Fool Me Once

©
2011 Mona Ingram

All
rights reserved.

This
is a work of fiction.

Names,
characters, places

and
incidents are either the

product
of the author’s

imagination,
or are

used
fictitiously, and

any
resemblance to actual

persons,
living or dead,

business
establishments,

events
or locations

is
entirely coincidental.

Chapter One

Olivia
ran up the last few steps of the escalator and made her way through the throng
of tourists outside the tube station. She strode briskly along the sidewalk,
scarcely noticing the brilliant sunshine. Today she hoped to get the green
light for her new project. It had been difficult to strike the right tone in
her proposal, so in the end she’d kept it simple. It would be a compelling
series of articles, but she was still nervous. Her editor rarely made her wait
this long for a decision, but then she’d never asked to go into Iraq before.
She smiled at her reflection in a shop window; the new hairstyle suited her.
Straight coppery locks skimmed her shoulders, and she tossed her head, eager to
begin the new assignment.

She
pushed through the heavy doors of WorldView’s London headquarters. The
editorial offices hummed with a familiar mix of clattering keyboards and muted
telephone conversations. She looked toward the editor’s office and was gripped
by an unfamiliar spurt of apprehension. Now she was being ridiculous; acting
like an overeager junior reporter instead of a seasoned journalist. She glanced
around at the few correspondents who were at their desks. Did they ever get
anxious? If so, they didn’t show it. It had taken a while for her colleagues to
accept her but she’d expected that, having learned long ago that her father’s
prestigious position set her apart. One of the most influential banking figures
in The City, he was constantly being quoted in the dailies. But she’d paid her
dues, and in the end she’d gained the respect of her fellow journalists.

Her
reverie was shattered by the telephone and she grabbed it anxiously. “In my
office, MacMillan.” The phone went dead. ‘No-Jive’ Clive Jackson had earned his
nickname. Originally from WorldView’s New York office, he was short-tempered,
ruthless, and a brilliant editor.

“Close
the door.” Jackson waved vaguely in the direction of the door, then turned to
the coffeemaker behind his desk. “Coffee?”

“No
thanks.” Olivia’s stomach was in far too much turmoil. “I’m fine.”
If only
.
She glanced at his desk, wondering how he managed to find anything. Her
proposal was nowhere in sight…not a good sign.

“I’ll
get right to the point.” Clive sipped his coffee, watching her closely over the
rim of the cup. “It’s a no-go on the story.”

Olivia
jerked forward in her seat. She had all of her arguments ready, but the Editor
held up a hand.

“Zip
it, Mac. I know what you’re going to say.”

“How
can you possibly…”

He
dismissed her protestations with the wave of a hand. “I’ve heard it all
before.” His voice softened, if only by a few degrees. “How many times over the
last twenty-odd years do you think I’ve sat here and listened while journalists
pitched me story ideas? It’s a good concept and I know you’d do it justice, but
I’m not authorizing you to go into Iraq right now. It’s too dangerous. Maybe in
a couple of years, but don’t hold me to that. The bottom line is that I’m not about
to lose one of my brightest journalists for this story, powerful as it might
be.”

The
Editor’s words did little to dull the sharp edges of her disappointment. “I
thought that since the Afghanistan story was so well received…” Her voice
trailed off as she fought to control her emotions. She would not dissolve in
tears, dammit!

“Those
pieces were brilliant. The reader response was outstanding.” He reached into
his pocket for a cigarette, extracting it with two fingers and bringing it to
his mouth in one smooth motion. “I still don’t know how you managed to get such
in-depth interviews with those women.” He snapped open a battered Zippo lighter
and lit the cigarette, inhaling audibly.

Olivia’s
most recent story featured three Afghani women, and had offered rare insight
into their lives, their struggles, their triumphs and tragedies. The pieces,
run over several weeks, had elicited a flood of letters urging the magazine to
run more stories of a similar nature.

Olivia
drew in a deep, calming breath. She wasn’t about to give up on the Iraqi story
without a fight. “Thank you,” she said, acknowledging the compliment with a
fleeting smile. “You’ve given me some great stories to cover, and I appreciate
that, but I’m ready for something with a little more tooth to it. I’d like to
get closer to the action.”

He
tilted back in his chair and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “No.”

“Just
like that?”

“Just
like that.” His gaze strayed to a stack of paper on his desk. She was losing
his attention.

“So
what’s my next assignment?”

“Nothing.”

She
frowned. “Excuse me, could you repeat that?”

“You
heard me. I want you to take some time off. A week, maybe two.” He stubbed out
his cigarette with slow, deliberate movements. “You spent five solid weeks in
Afghanistan and I know you worked every day. You need a rest. Didn’t you say
something about a friend’s wedding?” He waved a hand in front of his face, a
gesture of dismissal. “Go enjoy yourself.”

Olivia
rose to the bait. “It’s not a wedding. Not for another three weeks, anyway.
It’s a reception.” Why was she allowing herself to be drawn into a discussion
of Justine’s wedding? Her hair had fallen forward and she impatiently tucked it
behind her ear. “Clive,” she said, getting back on topic, “sad as it may be,
these days every good story seems to originate in the Mideast. But then you
already know that.” She was begging, but she didn’t care. “I worked hard to put
this together.”

