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Drop off dry cleaning.
Stop for a café latté—extra-strength with full-cream milk and three sugars.
Head for home.
Finish article, adding said commas and exclamation marks.
Take phone off the hook and run bath.
Finally hit ‘send’ and, as her work drifted into cyberspace, dive into the awaiting aromatic bath, allowing the fragrance to soothe. Lavender was supposedly fabulous for stress headaches, and for the past six months, come Friday at four p.m., a stress headache was exactly what she’d had.
Okay, her article would still make the deadline if she sent it at five, but she needed that hour. Needed to lie in her fabulous bubbly bath as the blood, sweat and tears she’d shed over the past seven days wafted through cyberspace and into her editor Paul’s in-box. Needed that hour wallowing in the bath forgetting the horrors she’d been through the past week.
Sure, interviewing celebrities, eating out at fabulous restaurants and actually being paid to write about it sounded like most people’s dream job come true. But for Amelia it was merely a means to an end. Contracted on a freelance basis to cover a nine-month maternity leave position, Amelia had taken the job with the sole intention of making a name for herself, networking with the right people, and hopefully—hopefully—landing a more permanent position in the offices on the second floor, the hallowed ground of the business reporters. There she would be writing not about the rise and fall of celebrities’ bustlines or their latest off-on romances, but about the far more intriguing effect of rises and falls on world stock markets, or the impact of the US dollar on trading in Australia, and hopefully one day she’d get an inside scoop on a major business deal which would surely seal her arrival as a heavyweight. And maybe would even win her father’s approval!
But so far nothing had happened. Sure, her editor, Paul, had made all the right noises—insisted he was talking to people behind the scenes as he handed Amelia her latest task for the week. But still nothing had happened, and with Maria’s maternity leave galloping into the final run Amelia was starting to feel more than a touch anxious. Not just because of the lack of movement in the business side of things, but because she’d grown rather used to having a regular wage in the fickle world of journalism. She also had to admit it was because she’d be leaving a job she’d started to love…
Closing her eyes, Amelia let out the breath she’d been inadvertently holding, half expecting that if she opened her eyes she’d see her father’s appalled expression at the fact that the daughter of Grant Jacobs, esteemed political reporter, could possibly like writing such articles, could actually enjoy interviewing celebrities, confirming or denying salacious rumours and feeding the never-ending quest for insight into Australia’s most beautiful.
He’d never call it news!
With the soapy water now licking the edges of her claw-foot bath, Amelia twisted off the taps, ran into the lounge, which tripled as a dining room and study, and turned on her favorite CD. She listened as the decadent, fabulous voice of Robbie told her that once he found her he’d never let her go, and finally she did relax.
The phone was off the hook—as it always was when she’d finished a piece—her horoscope was waiting to be read, and a glass of chilled white wine was by the bath.
Routine firmly in place, she took a deep breath and, with her hand over the send key, closed her eyes and pressed it. Then, as she did every Friday, she ran like the wind into her tiny cramped bathroom, stripped off in record time, and winced as she submerged herself into too-hot water. She waited for her body to acclimatize and her over-sized boobs to waft up onto the surface, waiting for their owner to pluck up the guts to sink fully into the water. She would massage that deep heated conditioner that promised miracles into her hair, then lie back and read her horoscope just as she always did.
A fabulous period supposedly lay ahead. Virgos should be ready to embrace changes, throw caution to the wind and take up crazy offers, arming themselves for opportunity, getting ready to expect the unexpected and let a little romance shine into their lives.
For once Louis the astrologer had got it wrong.
Turning to the front of the magazine, Amelia stared at the scowling face of Taylor Dean, every inch the popstar, walking out of a chic restaurant, the requisite beautiful woman firmly entrenched on his arm. She was scarcely able to comprehend that six months ago it had been she, Amelia, on that arm.
Perhaps Louis had misplaced his notes—accidentally repeated her July horoscope in the middle of January—because six months ago today a fabulous period really had lain ahead. The crazy offer of a date with Taylor had literally fallen into her lap, and she’d been foolish enough to accept—stupid and naive enough to throw caution to the wind and let a little romance into her life. Only where had it got her?
