My name's Henry Everest, and I'm about to have an adventure.
That's his line. Minus the 'woo-fucking-hoo', of course. The minimal press and public reaction to his boss' final conference before she heads into the Congo, with him and a camera crew in tow, just works to reassure him that this entire expedition is a load of bollocks.
But if anyone fires any questions, looks, gestures, farts, anything at him or in his general direction, his name is Henry Everest, and he's about to have an adventure, or, the biggest adventure of his life, or, a once in a lifetime experience. He's allowed to fancy up his statement if he wants. He doesn't want. As he always says, you can't polish a turd. Which is why he usually spends the minimum amount of time and effort tarting himself up each morning. Shit, shower, shot, and if there's time, shave. But only if he feels like it and it's absolutely necessary. He really couldn't care less if he left the house looking like a neanderthal, or something a neanderthal might eat.
Except today. Today his boss wanted him looking respectable. So his hair was combed out of his face ('I knew there was a face under there somewhere', she'd said. If she was a couple of years older she'd have been squeezing his cheek, worse still, he would've let her). He's wearing a shirt, with long sleeves, not short, rolled up to the elbow, and his trousers are nearly crease free. He's even chewing gum near constantly to hide at least the smell that would prove he'd discovered the hall with the open bar where they'd be having their send-off party in a few minutes. God he loved open bars.
As he glances over at the double-doors, the only thing, other than about a dozen press-men, standing between him and a piss-up, he catches a glimpse of the boss. Apparently there's a huge difference between his respectable and hers. She's wearing a skirt-suit, suit-skirt? Whatever the combination of a short 'knee length' skirt and very flattering suit jacket is called, she's wearing it. Sweet Jesus is she wearing it. She's tall enough without the four inch heels, but she enjoys looking down on everyone, metaphorically and literally. Because the top button of her already revealing suit jacket is open, it gives the shorter, more rat-like paparazzi and easy excuse to leer, which makes Henry's skin crawl and his fists clench, but she's told him to relax, that she enjoys the attention. He hates to believe it, but it certainly looks like she does, faking a flirty giggle, running her fingers through her short, spiky hair. The thicker she lays it on, the closer she gets to the front page and the more handsome reports she'll get with her big Congo trek.
And the 'ratarazzi' bite the bait and keep on swallowing. They think helping her into the papers will cement their 'relationship'. They're of course all pillocks who she hopes she will never see again, but they don't care about that, and even if they do, it's easy to forget when you're in her company.
Her name is Melanie Varrs, and she's about to have a real adventure.