“Be
that as it may, I want you to take some time off.” Leaning forward, he looked
pointedly at her black leather trousers and suede boots. “Buy yourself a new
dress. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet an exciting new man.”

Now
he was being truly annoying. Olivia stood up. “Okay, I get it. Your mind is
made up, and I respect that. But I still want to do a hard-hitting story.” She
cocked her head to the side. “If I come up with something on my own, you’ll
look at it?”

He
pulled his glasses down his nose with a nicotine-stained forefinger and looked
at her over murky lenses. “As long as it doesn’t involve you going to Iraq. When
you come back we’ll get together and review the type of stories you’d like to
work on.” He picked up a stack of papers and shoved the glasses back up. Olivia
knew when she was being dismissed.

Moments
later, she found herself out on the street, bag slung over her shoulder. She
had no hope of coming up with a story on her own in two weeks and No Jive knew
that. Maybe he was right about the holiday. She tried to remember the last real
holiday she’d taken, but nothing memorable came to mind. There were those two
weeks in Greece with Eliska after school in Switzerland, but that had been
almost ten years ago. Her step faltered as scenes from the past ten years
scrolled by like a silent movie.

“Sorry”
she said, almost bowling over an older woman exiting from a wine merchant. “My
mind was somewhere else.”

“That’s
all right dearie. No harm done.” The women gave her a curious look. “Are you
all right?”

“I’m
fine. Thank you for asking.” She forced a smile and the woman trotted off
clutching her packages. How could she explain the odd sensation that had
suddenly come over her? For the first time she could remember she didn’t want
to go home for the weekend. Her family’s home in the Cotswolds had always been
a sanctuary, a soothing oasis where she recharged her batteries. In that safe,
familiar environment, she enjoyed relaxing visits with her mother, and riding
around the estate. But there had always been the lure of the next assignment
right around the corner. She enjoyed the research, the planning, and unlike many
of her colleagues, she enjoyed unexpected challenges.

As
she swung onto a bus she realized that she couldn’t remember the last time
she’d been at loose ends. Lost in thought, she almost missed her stop near
Harrod’s. Perhaps shopping for an engagement gift for Alex and Justine would
restore her usual buoyant spirits. She glanced at her watch and did some quick
calculations. If she hurried, she could buy an engagement gift, dash home to
pack and catch an early train.

* * *

The
train picked up speed. Olivia settled into a window seat and watched the
outskirts of London give way to rolling green fields cross-hatched with
hedgerows.

“Is
this seat taken?” A frail looking older gentleman indicated the seat where
she’d placed the engagement gift.

“No,
it isn’t.” She removed the Harrod’s bag and placed it on the floor at her feet.
A delicate piece of glass, she’d been keeping it close by her side.

She
returned her gaze to the familiar scenery and her thoughts began to drift again
to the strange malaise that had gripped her earlier. It was more than
disappointment at being turned down by her editor, but she couldn’t seem to put
her finger on it. A shaft of sunlight slanted through the window, highlighting
the frothy silver bow on the engagement gift. The bow vibrated softly with the
train’s movement and Olivia stared at it, mesmerized. Was it Alex and Justine’s
engagement party that had unsettled her? She and Justine had been friends ever
since the first day they met at Stanford. They’d only been roommates for one year,
but their friendship had survived despite Justine’s hectic career as a model,
and Olivia’s drive to become a world-class journalist.

The
Melrose estate bordered Olivia’s parents’ estate; she’d known Alex Melrose her
entire life. Several years older, he’d always been a distant, glamorous figure.
Somehow it hadn’t surprised her that Alex and Justine ended up together. She’d
been delighted when they became engaged and she smiled softly, recalling her
friend’s words. “I wouldn’t have met him if it hadn’t been for you, Livvy.” She
cared for them both, and for that reason she’d attend the party wearing her
brightest smile.

* * *

“Olivia,
you look gorgeous!” Justine hugged her friend, eyes bright with excitement.
“Let me look at you.” Olivia obliged, showing off a pencil-thin dress in a soft
lime-green fabric. Held up with two thin straps, it skimmed over her breasts,
then fell in a straight line to the floor. The side slit ended just above her
knee, revealing glimpses of long, tanned legs. “In that dress, every man here
will be prostrating himself at your feet before the evening is over.”

Olivia
squeezed her friend’s hand. “Thanks, but this is your night to shine.” She
glanced over her friend’s shoulder. “Where’s Alex?”

Justine
scanned the clusters of guests. “I’m not sure, but he’s around somewhere.” They
walked through open French doors onto a flagstone patio and Olivia was charmed
once more by Haversham Hall. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the
gently rolling landscape. Beyond the flower gardens, at the foot of the immense
lawn the surface of the small lake caught the sun’s reflection and gleamed like
beaten copper. “Oh, there he is now.” Justine’s eyes softened with love and
Olivia found herself wondering what it would be like to feel that way about a
man.

From
the direction of the stables two men strolled side by side, chatting amiably.
He’s
American
, Olivia thought instantly as the pair continued walking toward the
terrace. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched them approach. He was a
stranger, but it was as if she knew him… she definitely would have remembered a
man who exuded such raw masculinity. Taller than Alex, he moved with a fluid
self-assurance and as she watched, he threw back his head and laughed, teeth
flashing in the afternoon sun. She wished that she could see the color of his
eyes.