The Lazarus Effect (8 page)

Joshua cleared his throat. ‘Right.’ He stepped out of the doorway and crossed the path, walking backwards to his car. ‘Are we done, Voinjama Johnson?’ he called.

‘Are we ever, Joshua Allen?’

Vee latched the door, biting into a smile. Monro looked up at her and issued two sharp barks.

‘Don’t you dare judge me,’ she said.

On Monday evening, Chlöe Bishop perched on the edge of an expensive oak desk and tried not to look uncomfortable as it dug into her backside. The inner flesh of a woman’s upper thigh was incredibly sensitive to touch, and no one knew this better than she. She shifted hers away from the man’s clammy fingers with a nervous titter, but it only succeeded in shifting his focus to another spot under her skirt.

She didn’t need to check the time to confirm what she already knew, that she was horribly late for a date. It didn’t matter how late she was, or whether she showed up at all. She and her ex would only go around in circles. It was time she accepted that she’d been dumped, and begging was only crushing the market value of her self-esteem.

What choice did she have, though? Her living situation had gone from loving and financially supportive to broke and hugely uncomfortable, since two people who’d been romantically entwined couldn’t carry on living under the same roof without friction. Not when one of them (
Not me
, she thought bitterly) kept bringing random losers home for casual sex and calling it ‘processing heartbreak’. This was how she found herself putting
in a little extra something into her job search, seeing as how a killer CV wasn’t getting her anywhere.

‘So …’ She slid off her tank top to reveal a lacy bra, thrusting her breasts into his chest. This creep was old enough to be her father. Nope, no father thoughts right now. Her parents were disappointed enough in her. She pressed herself into his chest and turned a flinch into a light kiss on his neck. Did women really do this; did it truly work for men? It seemed so. Mr Cohen was practically panting.

‘Am I in, or not?’

‘Oh, you’re in, Miss Bishop,’ he breathed into her ear, flicking his tongue around the cavity. Chlöe summoned the willpower not to retch. ‘You’re definitely in. I’ve already made the call and sent the email. You can start at the beginning of next month.’

Chlöe did her charming laugh, casting her tinkle around the massive office and hoping the edge of desperation she picked up on was perceptible to her ears only. Never mind that it was well past 7 p.m. and no one else was in the building to hear or witness her performance. She slid off the desk.

‘End of the month isn’t good enough,’ she said, keeping her back to Cohen as her top went back on. ‘I need to start as soon as possible. You said there was a good chance of an opening, the only thing was to apply pressure in the right places. Thought you could make that happen.’

He chuckled into her hair, his lips and breath tickling her scalp. ‘What do you want, my blood? I said–’

Chlöe turned and cupped the swollen front of his pants, the sugar in her smile letting him know his prize handful was all she
was after. ‘I’ll take something in writing, too,’ she whispered, lips brushing his.

‘Oh, you’ll certainly get it in writing,’ Cohen said in her ear. ‘But first …’

Five minutes later, Chlöe lay on the floor, divested of everything except the skirt. She averted her eyes in horror from his erect penis, glad its latex sheath gave her one fewer thing to worry about. No one warned girls like her strenuously enough about heterosexual encounters, and for that she was grateful. Prior knowledge would have made soldiering through impossible. Her sentiments on phalluses – revulsion – had been cemented early on in life and weren’t likely, ever, to change. Cohen held her panties to his nose and inhaled with reverence before entering her. Chlöe shuddered and tried not to clench up, turning gags into soft moans. She would keep her eyes closed the whole way through; there was nothing else for it.

Now
I get why it’s called a carpet interview, she thought, stealing a peek at the pricey carpet under her head. At least she wasn’t on her knees. The weather was hobbling towards spring and she had to protect her knees if she wanted to show them off. She adored pencil skirts.

On Wednesday morning, Vee peeked through the blinds of Portia’s office at the girl sitting across the hall. Shiny, fox-red hair, clumsily flat-ironed – it was naturally curly, the ends gave it away – but professionally layered down to the shoulders. Clear, pale skin; pretty expert make-up for someone that young. Peach cashmere sweater and tartan pencil skirt followed enviable curves for a white girl; a lot of bustiness on top, zero butt below. Vee released the slats and the blinds snapped back into place.

‘Tell me she’s for the style team,’ Vee said.

‘She’s for you. Chlöe Bishop, your new assistant. Well, our new intern.’

‘Our new intern or my new assistant? She can’t be both. And when did we start getting new interns? I thought you terminated the whole programme after last year’s fiasco. They cost us too much money and weren’t worth the trouble. They barely pulled their weight. The whole thing did nothing but give you grief and be a pain in our collective ass.’

