Race to the Top: Book one in the Racing to Find Love series
Read Race to the Top: Book one in the Racing to Find Love series Online
Authors: KT Shears
Race to the Top
By
KT Shears
Copyright © 2015 by KT Shears
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses
permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To my own wannabe
racing driver, who kept me on the straight and narrow with some of the racing
terminology, and is always my number one driver x
Contents
Anna sighed and leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning
the screen in front of her. She had just finished her latest piece for
Stylish
magazine – a hard-hitting feature article on the sex trade in one of the
country’s smaller and more affluent cities. She was poised with her finger over
the submit button when the phone on her desk began trilling loudly. She could
tell from the ring it was an internal call, and wondered briefly who was
calling when they all worked in an open-plan office. The favoured form of
communication was usually shouting over colleagues’ heads.
She answered and was surprised to hear the editor-in-chief
herself. Stella Starling rarely spoke directly to her staff, most of her
communications coming through her long-suffering secretary, Brenda. Anna had
spoken to Stella only a handful of times in her three years here: the
obligatory welcome chat, where Stella wrung Anna’s hand and told her how glad
they were she had chosen to come and work for them; the first week de-brief
where she told Anna how impressed she’d been with her first article; and once
more, when a story Anna had written had been nominated for a national journalism
award.
She wanted Anna to come to her office and, for a horrible
moment, she wondered if she was about to be fired. She knew times were tough
for print media – the local newspaper that Anna had started her career with had
gone from a vibrant daily paper to a weekly community newsletter, such was the
quality of its writing now. All the experienced staff had gone – made redundant
or taken early retirement. Instead, a steady stream of young reporters and
designers had filtered in and out through the revolving doors, gaining just
enough experience – and making just enough horrendous mistakes to make the
paper’s name mud – to get a cushy job for themselves in PR or on the TV or
radio.
Anna reasoned with herself that losing her job was unlikely.
She didn’t like to brag, but she was one of the better writers and there were
surely better paid and worse-producing writers than her that could be slashed
if cuts had to be found. She briefly felt a bit guilty for thinking about her
colleagues in this way, especially as everyone was so friendly.
She told Stella that she would be there in a moment, and pressed
the magic button that sent her labour of love flying off, unseen, to the
invisible hands that would preen it and pamper it, nestling it lovingly among
the pages of the magazine.
Stella Starling’s office was plush, as you’d expect from the
glamorous editor of a glossy women’s magazine. She sat at a large glass desk,
immaculately dressed as always. Anna wondered if getting a job like that
transformed you overnight: you went to work one day in your usual high street
suit and the next, you turned up dripping in designer garb with a new haircut
and nails that could pierce rock. She didn’t think she would ever make it as
editor of a magazine. She wasn’t corporate enough, and anyway, she loved to
write, not to watch other people write and have to deal with all the crap that
comes with being a manager. The money would be nice, she supposed, but not at
the expense of personal satisfaction.
Money was a sore point with her at the moment. She had
recently split up with her last boyfriend, acrimoniously, after three years
together. He was obsessed with money – obsessed with watching every last penny
drip into his account. Anna thought he would sit and watch his bank account for
hours if he could. He was a lawyer and so he earned big, way bigger than Anna’s
measly writer’s salary. And that had been a problem for him.
He he had wanted a house and lifestyle that she simply
couldn’t afford. Anna had never expected him to pay for her, but he had never
even offered. She saw the seeds of resentment that were being sown when she
would veto an overpriced house or suggest that they have a city break instead
of jetting off to the Caribbean for two weeks. Scott had got frustrated, finally
exploding at her one night, saying they could never have a future if she had no
ambition.
‘I do have ambition,’ Anna had pointed out. That was the
week her story had been nominated for an award, and she was angry that this
massive milestone in her career had so far passed unnoticed by Scott. She was
immensely proud of it, and she knew if the shoe was on the other foot, she
would have taken Scott for dinner; ordered champagne.
