White Balance Read online

  The treadmill hit back. Hard. Everywhere. And instead of getting a clear head, he got lactic acid build up, shin splints and chest pain. Which made perfect sense. His colleagues hated him, why not his body parts? He’d tried to use muscles that must’ve long assumed their application for atrophy had been accepted.

  He didn’t get the clear head he’d been chasing, but there was something about the pain that felt good, and feeling good was a surprise. Feeling anything other than tired was a shock. So the next night, he dragged himself back to the gym and it was worse. He felt dizzy and threw up, and the pain in his legs and stomach was incredible. He felt old, he felt like crap. It was excellent. He got completely off on it.

  Over the next seven nights, the more he pushed himself, the worse he felt—the better he liked it. He’d found a new way to get numb, adding exercise and pain to his familiar friends, work like a dog and sleep like the dead.

  Blake played it smart. He didn’t ring. Not the house, the office or the mobile. It must’ve been killing him. He’d said he needed an answer in two weeks, but Aiden had been prepared for almost daily contact from Blake to check in with his decision making progress, so when it didn’t happen, that’s when he knew how important this was to Blake. And that made saying no all that much harder.

  Not that saying no to Blake had ever been easy. It’s like the bloke had selective deafness where it came to that word. And his own willingness to adopt Blake’s particular disability when the two of them were together got them into some interesting situations. Especially where it came to women and scamming high grade averages and graduating with real jobs with insanely good money for two blokes who specialised in nothing more important than having ideas.

  Blake never forgot a good idea, and Aiden knew the only thing wrong with Blake’s idea to team up again was that it came too late. In the post Shannon world, where he was all used up and dried out and didn’t have anything left to give.

  By day eight in Blake’s decision countdown timeline, Aiden’s blisters were forming their own calluses and he was able to get in and out of chairs without groaning aloud, though he’d had to give up wearing shoes that required bending to do laces. He also had a new gym membership card, the girl on the reception desk remembered his name, and he’d discovered the washing machine still worked.

  By day nine, he’d started wearing his contact lenses regularly again because his glasses were annoying him, sliding down his nose when he was running, and he’d been surprised by two pitches the agency lost out on. One of them to Blake.

  On day ten, he almost called Blake, and asked to meet so he could let him down face to face and get the whole thing over with. Instead he added weights to his treadmill routine and was sore in a whole bunch of new places to the extent that holding a coffee cup and raising it as far as his lips was pure agony.

  On day eleven, Karen Ho shouted at him in the doorway of the office kitchen in front of half the company and he’d had to grin and bear the fact they’d once been friends but now she thought he was everything that was wrong with the agency.

  On day twelve, their second biggest client, Bitter’s Brewery resigned over ‘creative differences’, which meant they wanted Aiden back on their account instead of Rodney Stone who’d replaced him. Despite the fact it wasn’t Rodney’s fault, the Bitter’s people were having trouble moving on. Aiden had to make Rodney redundant. Rodney had a big mortgage, a new baby, and his wife had postnatal depression.

  On day thirteen, Karen resigned, taking two mid-weight staff members and one client with her to start her own agency. Aiden had to engage lawyers to go after his former friend over the theft of a client, and the poaching of staff. And if that wasn’t complex enough, New York upped the office’s budget targets by twenty percent for the quarter.

  And that was just the morning.

  In the afternoon, Happi-Anne Bennet showed up in reception with Scowl and his mother, and begged him to big brother the kid. There was no sign of either of his mobile phones. He said no, while trying not to stare at the earth mother meets Harajuku girl fashion, the surprisingly large, fifty plus, definitely not Japanese, Happi-Anne sported. Or feel bad about the fact that Scowl’s incredibly young and beige coloured mum wouldn’t stop looking at the carpet.

  Scowl played with one of Aiden’s Advertising Impact awards until he dropped it and broke it in two.

  Finally, when it was obvious they weren’t taking either his straight out refusal to cooperate or his not very polite suggestions they leave, he agreed to see Scowl for an hour every Saturday morning for a month on a trial basis—just so he could get them out of the office and make it to his next meeting on time.

  On day fourteen, Chuck Campbell reneged on Aiden’s bonus, suggesting he needed to work harder to win new business and recapture the office’s earnings potential. Chuck said it as though it was a slight matter of Aiden pulling up his socks and making sure everyone else in the office did too. But Aiden had given up on socks for the moment, along with any movement that meant bending from the waist at the same time as lifting one leg, so it wasn’t a little thing he was being asked to do, either the socks or the extra twenty percent.

  Day fourteen happened to be the anniversary of the day he’d first met Shannon at the opening of an exhibition of rare early films. With her Grace Kelly looks and a smile that could’ve powered the Snowy Hydro Scheme, she was the most beautiful woman Aiden had ever forgotten his own name over. She still was. She still made him forget his name, his sense of equilibrium and his reason to go on living.

  But surely whatever that reason to live was, it didn’t have to include: lethal creative differences, unfair retrenchments, blood sucking lawyers, surprising client losses, the imposition of impossible budget targets, and the loss of former friendships.

