50 Shades of Davies
Chapter 1 – Part 1 – Spencer Carlin
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair- it just won't behave, and damn Madison Duarte for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, blonde-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi-presentable.
Madison is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some mega-business tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and twenty-five miles to L.A in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Davies Enterprises Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our university, her time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but she has granted Madison an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extracurricular activities.
Madison is huddled on the couch in the living room.
"Spence, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Madison begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, long brown hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
"Of course I'll go, Maddy. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"
"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nothing about her," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my ringing panic.
"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."
"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Maddy, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks, Spencer – as usual, you're my lifesaver."
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Madison talk me into this. But then Madison could talk anyone into anything. She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she's my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from San Diego toward L.A. It's early, and I don't have to be in L.A until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Maddy's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Ms Davies's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Davies House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieve that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, brunette young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
"I'm her to see Ms Davies. Spencer Carlin for Madison Duarte."
"Excuse me one moment, Miss Carlin." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Madison's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I present she doesn't intimidate me.
"Miss Duarte is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Carlin. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevator past two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby – again all glass, steel and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young brunette woman dressed impeccable in black and white that rises to greet me.
"Miss Carlin, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs. Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the L.A skyline that looks out through the city. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Maddy for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this woman I'm about to interview. She could be ninety or she could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting, twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Carlin. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Davies is in her forties: fit, tanned, and dark-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed brunette comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate brunettes? It's like dark-haired Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
"Miss Carling?" the latest brunette asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Ms Davies will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered any refreshment?"
"Um-no." Oh dear, is Brunette Number One in trouble?
Brunette Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.
"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Carling a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
"My apologies, Miss Carlin, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Ms Davies will be another five minutes."
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Carlin."
"Thank you."
Brunette Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continued their work.
Perhaps Ms Davies insists on all her employees being brunette. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive dark haired man exits. I have definitely word the wrong clothes.
He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Davies."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!
"Good afternoon, ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.
"Ms Davies will see you now, Miss Carling. Do go through," Brunette Number Two says. I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
"You don't need to knock – just go in." She smiles kindly.