Staring into Taylor’s brown eyes, Amelia felt as if she were choking on her own humiliation—remembering with total recall the shattered remains their whirlwind romance had left in its wake and the almost impossible task of rebuilding her professional reputation. Colleagues had been only too happy to believe that every scoop she got, every inside piece of information she was privy to, must somehow have been gleaned between the sheets.
But she’d learnt from her mistake.
For the following five months she’d been with the Tribute Amelia had been the epitome of professionalism. All her articles had been in before their deadline, she had researched her subjects carefully, and, though friendly and personable, she had maintained a respectable distance, despite a couple of rather surprising offers, determined that by the time Maria returned from her maternity leave Taylor Dean would be a vague memory.
At least in her editor Paul’s eyes!
Tears she simply refused to shed were blinked firmly back and the magazine tossed onto the floor. Taylor’s features blurred as a sympathetic puddle on the floor licked at the front page—only not quickly enough for Amelia. Taylor’s cheating eyes were still staring out at her, the wounds he had inflicted on her once-trusting heart still too raw not to hurt when touched, and she gave up on her relaxing bath, pulled out the plug and padded into the living room.
‘No!’
Her wail went unheard as, standing shivering in a towel, she saw her computer—despite frantic pressing of Control-Alt-Delete, remain frozen. Its only movement was a red sign appearing, warning of Trojan horses galloping towards her and worms poking their heads out of the woodwork at the most inopportune time.
‘No!’ she wailed again, dragging a chair over with her wrinkled bath-soaked foot and with chattering teeth trying to wrestle with the unforgiving screen of her computer.
It was twenty to five!
Thoughts of Paul’s reaction were the only thing that ran through Amelia’s mind as she rang her computer guru—only to be told that it was happening to everyone, that computers were crashing with more speed than a pile-up on a freeway.
If she missed the deadline…she’d be dead!
Not even bothering to replace the receiver, not even remembering to thank him, Amelia gulped in air, picturing the scenario. Okay, the piece she was filing so urgently today wouldn’t actually appear until next week’s colour supplement, but in the cut-throat world of journalism deadlines came second only to a pulse.
First, actually.
Without fulfilling one’s deadlines, your pulse didn’t even matter.
She could almost see Paul’s raised eyebrow as she stammered her way through an apology. Could almost feel the breeze from his dismissive wave as he assured her it didn’t matter a jot, that of course this was a one-off and they’d naturally take into consideration when deciding her fate that every other piece she’d filed had been delivered before deadline…
No problem, Amelia. He’d smile. Don’t worry about it, Amelia, he’d say, waving away her stammering excuses. These things happen to the best of us.
Oh, he’d make all the right noises, insist that it didn’t really matter, while simultaneously checking with Personnel just how long it would be till the impossibly efficient Maria came back.
A whimper of horror escaped Amelia’s chattering lips as she pressed every last key on her computer, watching with mounting horror as each page she attempted to open froze on top of the other, as words dropped like autumn leaves from her screen, replaced instead with the horror of empty white squares on empty white squares, as the stupid, defunct, way-too-late virus warning alerted her of impending doom.
Doom!
Raking fingers through aromatic oiled hair that badly needed a rinse, she squeezed a breath into her lungs.
Back-up.
‘Please…’ Amelia whimpered, pushing the eject button on her computer and pulling out the disc. Thank God she’d remembered to press ‘save’! If she got dressed now, forgot make-up and managed to hail a cab in record time, she’d be just ten minutes late.
Rummaging through her wardrobe, berating the fact that her usual boxy suits were all stacked in a pile at the dry cleaners, Amelia pulled on some weekend jeans and pushed her damp body into a sheer lilac top that, had time allowed, would definitely have benefited from a bra. But time was of the essence. Hailing a cab, she dragged a comb through her short, spiky blonde hair as she rattled around on the back seat, making vague conversation with the driver and attempting a slick of mascara as they swung into George Street.