‘You earn a pittance,’ he’d said, shaking his head at her as
if she was a naughty child who didn’t understand the error of her ways. ‘We’ll
never be able to have a proper life if you don’t leave that place and get a
better job.’
While listening to him as he reeled off the types of places
and jobs that were better paid, Anna felt the thought rising inside of her. It
had been percolating in her brain for a while; months, if she was honest with
herself, and suddenly it burbled out of her mouth like lava from a volcano.
‘I don’t love you anymore.’
It had been a harsh way to end things, and she still felt
guilty. But as Anna watched him come to terms with her statement, she realised
that he was surprised that not loving him was enough of a reason to end things.
That said it all, as far as Anna was concerned. She wasn’t a sap, but she
believed in love and romance.
Stella’s voice brought Anna out of her reverie. It was a
voice that could cut glass, and it sliced through Anna’s own thoughts like a
knife.
‘I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger phone call, Anna.’
Stella sat back, drumming her nails on the glass table. Anna
thought she looked a bit tired, and reflected that being in charge of a
magazine must take its toll on her personal life. She knew Stella was married
with one child – the picture of the three of them took pride of place on her
desk – but she also knew she was often here as early as 6am, and as late as
9pm. She wondered how Stella juggled it all – sometimes Anna felt that she
could barely manage her own life. That had been another of Scott’s sticking
points. He was so organised, she expected he had already arranged his own
funeral.
‘Are you working on anything big right now?’ Stella asked,
looking at Anna intently
‘I’ve just finished the sex trade story. I sent it over to
layout before coming in here.’
She nodded. Anna was increasingly curious. It was rare the
editor ever got involved directly in assigning stories. She felt a burst of
excitement. Perhaps it was something really big.
‘I had an interesting meeting the other day,’ Stella said,
eyeing Anna appraisingly.
‘Oh?’ Anna said, not sure what else there was to say until
Stella showed her hand.
‘What do you know about racing?’ she asked suddenly.
Anna thought for a second.
‘Er, like horse racing? Or people?’ She knew very little
about either. Sport was not her thing. She watched Wimbledon every summer, of
course. Everybody did that, though. And it was more about the Pimms and
strawberries and cream as far was Anna was concerned. She’d been to a football
game too – Scott had dragged her along to the corporate box his work had
arranged. It was deathly dull and she’d got drunk, which had driven Scott mad.
‘Cars,’ Stella said, twirling a perfectly curled lock of
hair around her finger.
This was even worse. Anna could at least name a famous
runner. But a car driver? Not a chance – and she wasn’t afraid to say so. Was
that even a sport? She’d seen clips of car racing on television, and it seemed
to her it was nothing but overpaid young men whizzing round in circles for
hours on end. No thanks, she would pass on that.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Anna said, feeling proud of herself
for being truthful and not letting the pressure of sitting opposite the boss
force her into blurting out that she was an avid fan and knew everything about
it. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened – Anna hated to turn down
stories, generally, and had rapidly become a fount of bizarre knowledge due to
her eagerness to take on even the most obscure of subject matters.
Stella nodded and Anna was surprised to see this answer didn’t
seem to have taken the wind out of her sails. What was going on here? Her
excitement about the possibility of getting her hands on a juicy story ebbed
away. This didn’t sound like a big story at all – at least not a big story she
wanted to be involved with.
‘You know the company that owns the magazine was bought over
about a year ago?’
Of course Anna knew. Everybody knew. There had been the
weeks of uncertainty while discussions went back and forth, and they had all
sat, waiting to find out if they would still have jobs. It had been an unpleasant
time. She nodded her head and Stella carried on.
‘Well, the company that took us over, Indigo Media, is a
subsidiary company of a much larger entity – Willis Enterprises.’
Anna recognised the name. They had their fingers in a lot of
pies, and she wasn’t surprised that they had wanted to add media to their
burgeoning portfolio. But what did this have to do with racing?
‘One of Willis Enterprises’ other endeavours is Willis
Mechanical.’
She looked at Anna questioningly, who shook her head. She
had never heard of them, but she imagined Willis Enterprises had a vast
portfolio of ‘other endeavours.’
