3

SMOKING GUN

The lift of the executive floor dinged open. Rex, red-faced and out of breath, stormed across the plush, carpeted reception area. He barely acknowledged the beautifully coiffed receptionist and her muted, ‘Good morning.’ His office was down the end, on the corner, the last of the C-Suite.

All the offices were empanelled in clear glass, except for his, that was frosted like a forest cabin in a bitter snowstorm. With an outer and an inner office, he had two doors he could shut on the outside world.

When he burst in struggling for air, he saw his executive assistant, Giselle Fiorina, arched over his desk, punching the keyboard of his workstation. Giselle had the looks of a runway model and was not short of a word.

‘This desk is all the wrong height, Rex,’ she said. ‘It’ll do your back in. What you need is an ergonomic assessment.’ With her hands on her hips, she waited for some kind of answer. But Rex’s mind was elsewhere.

‘Have you seen what’s happening outside?’ he said.

‘No price on your back, Rex. Only got one of them.’

Arranging the deck of papers on his desk with precision Giselle turned to face the door, her summery skirt twirling, the hemline floating fetchingly above her knees. But not even this put Rex off track.

‘This is out of control.’ His