Who's Calling The Shots?. Jennifer RaeЧитать онлайн книгу.
leaving school six years ago she’d managed to help Maddy take their company from a fledgling gym and activewear business to an award-winning national brand, with seventeen retail stores across the country and a dozen new lines ranging from home workout gear to protein powders. But times were tough. Money was tight. And to move to the next level—which they’d all decided it was time for—they needed to up their game.
Publicity. Recognition. That was what they needed. Brooke knew it. But they’d planned for Maddy to get on to this stupid TV programme—Brooke had gone there for moral support and some sort of pathetic back-up on the off-chance Maddy didn’t get it. Brooke hadn’t doubted for a second that Maddy would get in. Maddy always won everything... Except this time.
And now, in some cruel, unexpected twist of fate, Brooke was expected to expose herself on a reality show based on the ridiculous premise that there was a Perfect Match out there for everyone. But Brooke knew what she had to do. She had no choice. This was her family’s future and it was in her hands. Every team she’d ever been on had dumped her, due to her pathetic athletic ability, but her sisters never had. They’d always been there for her. From that first day.
‘OK, I’ll do it.’
Maddy came around the desk to throw herself at Brooke, but Brooke held her back with an arm.
‘I’m going to hate every second, I’m going to regret this with every atom in my tiny body, but I’ll do it. For you. And Micky and M’Liss and Melody.’
Maddy smiled her brilliant white smile and pulled her in for a giant hug. ‘You might be surprised, little sister—you might end up loving every minute.’
Brooke pulled her face into a massive frown as she was squashed into Maddy’s chest, knowing deep, deep down that there was no way in hell she was going to enjoy any minute of this humiliating and utterly absurd experience.
Jack schooled his features into something more gentlemanly. His father’s face beamed at him from the big screen TV.
‘He’s a quality unit, Jack. He can make a hit out of anything. I want you to do anything you can to help him out.’
The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood erect. It was happening again. Just like last time. Just like every damn time. And, just like last time, he wanted to hit someone. Preferably his father. But since his father was on the screen, not there in person, he’d do more damage to himself and probably have to fork out for a new TV. Not smart.
‘I’ve got it sorted, Max. I don’t need any help.’ He kept his tone low and calm.
‘Now, don’t go getting your knickers in a knot, Jacko. Rob Gunn is not there to take over. He’s a hit-maker—you should be relieved he’s coming on board.’
His father never kept his voice low and calm. When Jack was younger, he’d thought of his father as some kind of god-like Santa Claus. He was big and loud and jolly, and he would fly back home laden with gifts for his only child. He hadn’t seen him often, so when he had Jack would hang on every word and lap up any attention he could get. But Jack wasn’t a child any more, and he could see his father for what he was. And he no longer believed in Santa Claus.
‘Mick and I have this under control. Anyone else joining would just make it messy...’
Jack’s father held up a big, beefy sun-reddened hand. ‘Like you and Mick had it “under control” last time? We can’t afford another stuff-up like that, Jack. I’ve told you—’
Jack knew his father hated being interrupted. It was one of the few things they had in common. Which was why Jack did it. That, and the fact that his father was moving into uncomfortable territory.
‘Max, I told you it’s under control. I don’t need your hotshot. What happened last time won’t happen again. Trust me.’
Jack watched as his father’s face turned redder, which made his grey hair burn even brighter. Not for the first time during this conversation Jack noticed how old his father was looking. His normally round cheeks were drooping, his fleshy nose was covered in purple veins and his hair looked even thinner and greyer than normal. Jack felt an unusual flash of sympathy for the man. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since he’d grown up and realised that this loud, full-of-life man was an overbearing bully. Jack shook it off. If his father had taught him anything it was to eradicate any emotions when you were talking business.
‘You listen to me, boy. I’ve lined this bloke up to help you. It’s all about you. Like everything I do—trying to keep your head above water. Trying to keep you afloat. Do you have any idea how much your last little mistake cost our company?’
Jack knew exactly how much it had cost. He’d been at every meeting. He’d gone through every figure with the accountants and he’d earned back every penny. But there was no use telling his father that. From the look on his face Jack knew the steam train had already left the station. The old man was about to blow and Jack was going to cop it—big-time.
‘I started from nothing to build this company, boy. Nothing. You have no idea of the things I did to make this company what it is today. And I did it for you. So you would be left with something rather than nothing—like I was.’
Jack leaned back in his chair. He was going to be there a long time. He’d heard this story so many times he could predict what his father was going to say next.
‘And what have you done to repay me? Drugs. Women. Wild parties. Deadbeat mates. You haven’t appreciated anything. I gave you the best of everything—the greatest opportunities. Any kid would gnaw off their right arm to be handed the position of Executive Producer for all our media, the way you were, and what have you done to repay me?’
Jack mouthed the words along with him, knowing full well his father was too blind with his own indignation to notice.
‘You’ve produced a string of reality shows that have ended in fights and lawsuits and disaster. I can tell you now, boy, that’s not going to happen again. Not on my watch. This time you’d better get it right or you can kiss your inheritance goodbye.’
Jack sighed. ‘Like I’ve said to you a thousand times, Dad—I don’t want your money. I don’t need your money.’
His father’s heavy breaths could be heard through the speakers. Jack saw him knock against the computer he was speaking into, losing his balance a little. Max’s lips pursed and released, then pursed and released again. He was thinking. Jack could practically see the old man’s mind ticking behind his eyes.
‘Maybe not, Jacko. Maybe you would be able to make a few measly bucks on your own. But how ’bout your mother? What would happen to her, Jack, if I were to shut up shop, take my money and run?’
And there was the stinger. It pierced Jack’s gut and lodged there. Jack’s father only had one weapon left to use against Jack. His mother. Who was still in love with his father, for some reason Jack couldn’t understand. His mother—who would be devastated if she found out how much Max didn’t care for her any more.
Jack knew exactly what his father meant. At the moment everything Max had—everything he knew about, anyway—was fifty per cent owned by Jack’s mother. But when Jack had discovered his father was having an affair fifteen years ago and threatened to tell his mother Max had told him he’d leave his mother with nothing if he did. He’d made Jack realise how powerless he was and then produced a contract saying he had to stay with the media arm of his father’s company until he earned enough money to buy his way out of it.
At nineteen, he’d thought it would be easy. But after station cutbacks, a fall in the economy and a cultural shift towards reality TV, Jack had barely covered costs each year. Perfect Match was his chance. It had trialled well in market research and the time was right. Dating shows were rating through the roof, and he’d already had a few bites to syndicate it in the US, the UK and India.