  Surely if there was any reason to keep living without the light of Shannon in his life, it could be to work with his best friend again. Even if he was scared to his core he wasn’t up to it.

  On day fourteen, White Balance posted a shot of an empty wheelchair run aground on the hard packed sand at the shoreline. He called Blake. “When do I start?’

  In the early dark hours of day fifteen Aiden recognised his inability to sleep for what it was—his old friend insomnia. This time born of the feeling he’d jumped off the edge of a high cliff and had no idea how long it was going to take to get smashed on the rocky bottom.

  9: Being Blake

  “What, no hug? Do I smell bad?”

  Blake with a nervous look and without the bone-crushing greeting wasn’t Blake. The fact he didn’t leap to his feet when Bailey sidled up to his table in the cafe made her wonder if he wasn’t feeling well. So when he blushed, she momentarily regretted the harshness of her opening line. She’d never seen Blake blush. It was as though she’d caught him out doing something highly suspect.

  “Are you ok?”

  Now he stood and bear hugged her and, she got a whiff of his Prada aftershave: sandalwood, bergamot and vanilla. He didn’t look unwell. He looked every bit as ruggedly handsome as she remembered, though he was heavier than when she’d last seen him. But the cut of his navy blue suit hid any excess flesh he was carrying. She breathed him in and felt that old fission of excitement being with Blake always ignited.

  “I am perfectly well, fat and happy. But you’re limping.”

  There was nothing wrong with his eyes, didn’t miss a trick despite the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “No I’m not, you’re seeing things.”

  Blake doffed the glasses and quirked a brow. “Liar.”

  She grinned at him. That was more like it. That was the Blake she was used to. She fell into her role. “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Bugger off. Order me a coffee.”

  He laughed, and had waitress action happening in less than five seconds. One of the advantages of being out in public with Blake, he had excellent room presence, you never waited for service.

  “What other lies you got for me, Bails?”

/>   “Me lie? Never.”

  “Next you’ll be telling me you’re shacked up with a bloke.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  And there was that blush again. And he was fidgeting, playing with a teaspoon: now touching the collar of his crisp white, open necked shirt; now scratching his ear. His eye contact was all over the room, except in her direction.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  His eyes snapped back. “Nothing.”

  “Like hell.”

  Blake sat back in his chair and glared at her. He was back, the regular Blake, in that insolent expression, in his narrowed steel grey eyes, in that lip twist that said, ‘fuck off’ without him opening his mouth.

  That was better. Maybe she’d fallen out of touch with how he was. Maybe he’d changed, because the Blake she knew was never socially awkward, blushed or fidgeted. The Blake she knew made other people do that, because he was one of those people who commanded attention just by being. The upside to that was what he could achieve with his personal power. The downside, when he was in a black mood, he could suck all the air out of a place leaving everyone in the vicinity gasping for breath. That was a kind of power too, and he knew it, and on a good day he wielded it with finesse. On a bad day it was like being in the presence of a thunderstorm. You wanted to get far away before you got pelted.

  But something about Blake was all finessed out this morning and it was unnerving. Bailey knew how to deal with potent, dynamic, uplifting Blake, and with sharp edged, cut to the quick, take no prisoners Blake. But this in-between character, she’d never meet him before, and he was making her question her usual responses. Had the penguin been that obvious and made him feel embarrassed for her? Was she dressed too casually, did she have food on her face, lipstick on her teeth, or bad hair? She sipped her coffee and tried to regain her balance with him.

  They chatted about this and that, high on industry gossip, low on intellectual rigour. Blake told her about Olivia’s coming exhibition, the whole time his tongue tripping over his pride in her achievement at being able to mount a one woman art show. Bailey told him about losing the Department of Immigration contract, and he was suitably foul mouthed in his expression of disgust at the unfairness of it, and in his assurance that while it looked like reputation damage, it was likely more an overreaction and everything would turn out ok in the end.

  And then he got to the point. That was the thing with Blake, there was always a point. “How are you going to fill your work calendar?”

  “By having coffee with all my old industry contacts like you and asking them if they know of any projects coming up.”

  “How’s that going for you?”

  “So far, not so good. You’ve done me no favours.”

  He laughed. “Patience is a virtue, Bails.”

  “Virtue doesn’t buy groceries.”

  “You know the industry is quiet at the moment. This talk of recession is making clients hesitant to spend, making them more cost conscious.”

  Bailey nodded. Blake wasn’t the first to say this to her.

  “Are you worried?”

  “No. I’ve got money set aside to see me through, and if no new work shakes free for a few months, well it’s been a long time since I’ve had a holiday. It’s summer and what’s not to like about free time in summer?”

  “And you could do something about that limp.”

  “What limp?”

  Blake grinned. “I don’t think less of you because you’ve got a limp.”

  “Yes you do, so I don’t.” And that was the truth. Blake sought out weakness like smokers did nicotine, so if you didn’t want him in your business, you didn’t give him the patch of an opportunity. If Blake thought she was injured and not capable of working, he might think twice about referring work to her. Not because he was an evil bastard, though he had his moments where that was an apt description, but because he wouldn’t risk his own reputation on a referral that went bad. And they both knew it.

