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Throwing David out of my mind, I focus on the task at hand: getting myself a job. Removing my mac and straightening my shoulders, I push my way through the glass revolving door into the reception area. I immediately feel out of place. It’s clinical, with only a curved white desk that blends into the white floor and walls, and four white leather couches are positioned to form a square. It’s also silent, but my tentative footsteps, clicking loudly on the marble floor, soon break the quiet, drawing the attention of a pristine woman behind the desk.
She looks over her glasses at me and smiles, warming the chilly atmosphere. ‘Good morning,’ she greets, standing from her chair.
‘Hi.’ I surreptitiously pull my blouse into place, conscious that my attire is too drab, and this place is anything but. ‘I have an interview. I was told to ask for Shelley Peters.’
‘Ah, Mr Timms’s secretary. You are?’
‘Eleanor Cole.’
‘Yes, I have you on our system.’ She reaches for a clipboard and passes it over the high desk, and I relax a little, relieved that she hasn’t mentioned my lateness. ‘Sign in here, please.’
I take the pen and scribble down my name before pushing it back across the desk. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Take the lift to the seventh floor.’
Smiling my thanks, I make my way over to the lifts, press the call button, and take the time while I’m waiting to restore my equilibrium. When the doors open, I step inside, and I’m whisked up to the seventh floor where I discover that the minimal theme is uniform throughout the building. With the exception of a few plants, this space is just as sparse and cold. ‘Hello,’ I say as I reach the receptionist’s desk.
A lady looks up, not a hint of friendliness on her pointed features. ‘I assume you are Eleanor Cole,’ she snaps, tossing a file to the side of her desk.
I tense under her disdainful look and straighten my cheerful face. ‘Yes.’ I have a feeling that even if I told this woman I’d been run over and had dragged myself out of hospital to get here, it would be of no concern to her, never mind some rude arsehole stealing my cab. ‘I’m sorry for—’
‘Let’s not waste any more of each other’s time. Mr Timms is a very punctual man. You’re over twenty minutes late.’
‘It’s just—’
‘The dog was run over? Your train derailed?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Mr Timms has moved on to the next candidate, who, by the way, has qualifications.’
‘But I believe I have working, practical knowledge to rival any other candidate,’ I argue. My CV was something to be proud of when I’d finished it, even if it was missing some important things . . . like qualifications. With a lack of those, I had to be creative. I wrote pages and pages of words, touching on everything I know. Which is a lot. It must have caught my potential employer’s attention, since I got this interview. Or did have it.
‘It’s irrelevant now,’ she mutters. ‘Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’ A well-manicured hand picks up the phone. ‘Good morning, Parsonson’s.’
I step away from the desk, well aware I’ll get nowhere challenging her. And, actually, I’m certain I wouldn’t want to work here even if I was destitute.
As I slowly walk to the lift, I ignore the cold hard fact that I am pretty much destitute, and this job could be the difference between keeping my new home and pursuing my dream, or returning to Helston a failure. My reality is suddenly all too real as I enter the lift and fall back down to earth with it. The cab-thieving bastard.
After offering the nicer receptionist a tight smile as I slip past her desk, I enter the revolving door and use my waning strength to push it around. I’m feeling a little lost and defeated, walking with no sense of where I’m heading.
What will I do now? I guess it’s back to square— the door jars and I crash straight into it, ricocheting off the glass with an almighty bang and dropping my bag. ‘Goddamn it.’ I blink my vision clear, taking my hand to my knee and rubbing away the stab of pain before I crouch and start gathering up the contents of my bag. Could this day get any worse?
I’m still crouching when I take a peek to the left, then the right, seeing I’m imprisoned on both sides by glass. It’s only when I stand and brush my red mane from my face that I notice him.
A man.
A man wearing a grey blazer, trapped on the other side of the revolving door. My eyes flip up to see an insanely handsome face as he reaches to his neck and pulls at something.
A scarf.
A navy scarf.
Realisation sucker-punches me in the face.