‘No, I didn’t terminate the programme. I put it on the back-burner.’ Portia sat. ‘Look.’ She put her heels on her desk. She was the sort who looked like she would never put her feet on
tables anywhere and then looked amazing when she did it. ‘This girl is a fresh graduate … well, fresh enough. She came for an interview a couple of months ago and I told her I’d think about it. Frankly, I forgot her the second she left. We’re not hiring right now, economic downturn, blah blah blah. Then a higher-up called in a favour and that favour trickled down to me …’ She shrugged. ‘She’s desperate. And I am quite drawn to desperation.’ The tint of nostalgia in Portia’s smile brought up the memory of their first interview together like a smack to Vee’s face. ‘I’ve reconsidered. Give her a chance. One month probation. Enough time for your … thing to pan out.

‘Why her? She can’t need this job. She looks like the whitest girl in the universe.’

‘Racism,’ Portia chastised wearily. ‘Remember sensitivity training and how much you enjoyed it last time? And don’t forget, I’m half white. The person with the power to fire you.’

Vee gritted her teeth, took a calming breath and squinted through the shutters again. ‘This case is frozen solid, Portia. It’s going to defrost really slowly, and it won’t need much heavy lifting. I can’t be dealing with a newbie’s disappointment that this isn’t racing along like some TV mystery.’

‘Not true. You need an extra pair of limbs running around and handling the grunt work on your opus. Let’s not forget the strings I’ve pulled here.’

‘Right. The strings,’ Vee deflated. Portia’s myriad pulleys. This time she’d pulled some golden ones indeed, likely through her father the media mogul, and now a substantial chunk of the official Paulsen case docket was at Vee’s disposal. There had to be payback.

Portia waved stapled pages headed ‘Curriculum Vitae: Chlöe J. Bishop’ at Vee. ‘What doesn’t kill you … If you think about it, getting an assistant is like a promotion.’

‘How about a promotion with a pay raise?’ Vee grouched en route to her office. She rolled the CV into a scroll, debating whether to toss it into the nearest bin. She wasn’t wasting her time on a catalogue of white lies. CVs never told you what you needed to know – like how much abuse someone could take before they snapped and quit. If the grunt had balls, she’d be able to tell how large soon enough.

Vee neared the tearoom, and the redhead sitting in the row of visitors’ chairs outside it rose to her feet. She didn’t spring up with annoying eagerness, nor did she unfold her legs with the languid grace of the entitled and take her time. She just got up, and smiled. A fine spray of freckles dusted her nose, and a tooth on one side of her mouth was slightly crooked. Not so perfect after all.

She shook hands well. Vee didn’t hold any store in the idea that firm handshakes conveyed strength of character in either gender, but she was, at least, pleased that Chlöe Bishop’s fingers weren’t sweaty or cold. Her nails were neat ovals and painted a cloudy, neutral colour. A few locks fell carelessly across her forehead. They looked deliberate.

Vee narrowed her eyes. Chlöe Bishop looked laid back, but was she really? Vee hated babysitting empty, well-dressed surprises, which new hires too often turned out to be. She waved Chlöe into her office.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

Vee winced.
Jeez, she had her first period yesterday?
‘Politics and languages, ehn. I see you didn’t study journalism or any form of media, or even creative writing.’ She pushed the CV aside. ‘Seems odd you’d be so hot to take this job. Enlighten me as to why.’

‘Well, I’ve always been fascinated by the magazine industry. Must be every girl’s dream to be this close to the action. I love a challenge …’

Vee dropped her forehead onto the desk and pretended to snore.

Chlöe stifled a giggle with the back of her hand, then snapped under control. Vee felt a soul-baring ramble coming on. She wasn’t disappointed.

‘Umm,’ said Chlöe, ‘I don’t know what I could possibly say here that won’t sound dodgy. I can imagine if I were you, sitting on the other side of that desk, looking at my experience and all that and wondering why I’m fooling myself. To be perfectly honest, I’m … kind of desperate.’ She winced at her own words. ‘And very aware of how that makes me look but I swear I’m not a chancer. I truly am passionate about working in media. Okay, okay, sorry …’ She pumped her hands at the curdling of Vee’s expression. ‘Never say passionate, it’s old and overplayed and we all hate it. No more passion. But I do love media and social networking. It’s … not easy to get into if you don’t exactly have the qualifications.’ She blanched, bit her lips and looked down as if she’d reminded herself of something. ‘So I appreciate both you and Ms Kruger for letting me through the door.’

Vee was certain she caught the quivering of Bishop’s bottom lip, but dismissed it as a trick of the light. ‘How early can you be here to kick-start the day? Start working on layouts, do some copy-editing, minor stuff.’

