Beware of the Boss

She imagined herself in the water. Remembered the way her focus became so narrow, so all-encompassing, that she didn’t hear the crowd—didn’t hear a thing. It was just her body and the water, and all she could control was her technique.

Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke...

The crowd—a world away—was suddenly much louder, and Lanie’s eyes popped open. The anchor swimmer was in the water, and Great Britain had a chance for a medal. The crowd had gone wild.

Teagan squeezed her hand again, harder, and Lanie blinked, refocussing her attention.

Australia had pulled ahead. They were going to win.

And just like that—they had.

The girls had done it, and done it in style—in record time. They deserved every accolade the over-excited commentator was bestowing upon them.

They filled the television screen, swim caps stripped off, damp hair long around their shoulders, as they completed the standard pool-side interview.

‘Lanie?’ Teagan’s voice was full of concern.

Despite her own mental reassurances that she was fine, and the many times she’d told herself she was a bigger person than to be jealous or resentful or whatever, she suddenly realised she wasn’t.

A tear splashed onto her hands, and she looked down to where her fingers were knotted in the flannelette of her pyjamas.

She’d been wallowing. Treading water until this moment—waiting for tonight, for this race.

Why?

Because tonight was the end. The end of her swimming dream.

Teagan silently shoved a handful of tissues in front of her and Lanie dabbed at her cheeks. Blew her nose. And considered what to do next.

She needed to do something—anything. And she had to do it now. She couldn’t wake up tomorrow and be the also-ran swimmer.

She turned to face Teagan on the couch. Her friend was so close to be as good as shoulder to shoulder with her, but she’d wisely not made a move to comfort her.

‘I need a job,’ Lanie said.

Teagan’s eyes widened, but then she smiled. ‘But no drug cartels?’

‘Or anything involving swimming.’

Her friend’s smile broadened. ‘Consider it done.’

TWO

Grayson Manning shoved his chair away from his desk, then covered the generous space between the desk and the door in quick, agitated strides.

Outside his office, his assistant’s desk was empty.

He glanced at his watch, confused. It was well after nine a.m., and Rodney was always on time. Gray insisted upon it.

He frowned as he walked into the hallway. Thankfully a woman sat behind the glossy white reception desk. Behind her, ‘Manning’ was spelt out in ridiculously large chrome block capitals.

What was her name again? Cathy? Katie?

‘Caroline,’ she said, unprompted, as he approached—reminding him he’d guessed wrong last time he’d asked her a question, too.

‘Caroline,’ he repeated. He’d been told doing so was useful when remembering names—not that it had helped him so far. ‘Where’s Rodney?’

The woman blinked. Then bit her lip, glancing away for a moment. ‘Um...Mr Manning, Rodney resigned...’ A pause. ‘Yesterday.’

Gray’s jaw clenched. ‘Our agreement with the agency specifies at least two weeks’ notice must be provided.’

The woman nodded, her blond ponytail bouncing in agreement. ‘I believe he asked your permission that his resignation be effective immediately.’

‘I didn’t agree to that.’

Caroline’s lips twitched. ‘I’m pretty sure you did. Rodney forwarded me your e-mail so he could organise cancellation of his building access and so on. It was there in writing.’

Gray pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and quickly scrolled through yesterday’s sent messages. Yesterday had been stupidly busy—back-to-back meetings, a major issue with one of his contractors, and a lead on a new investment opportunity in South East Asia.

Even so, surely he would have noticed if... Letter of Resignation.

It wasn’t even a vague subject line. He really needed to start paying more attention to his inbox. But then, that was one of the reasons why he had an assistant: to prioritise his mail, to nag him to respond to anything important, and to allow him to pay no attention to anything that wasn’t.

The irony was not lost on him.

Without another word he headed up the hallway to the opposite end of the floor. To his father’s office.

A mirror image of his own, Gordon Manning’s office also had a smaller adjacent waiting area—although his was complete with an actual assistant.

‘Marilyn—’

Unlike Caroline, the older lady didn’t even attempt to hide her smile. She shook her head. ‘Gray, Gray, Gray...’

‘I need a new assistant.’

‘So I hear.’

His lips thinned. ‘Does everyone but me know that Rodney resigned?’

‘A group of us had farewell drinks last night. Lovely guy.’

‘I was unaware you were so close,’ he replied dryly. ‘He was only here a couple of weeks.’

‘Two months,’ Marilyn corrected smoothly.

Really? Since his father had announced his impending retirement six months ago, Gray could barely remember what day it was. He was working seven days a week, and easily twelve-hour days.

‘Is my father in?’