Slow News Day

by Corrie Kavanaugh
1299078199|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover (updated 1299111644|%e %b %Y, %H:%M %Z|agohover) | 1 comment(s)

IC Date: March 2nd, 2011 — mid-morning at work.
This episode is a followup to 'Nights of wine and poses...'

Nearly two weeks have passed, and I still can't help smiling when I think of that day in Ilfracombe — two people putting aside all differences to simply enjoy the day. A walk along the moors, a stop at Walkers Chocolate Emporium, a visit to the museum of curiosities, dinner, then a stop at 'Chinese Whispers' nightclub.

These are the thoughts that are floating around in my mind as I finish typing a press release for Dumnonia and emailing it over to Tristan before getting it out to the public. These are the daydream rememberences I'm experiencing when two things happen nearly simultaneously. The phone rings, and my boss walks in.

I hold my index finger to indicate he should wait a minute, and reach for the phone. "Corrie Kavanaugh," I answer, happily enough. Until I hear the voice on the other end.

"Did I not tell you to be careful, Corrie? Did you not promise me it was just business?"

"Mum, now is really not a good time. I'll need to call you ba — "

There is a definite huffle on the other end of the phone. "Corrie Amelia Kavanaugh! You will not brush me off with — "

I interrupt her before she can get any farther. "I'll call you back, mum. Mr. Randall just stepped in." I know it won't be putting off the angry tirade for long, but in this particular instance, I'm happy to allow work to take precedence. Despite the continued lecture, I hang up the phone and set it to go straight to voicemail for now. "I apologize," I say, still cheerful despite the tone of the phone call. "Family issue."

Stewart Randall drops something on the desk in front of me. A tabloid, not more than a day old. It takes only seconds for me to scan the cover in a cursory manner, trying to ensure that Dumnonia is not in one of the smaller side images — they're not big enough to get the headlined photo yet. When I don't immediately spot anything, I glance up at him curiously.

"You're supposed to be stifling these things, Miss Kavanaugh, not starring in them."

"Starring in what?" I take a much closer look at the small images. That's when I spot a blurry cellular phone snapshot of Rhys and I coming out of the nightclub. The caption over it stating Rhys Owens on the prowl. I groan, and start flipping through the pages to find the write-up.

Finally finding it three quarters of the way through the tabloid, I simply gape. There are four more snapshots, one of which includes me acting the fool and dancing on the pole in the middle of the dance floor at Whispers. "Bloody hell…"

Spotted: Provocative playboy R.O. parading around Ilfracombe with an unknown redhead. New fling, or is London's lothario looking for something more from a country girl?

I don't bother reading beyond that point, I simply glance up at Randall and let out a tiny chuckle. "I didn't realize that wooing a business partner nearly two weeks ago was suddenly tabloid worthy news. Must be a slow day."

He shakes his head, pointing at one of the pictures. "That hardly looks like a business lunch to go over a contract." His tone is light, but there's no mistaking the reprimand behind the words.

"I'll ensure it doesn't happen again, Mr. Randall. Once Reese Entertainment Media signs off on the contract with Dumnonia, there won't be any further contact." I hope. Or do I? The jury still seems to be out on that one. "Unless Dumnonia requests that I stay on as their PR rep."

There's a small frown. An almost imperceptible nod. "It's not that it's bad for business, Miss Kavanaugh, and what you do on your own time is your own matter. I'd just prefer my employees not wind up in The Sun."

"Understood," I offer with a quick glance to the phone to indicate that I've gotten at least one message during this time. "I'll contact them and set the record straight. It'll be taken care of by close of business today."

"See that it is," he says with a shake of his head as he turns to leave. "Good work on Dumnonia though. Never would have thought you'd land a fish quite that big."

Once he's gone and I've read the article again, I lift up the receiver. I don't bother checking the message. I know that it's a rant from mum, and I'd much rather deal with her personally than try to respond to her frustrations. "Mum, it's me. Let me explain now…"


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