Authors: Charlotte Oliver
“Well,” I said, “it’s nothing really. Only I might be getting a proper job. In PR!”
“Where was this?” she demanded.
So I told her the whole story, and she oohed and aahed at just the right bits. I sort of glossed over the part where I’d thought he’d been chatting me up, and focused instead on the joyous news that he had asked me to come for an interview.
“How exciting is that?” she squealed (not too loudly, mind, or Victor would’ve rumbled us again). “When did he say to ring?”
I gulped. “Today, actually. I’m crapping myself.”
“Today?” she squeaked. “When?”
I gulped again. “Not too early. Don’t want it to seem like I’ve got nothing else to do.”
And so we sat in reverential silence as the clock ticked toward 10:45 and the morning tea break. It was like being in one of those daft living tableaux where you have to stand in an unnatural posture for hours in aid of a Christmas fundraiser.
Finally, the hour drew near. I hobbled out of reception, my legs rubbery with excitement, and went to the ladies’. With shaking hands, I got my mobile out, having braced myself for this moment for hours. Involuntarily, I crossed myself, just like I’d seen my own mother do in moments of extreme stress.
Then I realized I hadn’t put the number into my phonebook. Hysteria ensued. I rang Mia. She swore at me while she scrabbled around on my bedroom floor to find the clutch bag from Friday, then she swore at me while she scrabbled around in the clutch bag to find the card.
I tried to do that thing where you put the phone on speaker, and take down the number at the same time. It didn’t work. Eventually, Mia swore at me some more and texted the number through.
By then I was emotionally exhausted, but I refused to give in. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity run away from me. Least of all because it was being offered by an awfully intriguing man with a wicked glint in his eye.
“Hello,” said a male voice.
“H-hello. My name is Ava, and I—”
“Oh, right. Come in at one p.m.” Then he gave me an address in Mayfair.
Then he hung up.
The voice had been harsh, and the manner brusque. It occurred to me that Jack Rutherford-West was not going to be the one to interview me—and a wave of relief resulted. Fine. It was going to be someone else. That was fine. That was wonderful, in fact.
“Did you speak to him?” she demanded,
sotto voce
, as I sidled back behind reception. “Did he tell you to bring your crotchless underwear?”
“You’re such a whore!” I scolded her. I was still buzzing with fearful adrenalin. How was I going to cope through an interview if this is how I felt after a simple phone call?
She started sniggering, but then Victor put his head out of his office and glared at her. “Shit,” she muttered. “Well? Is it on for this afternoon?”
“They want me there at lunchtime. One o’clock, in Mayfair. Do you think Victor’ll have a hernia?”
“Well, he would, if you didn’t have me on the case.” She winked salaciously at me. “No worries. I’ll keep him occupied.”
We looked at the clock in unison. 10:55. I felt my stomach lurch with nervousness: I’d have to leave in an hour and a half or so. “Don’t fret,” she soothed. “You’ll be alright.”
The next ninety minutes went by far too quickly. Inexplicably, the switchboard was manic and we barely had a moment to spare. Seemingly a heartbeat later, Sharon glanced up at the clock again and gasped. “Ava, move your arse!”
I looked up too. 12:35. “Shit!” I squeaked, wrestling my handbag out from the cabinet and nearly twisting my ankle as I bolted out the door.
I ran full throttle down to the station. If only I’d known earlier where the bloody interview would be, I wouldn’t have to try and work out the cheapest and/or fastest route while my nerves were completely shot. Luckily I could get there in one go, on the Piccadilly line. I was there quicker than I wanted to be. (I noted that life had become more exciting. Venturing into London twice in the space of four days was unheard-of for me.)
The building looked as posh as the others—unassuming from the outside. I rang the little bell and shouted my name into the speaker a few times before being buzzed through. I was greeted by a terse-looking receptionist who nodded me toward a plush waiting area, all in burgundies and scarlets, where a new round of torture began.
What were they going to ask me? Was I going to have to do one of those personality assessments? The idea filled me with terror. I was in no state to be psychiatrically evaluated.
I glanced at my savagely bitten fingernails. I was really not good at waiting. Not at all. But neither was I good at coping under pressure; doubly cursed as far as modern life was concerned.
Eventually, after aeons, the manic-looking receptionist toddled toward me, to say “he” (eek!) was ready for me. I smiled bravely as I followed her toward the office. Maybe I was about to see Jack the Billionaire.
Never mind,
I thought, ignoring an internal scream.
I’ve got my Sunday best on
.
She left me there, at the enormous door. Apparently, I was to announce myself. I shivered involuntarily, partly out of anticipation, and partly out of fear.
I knocked. Faintly, a voice seeped through the dark, heavy wood, inviting me in. In slow motion, I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. I pushed. And there was the desk: and there was a man behind it, facing away from me.
It wasn’t the man from Friday night. I remember seeing the silky whorl of dark-gold hair that touched the edge of his collar. It felt, absurdly, as if it were the most moving thing I had ever seen—I wanted desperately to touch it.
I entered the room on a kind of autopilot, and suddenly I found my knees were quaking. Violently. But it wasn’t the nerves this time.
In fact, it was my feet folding underneath me against the edge of a heavy carpet.
Time ground to a near-standstill, as if the universe felt it would be best if I savoured this moment to the fullest. The floor approached my face at a leisurely pace; in fact, by the time I hit it, I’d sort of come to terms with it, greeting it as one would a long-forgotten friend. What else was there to do? Cry? Scream? Laugh?
I lay on the floor for a long moment, quiet and thoughtful.
This is a lovely rug, for what it’s worth
, I pointed out to myself.
Nice and soft. Plush. Wonder if it’s Persian? Good thing you’re not bleeding. They’d probably send you the cleaning bill.
