Madison afforded herself a luxurious stretch, before settling into her comfortable seat, nudging aside several rival publications with her tea mug, and took a deep sip of the peppermint tea. Using her monogrammed letter-opener, she sliced through the sealed brown packet, listening with satisfaction at the sound of the paper packaging tearing.
To Madison, it was the sound of money being made.
Her eyes carefully perused the faxed pages of the first couple of chapters. It wasn’t fully done, but enough to convey the basic plot, and as always, a hint at the spectacular twist to come. Somehow Byron was always on top of the news, and this particular story reflected it, even if Madison knew just how set in his ways he really was. Gated communities were springing up everywhere across the US, with several towns being demolished and rebuilt, the house’s value up to ten times what it was previously worth, and extra space was at a premium.
Of course, those living within the gated communities had to obey the community rules. One radical example was a certain community had a rule in regards to it’s grass, and just how long it could get. Professional gardeners were provided, as an “upkeep” cost within the community, which all residents were expected to pay. Each home was similar to the other homes, and everything was uniform, new and clean, and above all else, perfect.
Talk about a suspicious case of Stepford Wives.
Byron’s seething for anyone who had the money to lock themselves away in such communities certainly shone forth in his current writing, with not even the richest being safe from power, corruption, greed, and murder. The community was so perfect, people were willing to kill for it, or perhaps kill despite it. For Madison did not have the final chapters to see how the story would end, but already she was engrossed in the storyline, her mind whirling around, and she sent it off to the publisher, via her own fax, before resealing the story in a new brown paper envelope and sticking it in her desk. No one, with the exception of Madison and the publisher, who was bound to a tight secrecy clause, would know the story until it hit the shelves, and each month it generated a lot of speculation; her own magazine’s website was proof of that. After the story was published, they came in droves, speculating the newest plot twist, the newest scheme, or idea, some more wild then others.
Madison didn’t understand why some of the people that posted didn’t become professional writers in their own right; the ideas they came up with were just as speculative and wild as what Byron did.
Madison’s PA entered, informing her of the rest of her morning’s activities and meetings, inclusive of a chocolate enema.
A chocolate enema?
Apparently, it was the newest thing to hit the spa scene, and the magazine needed someone to trial it, which was of course, being held at one of the more exclusive spas in London. Not only would Madison have the chocolate treatment, but she’d also have access to all the other treatments available, and would be expected to give a report on the treatment, facilities, staff, and overall impression.
After all, if the Editor wasn’t willing to do something she was advising for her readers, then why should they not attempt it themselves? It was all about underlying credibility. Swallowing hard, she sat through several meetings with the rather uncomfortable thought of what was to come, her PA having gleefully given her a rather grossly in-depth description of exactly what happened, what went where, and what came out.
Not an exactly appealing prospect.
However, the idea of one of the seaweed body wrap, manicure, pedicure, facial and massage afterwards won her over, and she even agreed to the photographer accompanying her, under certain circumstances, of course.
But still…A chocolate enema?