said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “If you were sitting in my seat now, you would look me right in the eye and tell me to get a grip. No trade buyer has pockets deep enough to do the transformation you want to do. No private equity house has the willingness. If you’re serious and you want to act quickly, you need to buy Verity yourself, turn it around in the way only you can, then stick a manager in. After that, maybe you’ll be able to find a trade buyer.”
He was right: if I was sitting in his shoes now, that’d be exactly what I’d say.
Irritation prickled at my hairline. I should have been able to see it before bloody Tristan. Before Gabriel. But that’s why I’d come tonight. I needed people who knew me to tell me what I already knew.
“Right,” I said. I pushed back my stool and stood.
“You’re leaving?” Gabriel asked.
“You’re just using us for our minds and then dumping us like cheap wine?” Dexter asked.
I didn’t respond. I had my answer and my focus back. There was no time to waste. I needed to come up with a plan and act on it. I went over to the bar, dropped a hundred quid to cover my drink and ensure that next time, I wouldn’t need to ask for what I wanted either. And I made my way out.
They knew I loved them. I didn’t need to kiss them all goodbye.
Eleven
Andrew
The glass doors of the Blake Enterprises offices were unlocked when I arrived shortly before six. That could only mean one thing. Sofia Rossi had defied me and gotten in before eight. She seemed to be struggling with the idea that the boss made the rules, and the employee followed them to the letter.
She’d had a shockingly bad day on Friday. At least I was sure now that she’d not been trying to seduce me when she walked into my office half undressed. Listening to her relay the entire sorry tale to Tony at Noble Rot had been the highlight of my week—a fact both disturbing and alluring.
And when she’d realized I’d overheard what she’d been saying about me? Her smooth olive skin had gone bright white.
What she didn’t realize was that I didn’t give a damn what she thought of me. I wasn’t stupid. I already knew, and it was nothing different to what every assistant before her had thought about me—with the exception of Joanna, of course.
I pulled the door open and strode toward my office. I had a lot to do. I’d spent all night strategizing and thinking about Verity. I needed to organize my thoughts and come up with a detailed plan.
As I entered the outer office, Sofia, who was sitting behind her desk, shot to her feet.
“Andrew,” she said.
“I told you not to come in before eight.”
“I wanted to talk to you before twelve. If I’m going to get fired, I’d rather get it over with.”
I ignored her and headed to my office. I didn’t know what she was babbling on about.
Unfortunately, she followed me inside.
I groaned. I needed space. Time. I needed her to get out of here. Why couldn’t she just do as I’d asked?
“So,” she said, standing opposite my desk, her hand on her hip.
I didn’t care what had happened on Friday. I didn’t care about the open blouse, the spilled drink, the character assassination at the bar. None of it.
But despite having regained some focus, it hadn’t stopped me looking at Sofia slightly differently. Her open blouse had shifted something in me. Now when I looked at her, I saw an employee but also . . . a woman. A beautiful woman with a mixture of confidence and elegance that—in my experience—only Italian women could pull off. I saw a woman who had a fabulous arse and knew it. I saw a woman who I’d pull onto my lap, spread her legs wide, and torture for hours before feeling her clamp around my fingers and scream my name—if and only if she wasn’t my employee.
But she was.
I cleared my throat and tried to focus on what was happening. “What?”
I turned and hung up my suit jacket, then took a seat before firing up my computer.
“I want to know if you’re going to fire me.”
I sighed. “Why would I fire you?”
Her cheeks were as fire-engine red as they had been on Friday just before she had spilled her drink all down herself. I bet they were that perfect shade just before she came.
Fuck. Had this woman cast a spell on me or something? Why couldn’t she just turn back into flour and yeast and get out of my head? I had to focus. There was a lot to do today.
“I just thought that . . . You know . . . because—”
“Get out,” I snapped. “Don’t disturb me again before midday.”
I needed to push Sofia Rossi to the back of my mind and keep her there. I had more pressing concerns that required all my Thinking Time and focus—like how to go about buying Verity, Inc. and restoring my grandmother’s legacy.
Twelve
Sofia
I wasn’t sure why I was here, but here I was. At Noble Rot on Lamb Conduit’s Street in Bloomsbury just two blocks from the office. I was desperate to make sense of what had happened on Friday night and figure out if I was seriously losing it.
If Andrew had heard everything I said, surely he would have fired me. Or at least reprimanded me this morning. I’d given him every opportunity. I knew he’d heard at least some part of my tirade, because he’d delivered that parting shot about my boss being a real arsehole.
Was it possible he didn’t care? I knew I was a good assistant, but was I good enough to dodge punishment for a 245—assault with a deadly weapon? Maybe my tongue wasn’t as sharp as I remembered.