Eventually, time caught up with itself, and a pair of shoes arrived next to my face. The man’s cologne wafted to my nostrils, warm as hay with a hint of cinnamon, and a hand appeared in my line of vision.
Should I mumble a hello? What’s the protocol in these situations?
I decided to wait until I was upright.
I took hold of the proffered hand, and an unexpected shock of adrenaline charged through me. But I was hauled up much more sharply than I expected—only to come face to face with a person who was not Jack.
Jack was lithe and long, well-groomed, polished. But this man, while just as tall, had the body of a backstreet boxer, someone who’d had a lot of knocks and who’d somehow made it through. Less than thirty, but his face was so stony he looked ancient. His pale, pale green eyes seemed almost wolf-like. A faint scar bisected his upper lip, cutting it across the cupid’s bow, and his hair and skin were different shades of the same gold. His scent, apparently the only sweet thing about him, floated lightly in the air between us.
I drank him in for a split-second: his face, so sad, pierced me with emotion. This man had some kind of secret to tell me. I had to know what it was.
You can tell me what’s broken your heart
, I vibed,
I’ll be the one to understand
.
I could feel the pull of something elemental, a tide turning beneath my feet. And I realised I was blushing from head to toe.
But the spell was quickly broken. “You alright?” he harrumphed.
“Yes, thank you.” I must have sounded very meek, because a flash of irritation passed over his face.
He motioned towards a seat. “Sit down. Please.” His accent was faintly Scots.
He took his place back behind the desk and waited for me to follow. I felt faintly put out; he was looking at me like he’d just pulled me out of a toilet bowl or something. What was wrong with him?
He was avoiding my eyes, which only served to highlight the long eyelashes that framed his. Who was he? “I haven’t made a very good impression on you, I’m sure,” I said, forcing myself to giggle a bit.
Stony silence. He didn’t even glance up.
Oh dear
, I thought.
“So,” I chirruped, trying desperately to steer myself back to a show of competence, “where do we begin?” Mia told me to make sure I seemed eager to get stuck in. I wasn’t to appear standoffish or reluctant under any circumstances. And anyway, I had the distinct impression that the quicker this was over with, the happier we’d both be.
I rubbed the shoulder I’d landed on, wincing. I’d really fallen hard, I realised.
“Well, we’d better get on with it,” he said quietly, after an uncomfortable silence, and then quoted an enormous sum of money. “That alright?”
I was staggered. What did he mean? Was that meant to be my
salary
? I made less than half that at the dealership. Was I in the right interview? “You mean—p-per year?” I managed, my mouth suddenly dry.
“What?” he said, with an unreadable expression. “That not enough for you?”
“It’s not that,” I said, shaken by how strange he was being. What had I done wrong?
“Well? What, then?”
“
Well
,” I said slowly, trying to sound neutral and unruffled, “I don’t even know what the job entails.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he spat, cutting me off, looking at me with hard impatience. Then his face softened a bit, as if he saw that he was being unreasonable. “What were you told?” His voice was quieter now.
“Um. I met J-Jack Rutherford-West at a gallery opening. On Friday. And—”
“OK. So you were told nothing.”
“Um. Basically.”
He sighed heavily, but not unkindly.
“You’ll really be Jack’s assistant. Doing whatever he wants. You know, like a personal assistant—typing, filing, making appointments, diary-keeping. That sort of thing.”
“Oh,” I said, not at all disappointed. That sounded much more manageable to me.
“I gather you’re in PR. There’ll be some of that too—press releases and so on.”
“Oh.”
“Does that meet with your approval?” he said, suddenly sarcastic.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound defiant, stung by how horrible he was being. I was starting to come over a bit tearful, but I was damned if I was going to let him see it. All he needed to do was be faintly polite—that was all that was asked from him—so why was he being so unpleasant? It didn’t make sense.
“OK,” he said, a look of resignation passing over his face, “sign this. You can start tomorrow.”
I was nonplussed. “What about the interview?” Surely he had to ask me some questions? Did he have some kind of insight into my natural, yet hidden, abilities? Had I just passed a weird test, designed to measure how gutsy and go-getter-ish I was?
He leaned forward on his forearms, fingers knitted together. “Darling,” he said mock-conspiratorially, “I think you and I both know that’s unnecessary.”
I couldn’t understand what he meant. I wanted to ask, but it was obvious that I was on thin ice.
“Um,” I said. “OK.”
While I signed the contract and he stared distractedly out of the window, I churned the preceding five minutes over and over in my mind. Why was I signing this contract? What was wrong with me? Who
was
this person? It was like being in a trance. I was still sickened with shock and it seemed impossible to string thoughts together in a coherent way.
I know what he means,
I thought suddenly, feeling then as if I was controlling the pen from far outside my body.
He thinks I’m being hired to be bonked.
I felt dazed.
Surely
he didn’t mean it like that? There had to be another explanation.
Mechanically, I wrote out my bank account numbers, and he checked them and seemed satisfied. And then, just like that, he dismissed me abruptly, nose in his iPhone.
I was annoyed to find myself wanting another whiff of his fragrance.
On my way out, the receptionist asked if I was OK. I said yes, and tried to smile. But she just tutted, “You’re alright, sweetheart. He’s prickly at the best of times. That’s just Tam.” So that was his name! We’d not even introduced ourselves. “And not to worry. His brother’s much nicer to work with.”
“Eh?”
“Didn’t you know? Jack and Tam are brothers.”
I must have looked thunderstruck.
“Well.” She winked, and lowered her voice a little. “Half-brothers.”
~
I was back at the dealership before my lunch hour was up, slack-jawed with shock. “How’d it go?” Sharon looked at me quizzically. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”