Up and Down

Chapter 3: Competition

"All these years, you've lived but you've never had a life." - The Age of Adaline, in theaters April 24th

The late 1920s

Mr Ambrose sat in his office, massaging the side of his face. The bruise there still smarted even after several days. Perhaps he should have offered more than a pay rise of two shillings per months. She certainly hadn't seemed very impressed by his generous offer.

"Anything more would have been sheer extravagance," he murmured. He glanced up at the door. "Russell!"

A young man stuck his head through the door.

"Um... Sir?"

"You're not Russell!"

"No, Sir."

"Where is he?"

"Gone, Sir. Don't you remember? You sacked him after coming home from that party the other night."

"And you are?"

"Charles Reed, Sir. Your new secretary, Sir."

"Hm. Well, then get me The Times business section, right away!"

"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir."

"If she wants war, she can have it!"

"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir."

The business section didn't have anything good to report that day, and no matter what he tried, this trend continued unrelentingly. Miss Linton went from fifty million pounds to two-hundred in just a few months. This wouldn't have been so bad if the pounds had been referring to her weight and not her fortune, but unfortunately, she seemed to be determined to remain fit and rise fast.

Mr Ambrose suffered from increasing dental erosion caused by gnashing of the teeth. If perfect health, perfect looks and re-growing teeth hadn't been a side-effect of his never aging, he would have soon been toothless. His demeanour went from cool to freezing, and he usually was firing about a dozen secretaries per week.

Then came the day the headline appeared.

Man and Woman share title! Mr Rikkard Ambrose no longer richest person of the world!

It managed to get on the title page of The Times. That day, the paperboy considered calling in sick rather than deliver the paper to Mr Ambrose's house. But, considering what Mr Ambrose's wrath would be if he were the last one to find out about this, the boy went and cautiously slid the paper under Mr Ambrose's door, as if it were a bomb.

A few minutes later, a crash could be heard from inside Mr Ambrose's office.

*~*~**~*~*

Time passed as time does when you don't age: in large, rather insignificant batches. Mr Ambrose was engaged in a furious battle in the business world. He would be the richest person in the world again, even if he'd die in the attempt!

"Buy that jewellery store in Bond Street," he ordered. "I don't care how much it costs! I've had a report that she wants it, and I'm not going to let her have it."

"But Sir..."

"And that factory in the south of Manchester, too! Ha! I'll show her!"

"Um... Sir?" His current secretary, a fellow called Morgan if he wasn't mistaken, dared to clear his throat. "Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Whatever do you mean, Morgan?"