  He pinned her with is steely greys. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  “Speak.”

  “Don’t remind me of that stupid dog of Liv’s.”

  “You’re still jealous of Glory?”

  “I’m not jealous of a dog.”

  “Much.”

  “Ok, I hate the dog. It slobbers. It digs. It sheds hair everywhere.”

  “That’s not why you hate the dog.”

  “Ok, I hate the dog because I think if Olivia was asked to choose the one thing she’d take to a deserted island—she’d choose the dog.”

  “I always thought Olivia was super smart.”

  “Why do I like you Bailey? Why do I let you into my heart, into my innermost thoughts?”

  “Because you secretly admire the fact I don’t put up with any of your crap.”

  Blake grunted. “Do you want to hear my proposition or not?”

  “Don’t get huffy, of course I do.”

  “I want to buy your time for six months.”

  “Fantastic—and the catch is?”

  “So cynical, why would there be a catch?”

  “Because it’s you, Blake.”

  “The catch is—I need you as an administrative assistant, not as a creative or a producer.”

  “Ok, why?”

  “It’s what I need right now.”

  “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  Blake flipped both palms up in a ‘nothing up my sleeve’ type gesture.

  “So you want me to do what, exactly?”

  “Run me, run the office and human resources admin. We’ve grown so fast we need better internal controls, proper job descriptions, a performance management system, additional discipline around cost controls and client management. I’m bringing on new people and that will create tension. I need it managed so I can get on with the bigger picture.”

  “So hire a human resources person and get a personal assistant.”

  “I don’t want an HR function, it would only become a dumping ground for my Directors to shirk off tasks they should be accountable for, and I have a PA, but she’s busy enough making my coffee dates with grasping flunkeys like you.”

  “Nice.”

  “Bails, you know me, you know how to think like me. I need someone who can interpret what I need and get it done across the whole business, with minimal input.”

  “You know that’s not what I do.”

  “Not normally, but that’s what I need and I really want you to come do this for me. I can’t think of anyone else who I’d trust to do it. And I’ll pay you bloody well for exactly six months of your time.”

  “What happens at the end of six months?”

  “You’ll have set up all the new systems and processes we need and we’ll be shipshape. And you’ll be ready to go back to running your own show.”

  “It’s not what I expected.”

  Blake tilted his chin up as if to say ‘so what?’

  “It’s an administration role.”

  “I believe that was my lead-in line,” he said.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because you’re technically unemployed. The economy is giving folk the jitters. You don’t do holidays, and some mud from the energy thing might stick and make it hard for you. In short, you need this.”

  “Wow, you’re making it sound so like I have an alternative.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Do go on.”

  Blake leaned forward, planting his elbows in the middle of the small round table. He brought his face whisper close to Bailey’s. She could pick out individual eyelashes and see the small scar above his eyebrow from where he’d walked into an open cupboard door at Bellingen Hart, and she’d had to drive him to the hospital to get it stitched. His breath was coffee and peppermint; his eyes were all humour and undeniable rascal. Her heart caromed out of her chest and clogged up her throat. He was close enough to kiss.

  “And you really, really, rea
lly want to work with me again, because you know how much fun it will be,” he said.

  10: Romance

  No. Just no.

  Bailey held Blake’s gaze, not giving him the satisfaction of reacting to his brand of intimidation by shifting back in her chair. This was pure Blake. The Blake she knew and not so secretly worshipped. He was a tease, he was a shocking flirt. It was part of his magnetism that she’d always fallen for him, not sexually—though not without wondering what it might have been like between them before he’d sold his soul to Olivia—but professionally.

  Blake was Blake because he knew how to romance people to get what he wanted. And he was giving her his best-in-class, up close and personal pitch. She was meant to fall into his arms, not literally of course, but by doing whatever it was he needed. Whether it was good for her or not.

  So, no. Just no.

  Not this time. Not anymore.

  Bailey had spent five years of her life making Blake look good. Sure it’d been her job to support him, but she’d done more than her job; more than support him. She’d enabled him to be a star, and he’d grabbed every opportunity that sidled by, and a few that hadn’t. So now six years later, here he was, not spit exchange distance away, the CEO of his own multimillion dollar advertising company. And here Bailey was, technically unemployed, reputation slightly shop soiled, and all penguined up.

  But you know what? Being Blake’s go-to girl again, someone to polish his dull edges, straighten his tie, smile and keep the home fires burning, while he was out conquering worlds wasn’t on her to do list. Even if that list did currently only containing the two words: Find work.

  She’d done it once because she’d loved her job, enjoyed the challenges and yes—she’d been a little in love with Blake, which added to the whole sense of adventure at the time. It was Bailey and Blake against the world, finding ways to do impossible things, sometimes for the sake of seeing how far they could push the envelope. But she’d grown up, got over him, got out of the boy’s club that favoured the messy XY chromosome over the neat double X. She’d stretched her own wings and was making her own name in the industry, despite whatever momentary set back the blackout was causing.