Chlöe perked up. ‘I’m an early riser. Let me know what time you usually get here and I’ll beat it by an hour. I also make excellent coffee.’

‘Good for you. Time management and multitasking. Learn to be a wizard at both because you’re going to be everybody’s Girl Friday for a while.’

‘Middle child,’ Chlöe smiled, pointing a slender alabaster finger at her chest. ‘I’m used to abuse, believe me. I’d feel lost without it, actually. Point me to the work pile and I’ll put myself to shame.’

‘Can you type fast? And research – are you any good at fact-checking and digging up background? I hope you have your own car, because there’s a lot of running around involved.’

‘Great at the first two. And yes, I have my own transport.’ She crossed stockinged legs. ‘Why, will you be needing a driver as well?’

Vee fought a smile. Cool and milky as marble, just fractured enough to show she was genuine but not a flake. And a smartass. Nice hybrid. Hazing over.

She spent the next few minutes going over the general workflow and duties in Bishop’s future. Halfway through outlining the Paulsen file, Charisma strolled in, lancing Chlöe a snooty, quizzical eye.

Vee blew out a breath. ‘Chlöe, this is Charisma Mapondera. She’s–’

‘We share the office. Call me Chari,’ Charisma instructed. ‘I pronounce it ‘Carrie’. Like in Sex and the City. But Africanised.’

‘–the other token foreigner on the team,’ Vee continued, ignoring Chlöe’s what-the-hell look. ‘Ex-editor at a political newspaper in Zimbabwe that was a huge pain in the government’s backside. When they tried to blow up their building, she ran like a coward and here she is, lighting up our lives. Chari, Chlöe Bishop. She doesn’t answer to you in any way, only to me. Take it up with Portia.’

Charisma snarled a few choice words and left to do just that. Vee kept her eyes on Chlöe, frowning slightly as she noticed how her eyes danced over Chari’s outfit and how she wore her curves. This one was an unrepentant fashionista. Or was there more to it … ‘Are you done?’

‘Sorry.’ Chlöe blushed and fidgeted. ‘Those are some really great pants she’s wearing. And your jacket too, wow.’

‘Uh-huh. Word of advice: avoid Chari. She’s a terrible person. Meaning she’s fun, but also the absolute worst. Especially for careers. I can be an asshole too, but I’ll watch your back. As to my general style, I make a lot of this up as I go because we don’t have a budget for standard procedures. Broad strokes: be really observant and extremely tenacious. Take no for an answer but find a way to turn it into a yes. Be ever ready to piss people off. A lot.’

‘I’ve managed that extremely well in the past.’

‘I’m also obliged to warn you that things can get …’ Vee balked at saying ‘dangerous’, ‘… weird. Don’t bother asking
Portia permission for anything; she’ll only shut you down. Me first, always. I’ll handle Kruger.’ Vee pushed over a stack of papers. ‘Your copies of all things Paulsen, what I know so far. I drew up a to-do list. We need to cover most of that ground by the start of next week. Feel free to add to it as time goes on.’

Chlöe scrutinised the inventory, barely arching her eyebrows. ‘Hhhmm. This much,’ she murmured, running an index finger halfway down the page, ‘I can cover today, tomorrow afternoon at the most. How …’ she drummed two fingers over her lips, eyes narrowed. ‘How strictly do I have to colour inside the lines, legal-wise? Say I want stuff done fast but the usual route doesn’t cut it. Not all channels are created equal.’

Vee fought the urge to hug her. ‘The more upfront you are with me, the better I’m able to lie to our fearless leader.’ She stood. ‘Any questions? And no, you don’t get a gas – smh, petrol – allowance for your car. Early days yet. We’ll talk to Portia about it.’

‘No, no questions.’

‘Perfect. Chlöe Bishop, welcome aboard the Titanic. May you perish in interesting times. I’m headed out now and you won’t see me until much later.’ Vee shouldered into an extra cardigan before throwing her jacket over. ‘Got people to pester, starting with a bereaved mother.’ She waited, expecting Bishop to whinny like a foal, adrift without a nanny this early on. Last chance to find a flaw in the gemstone.

Instead, Chlöe said: ‘I thought you said this girl was a missing person. Are we already assuming she’s dead? Is this a murder case?’

‘We assume a lot to start.’ Vee stepped through the door. ‘We add, subtract, divide as we go along, till we get it in focus. Frequent updates.’ She raised thumb and pinkie to her ear: call me.

At last, Vee allowed herself a grin. Chlöe. Let’s see how she gets on. On her way past Portia’s open door, Vee threw on a scowl for show. Kruger could smell happiness like a bloodhound and annihilate it like a Rottweiler.