Best Friends Don't Sleep Together - A.H. Series #1

Chapter 8

Getting through the morning at the office has never been so hard. I had to read the files about Julia Woods at least a dozen times in order to memorize them. It’s not because there were too many things to remember, it’s because I just couldn’t stop thinking about Adam’s offer.

It bogged me down so much that I was even happy to leave the office to go interview Julia Woods. I read so much about her that I feel like I know her even better than I know myself. The silver lining is that this appointment with her allowed me to skip lunch with Chris. He wanted to come with me, but for once I actually told him no.

I kind of regretted it when I found myself in front of the Woods mansion. I thought that driving for about an hour wouldn’t take me outside New York City, and it didn’t, but oh, my God, I’ve never even imagined that such homes could exist. I mean, who lives in a place that’s bigger than a whole neighborhood?

I’m not kidding, judging by how long I had to drive from the front gate to the front door, this mansion includes the number of acres you’d expect from some ancient English estate, like, I don’t know, Pemberley, or Mansfield Park. I couldn’t even drive all the way to the front door, technically, a guard stopped me, and told me to go all the way back – Mrs. Woods doesn’t like modern things like cars to ruin the frontside of her colonial mansion.

When I finally made it, I was escorted to the back door. Back door and not front because Mrs. Woods isn’t a fan of journalists. I wonder how come she gives so many interviews, then, and why is she considering buying a scientific magazine.

A butler escorted me to the library, where I found Mrs. Woods. For a moment, I wondered whether I should bow to Her Ladyship. She barely even spared me a glance, and sent the butler away with one single hand gesture.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Woods,” I greeted, my knees almost making me bow on their own. “My name’s Vivian Dawson, from Atlantis magazine. I’m here for the interview.”

She looked me up and down for a few moments – either assessing my attire or pinpointing every single flaw, or just both. I wanted to look professional, so I went for the classic work outfit: grey pencil skirt that reached underneath my knees, white dress-shirt, black heels, hair tied up in a low bun. I even wore my glasses for the purpose, while normally I use contact lenses. Still, I felt tiny under her scrutinizing gaze.

“Well?” Mrs. Woods huffed, “what are you waiting for?”

For you to ask me to sit down, maybe? But she didn’t, so I opened my notebook, and was about to open my mouth, when she asked: “How old are you?”

“Uh … 25 …” milady? “ma’am.”

My tone must have sounded quizzical, because she let out a short but wry sound that was supposed to be a mocking laugh: “Are you not certain of your age, Miss Dawson?”

“No, I …” I what? I cleared my throat, needing to regain control. “I’m 25, ma’am.”

“Married?”

At 25? Are you insane, lady? “No, ma’am.”

“You should.” She looked me up and down again, this time lingering more on my curves. “Your beauty is already withering, assuming there ever was any.” Say what, now?

“Mrs. Woods, I …” come on, ask the first question, “uh … well …”

She rolled her eyes – in that classy manner that’s supposed to hurt you profoundly by making you feel like dirt under her shoes, but still not visible enough to be caught if you weren’t looking for it. “No, no. This cannot work.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Go back to New York.”