“It’s not that they don’t like you,” Rick Livingstone said, his accent held a hint of Australian, a testament to his family’s Antipodean heritage. It came and went, sometimes stronger and more pronounced and at other times, barely even noticeable. His fair complexion and blonde hair, that bordered on containing a hint of ginger in certain lights, meant he was far more suited to a life in the more temperate climate of northern Europe than Down-Under. Rick collected a cup of black coffee up from his highly polished black-glass desk and examined the steaming brew for a brief second as if deciding whether it was safe to drink. Eventually he took a tentative sip and smacked his lips together in satisfaction. “It’s just – well, how can I put it, Mike? The show hardly produced any results. If the
