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There’s not even a word for how I felt watching this footage. All I remember is looking up at Mitchell and Mitchell giving me an odd look, an inquisitive half-smile.
“Are you alright, Mr Fletcher-Lowe? If my questions are making you uncomfortable, we can stop at any point.”
His questions were not making me uncomfortable. I was too thoroughly prepared. Mitchell might be an award-winning journalist, but he wasn’t capable of writing a single question my father’s team didn’t prepare for.
All I learned from that interview is that Mitchell is nowhere near the formidable opponent I was expecting. If he ever hopes to bring me down, he’ll need something close to a miracle to help him out. A miracle for him—or a disaster for me.
“We’re going around in circles,” I told him, standing and straightening my tie. “You have all the information you need, and I’ve humoured you long enough. I would say it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Mitchell, but you are unexpectedly dull company for a Pulitzer-winning journalist.”
“We can’t all be quite as intriguing as you are, Mr Fletcher-Lowe,” he said mildly.
I could’ve exchanged barbs with him longer, but the purpose of the interview was served. My staff had already completed their search into his private and work files, and all I could think of, besides, was Willow inmyhouse trying to fuckmydriver.
Naturally, I would rather lie than admit to Woodrow that I left the interview because of Willow. If I told him the truth, Woodrow would assume I interfered out of jealousy. He wouldn’t understand that my reasons were far more complex—that Colin Arnold’s head between Willow Lynch’s legs was more of a matter of decency, reputation, and professionalism than anything else.
Casting Woodrow an indifferent look over the papers in my hands, I tell him, “Mitchell got what he wanted out of me, and I got what I wanted out of him.”
“Which is?” Woodrow asks.
“Confirmation of what I already knew: Mitchell’s got nothing concrete. He has a lot of shit to throw but nothing to make it stick with. Gerald and his team confirmed this when they went through his digital files.”
“And if he finds his evidence?” Woodrow continues.
“He won’t.”
Woodrow sighs. A sign of defeat, at last. “I wish I had your confidence, sir.”
“I’m glad you don’t.” I give him a brief smile. “I like that you never get complacent, Ned.”
“Is that why you’re keeping that awful woman around, sir? Because you’re growing complacent?”
I look at him for a long time without saying anything. Woodrow warned me, all this time ago, that Willow was becoming a distraction—he was right then. Bringing her close to me and having her bound to my side by the contract didn’t makeher any less of a distraction. If anything, I’m more distracted than ever.
But why shouldn’t I be?
“Don’t I deserve some fun?” I ask finally, voice light and amused.
“I would love nothing more than for you to have fun,” Woodrow says in funerary tones. “I’m just not sure how letting this woman hurt you qualifies as fun.”
I let this woman hurt me because I get to hurt her back. I don’t say it aloud, though I’m sure part of Woodrow suspects the truth anyhow.
Letting this woman hurt me is fun. Now there’s another truth, one I’m not even sure I realised until this very moment.
Standing from my desk, I walk up to Woodrow and pat his shoulder, a brief touch. From me, that’s the most affectionate gesture Woodrow could expect.
“You need not worry about me, Ned. I’ve got it all under control.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever lied to him.
Control, in fact, slipsfurther from my grasp with every passing day.
It’s a Thursday night. I return home from the office and a reluctant if dutiful meeting with my father to find my house in a state of array. There’s a bright red blanket slung over the back of my brand-new couch, a pile of glossy shopping bags on the floor, books scattered amongst the cushions. I stoop to pick up one volume; the cartoon cover depicts a girl in purple lingerie caughtin the clutches of some sort of spectral tentacle monster. I throw it aside with a grimace of disgust.
The coffee table, once pristine, is a disaster. Sweet wrappers, bottles of nail polish, packets of cigarettes, an ashtray shaped like a black crown. I take the only packet of cigarettes that’s not empty and break each one before stuffing them back in. Tossing the packet back onto the table, I follow the obnoxious cacophony of loud music floating from the kitchen.
There, I find another scene of chaos. The counters, normally clean black marble, are covered with utensils. The sink is full of dirty dishes, vegetable peels, and empty containers everywhere. Perched on the cookbook stand is an iPhone plugged into a square black speaker pumping out music that’s mostly just a woman wailing over a backdrop of crashing drums, screeching violins, and electric guitars.
In the centre of the kitchen, the diabolical queen of all this chaos, Willow, is busying herself from counter to counter, a glass of red wine in one hand. Today, she’s wearing thigh-high socks, baggy black denim shorts, and a tiny crop top under an oversized sweatshirt cropped so short I can see her cleavage. Her hair is gathered in an untidy knot on top of her head, and she’s waggling her hips aggressively to the music.