‘Willis Mechanical is a car racing team, quite a successful
one, apparently. They’ve been operating for several years.’
Now they were getting somewhere, Anna thought, as she waited
for the reason she was here to become clear.
‘James O’Hare, the CEO of Willis Enterprises, is fanatical
about racing and about this team. They haven’t won anything, apparently, but he
seems convinced they are the next big thing. And he wants them to be splashed
all over the media.’
Great, Anna thought, she was going to be asked to write an
article about car racing when she knew nothing about it. This would be one of
the worst stories she had ever been given. She thought she had escaped this
kind of thing when she fled the newspaper three years ago.
‘Of course, now he owns a media company. And he owns us. He
came to me last week himself, and I was able to point out that a standalone
article about cars would look odd in the type of magazine we produced.’
Anna breathed a sigh of relief. She felt a bit guilty that
she had been so quick to assume Stella had hung her out to dry – you didn’t get
to be editor-in-chief of a top glossy magazine without knowing what your client
base was, and what stories would interest them. And of course, an article about
racing would be of no interest to the readers of
Stylish
magazine. Heck,
if it wasn’t of interest to the writer, how on earth could it be of interest to
a reader?
‘However,’ she said, and Anna felt
uncomfortable again. She was obviously in Stella’s office for a reason, after
all. ‘He’s determined that he gets some use out of us, so we sat and
brainstormed for a while. And we came up with a solution.’
She spread her hands on the desk and
paused a minute, obviously considering the best approach.
‘Look,’ she said, eventually, and
Anna felt she had decided candour was the best approach here. ‘My hands are
tied here. He writes our cheques and what James O’Hare wants, James O’Hare
gets. I managed to steer him away from the idea of a standalone article about
racing, but I’m afraid you’ll probably like the solution even less… We’ve come
up with the idea of a few columns – not about the racing, per se, but about the
lifestyle, the glamour, the glitz…you know the type of thing, celebrities
spotted at races, what they’re wearing, what the drivers are wearing, who their
girlfriends are.’
Anna stared at her. This
definitely
did not sound like anything she wanted to be involved with. Glitz and
glamour? Who was wearing what? She wrote serious pieces, for god’s sake, not
tacky columns about fashion and celebrities.
Stella saw the look on her face and
held her hand up.
‘I know this isn’t your kettle of
fish, believe me – but there’s no one else I’m happy to give it to. This needs
to be done properly, or we’ll all be lining up in the dole queue before long.’
She paused for a second, and Anna
sensed she had more bad news.
‘I don’t know what you do know about
racing,’ she said, ‘but they travel across the world, with races every two
weeks or so during the season. And James wants you to travel with the team a
few times this year.’
Anna kept staring at her, not quite
believing what she was hearing. She was going to have to share a plane, hotels,
meals with these people? She had never met anyone involved in racing, but she
was pretty sure they would have nothing in common.
‘It’s a generous offer,’ Stella
continued, now obviously reaching the sales pitch section of her speech. ‘James
will pay for everything – flights, accommodation in fancy hotels, meals; all
you need to do is turn up and produce a column afterwards. It’s a great
opportunity to see the world – they travel all over: America, Australia,
Europe, the Middle East. And you’ll have plenty of spare time while you’re out
there to pursue other stories, if you wanted.’
Anna felt annoyed. Stella knew she
would find the opportunity to travel
and
write about it quite appealing.
Anna sat there for a minute, weighing it up in her mind. So she would have to write
a few columns full of rubbish, but that wouldn’t take her that long, she
reasoned. And she would get to see the world. Unfortunately it would be in the
company of people she doubted she would even want to pass the time of day with,
but perhaps it was a compromise worth making. It would also put her in Stella’s
good books – and perhaps this James O’Hare chap, in case the threat of
redundancies raised its head again. Perhaps it would be shrewd to accept.
‘I’ll do it,’ Anna said, clearly
surprising Stella, if the look on her face was anything to go by.
