Not bad

Skyler

I had been following the selection process rather closely, mostly because I wanted to know exactly what my mother was planning.

If she was determined to go ahead with this ridiculous arrangement, I wanted to know who she intended to bring into my life. More importantly, I wanted to know whether anyone involved in the programme had connections to the people who had orchestrated my accident.

I was still investigating an attempted murder. I had no intention of allowing my mother’s well-funded reproductive experiment to become another avenue through which someone could get close enough to finish what they had started.

So, I watched.

I paid little attention to the medical appointments beyond the information I considered necessary. I was not particularly interested in studying a room full of women, and I certainly had no intention of developing an interest in any of them.

I was married.

Happily, as far as I was concerned.

And I was still very much in love with my wife.

The media had described me as cold, calculating and difficult to please. Some had even suggested that my approach to business was ruthless. I had never considered those descriptions particularly offensive. I had spent years building my reputation, negotiating acquisitions and making decisions that could move billions of dollars. Sentiment was rarely a useful negotiating tool.

But when it came to Bri, I had never been interested in being sensible.

I was, admittedly, an embarrassingly devoted husband. If that made me sound like a lovesick fool, so be it. I had no intention of apologising for loving my wife.

The only part of the selection process that held my attention was the interview.

My mother was conducting it herself.

That alone was enough to make me curious.

Mrs Tylan was not a woman most people found easy to approach. She had a particular way of occupying a room, a quiet authority that made people conscious of their posture, their words and, occasionally, their breathing. She did not need to raise her voice to establish control. In most situations, a look was sufficient.

It was a quality she had acquired over decades of living in the Tylan household and operating within circles where influence was rarely announced but always understood.

Being a woman in a powerful family came with its own expectations. My mother had learnt how to navigate them exceptionally well.

I had no doubt that the candidates would find the interview intimidating.

She sat behind a large desk, reviewing each woman’s file before asking what appeared to be the same two questions.

“How far are you willing to go to get what you need? Tell me what kind of person you are.”

Simple questions. Nothing particularly complicated.

Yet the answers were interesting.

One candidate spoke about financial security. She explained that the money would allow her to purchase a property, establish a stable home and provide for her family. She described herself as responsible, disciplined and capable of honouring an agreement without allowing personal feelings to interfere.

Another spoke about her desire to establish a charitable foundation. She wanted to support women who had been denied educational opportunities and create a programme that would help young girls become financially independent.

A third candidate talked about her parents. She wanted to repay their sacrifices, purchase a comfortable home for them and ensure that they would never have to worry about retirement.

There was another who spoke about investing in a business. She had apparently spent years developing a business plan and saw the opportunity as a means of securing the capital she needed to execute it.

Their answers were polished. Thoughtful, even.

Some were clearly prepared to make themselves sound like the most suitable women for the arrangement. They spoke about patience, responsibility, motherhood and discretion. One woman even explained that she had always been nurturing and believed she possessed the emotional maturity required to carry a child for someone else.

I listened without much interest.

It was an interview. People presented the versions of themselves they believed their audience wanted to see. I had spent enough time in boardrooms to recognise a carefully constructed answer.

Then came the final candidate.

Ashley.

She was the last woman to take the seat opposite my mother.

I remember noticing that my mother appeared to be studying her file a little more carefully than she had studied the others. At the time, I thought nothing of it.

“How far are you willing to go to get what you need?” my mother asked. “Tell me what kind of person you are”

The woman took a breath.

Then, instead of giving the carefully rehearsed answer I expected, she started talking about her ex-boyfriend.

I stared at the screen.

What?

She explained that she had recently experienced a rather unpleasant heartbreak.

She went into details.

Quite a number of details, actually.

I leaned back slightly.

Was this an interview or a private counselling session?

My mother maintained her expression, although I thought I detected the slightest shift in her eyes.

Ashley continued.

She spoke about how much she had invested in the relationship, the things she had sacrificed. She explained that she had spent a considerable amount of time trying to become the sort of woman her boyfriend wanted, only to discover that he had never appreciated her efforts.

I was beginning to wonder whether someone had forgotten to inform her what the interview was about.

Eventually, she seemed to realise that she had wandered rather far from the question.

She straightened in her seat and tried to bring herself back to the point.

She explained that her younger brother was seriously ill

The money, she said, would pay for his treatment.

Then she added something that made me pay closer attention..

Her voice was steady when she said it, although there was something in her expression that suggested the statement came from experience rather than ambition.

“I need the money,” she admitted. “I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But needing money doesn’t mean I’ll do absolutely anything to get it. I understand what I’m agreeing to, and I intend to honour the agreement.”

There was a brief silence.

I had expected the candidates to sell themselves as ideal women for the position. Ashley had practically walked into the room and presented my mother with a summary of her recent romantic disaster.

And yet, she had managed to hold my attention.

I wasn’t convinced my mother would select her, though.

If anything, I expected her to prefer one of the more composed candidates. The women who had spoken about family values, charitable ambitions and financial responsibility had all made reasonable impressions.

Ashley, on the other hand, had given her an unsolicited account of a failed relationship.

Not exactly the most conventional interview strategy.

But my mother had been watching her.

And apparently, she liked what she saw.

When the final selection was announced, Ashley was the chosen candidate.

I remember staring at the screen for a few seconds.

“Interesting,” I muttered.

Not bad, Ashley.

Not bad at all.