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Remember I have no car. Remember I'm the kind of person that needs about a month to build herself up to something. Remember I’m still in my pyjamas. “Absolutely”, I say. “I can do that.”
Yesterday I spent three hours traipsing around Brooklyn in the rain leaving my resume and my dignity in comic book stores, art galleries and design agencies and right now, less than twenty four hours later I have an interview lined up I don’t feel at all prepared for.
I was adjusting perfectly to my new found status as an itinerant, dreaming my way through life without a shred of responsibility, and now I’ve got to join the real world again, shave my legs, wash my hair, and pretend to be a one-hundred-percent normal fully-functioning human being that doesn’t invent a backstory for everyone she meets, or draw smutty scenes on subway station walls.
After I’ve panicked heavily, I call Alice. If there is anyone who can get me through this it’s her.
“That’s fantastic news”, she says. “I can’t believe you’ve finally got an interview for an art job. You’ll be fine, I know it, don’t worry. They’ll love you”, and then she’s gone again before I’ve even had half a chance to reel off my multitude concerns.
Why did I say I’d come today? Why didn’t I give myself at least a week to get my head together? Why can’t I just be normal like everyone else?
I’m tempted to call them back, but I know I can’t really justify it. I haven’t got an excuse anyway, and from past experience I know I’ll just be delaying the inevitable. The only way I’m going to get through this is by facing my irrational fears, no matter how much it absolutely terrifies me, and hope I don’t somehow fuck it up.
There is nothing else for it. Without asking specifically for it, responsibility has been placed in my path like a mountain I have no choice but to climb.
I take a deep breath, give myself a good look in the mirror and then set about getting myself both mentally and physically prepared, but only after I’ve adjusted a few hundred household items first, three times over.
Chapter Eleven
The girl I spoke to on the phone turns out to be almost exactly how I imagined her: the chirpy kind of TV career girl who wouldn’t think twice about sucking cock to get to the top.
After I make my way through several security gates in a complex the size of an airport in the Bay Ridge area of Brooklyn, Sandy or Candy or Mandy or whatever her real name actually is, greets me with a wide smile, guides me into an office that looks more like an apartment and asks me to wait until Jack is ready.
I have never heard of this company before, and didn’t even know this complex existed, but recognize some of the work the company has done by the framed posters hung up on the wall.
If the sheer size of the place wasn’t enough to terrify me already, the success of some of the films they seem to be responsible for certainly is. These aren’t art house, independent pictures, these are million dollar blockbusters and household names. I clutch my portfolio to my chest in panic and wonder if it’s too late to escape.
“Penny?”
The voice is enough to make me jump. When I turn my head to see where it’s come from I nearly drop to the ground in shock. It’s him.
“It’s you”, I say, my heart racing.
My treasure hunter superhero from the bar, just this time in his Clark Kent alter ego. Muscles that not even a tailored suit can hide, a square jaw of steel and ice cold blue eyes that look like undiscovered gem stones. This can’t be just a coincidence.
“Hello”, Jack says, with a smile that doesn’t so much make my panties melt but spontaneously combust entirely. The heat climbs up through my belly, spreads out across my chest and turns my face beetroot red. I try to compose myself but it’s practically impossible. I could easily be mistaken, but either he recognizes me and he’s trying to hide it, or he’s definitely checking me out.
“Penny”, I say holding out a trembling hand.
“Jack”, Jack says, before taking my hand into his, dropping to his knees and kissing it delicately. Okay, that doesn’t happen anywhere but in my mind. He just shakes it professionally, gazes at me longingly, and then takes a seat behind his enormous desk. “Thanks for coming in at such short notice.”
Does he recognize me and not remember? Is he pretending because he’s in disguise right now? Should I mention something about the other night and the fact I lost his cell phone number? Am I sure any of this even happened?
There are so many questions going around my head I find it difficult to focus on why I’m really here, and catch myself looking at Jack a little bit too intensely. That’s not difficult though, he’s got the type of body that invites that specific kind of attention and what’s more, I bet he’s used to it. I have a sudden thought that I hope I’m wrong about his secretary sucking her way to the top, because if anyone’s going to be sucking Jack to get a job around here I hope it’s going to be me.
“Can I get you anything before we begin”, Jack asks. “Coffee, water?”
Your telephone number again? I think.
“I’m okay, thank you”, I say politely.
Jack smiles, and there it is again, that flash of recognition like he’s checking me out. I’m not imagining it at all when I say that right now the sexual tension in here is absolutely off the scale and I’m sure that even though ninety nine percent of that is coming from me, there is definitely something significant coming from Jack too.
“I brought my portfolio”, I say, holding it out to him. “I’m not sure if it’s the style you’re looking for.”
Jack opens it out on his desk and begins to look through the drawings.
“These are really good”, he says encouragingly, turning the pages with care. “Really good.”
“Thanks”, I beam proudly, as Jack moves from portrait pen sketches of friends and family members, to concept drawings of monsters and futuristic robots, taking time to take each image in and never rushing onto the next. Not even my art teacher at college spent as much time as Jack is appreciating my work, and he was paid to do it. My eyes go from the drawings up to Jack to see his reaction and then back again in a pattern. Pen sketch of Mom, octopus headed zebra monster, pen sketch of Alice, concept drawing of Robot-Boy, pen sketch self portrait, menage scene of twins with huge cocks, one of whom I have in my mouth while the other dominates me from behind.
Fuck.
How the absolute fuck is that image anywhere near my portfolio still? I checked them three times before leaving the house, once more on the bus coming here.
My eyes go in horror from the image and meet his at the same time his leave it.
“I can explain”, I say.
Jack takes the image out for closer observation, carefully stacking the other drawings and putting the menage scene on top.
“Is this you?” he asks suggestively.
Remember, this is my superhero Prince Valiant in disguise, cape in the closet while he performs his daytime role. I’m going to pretend the same goes for me. Boring office girl by day, superhero sex kitten by night.
“I wish”, I say jovially. “It’s just another character of mine. Sasha, the superhero sex kitten.”
“She looks like she’s having a good time.”
I nod because there’s little else I can do apart from hope the floor opens and swallows me into it.
“Where do you get your inspiration from?” Jack asks.
“I have a vivid imagination”, I say.
“I can tell”, Jack says excitedly. “Do you have any more drawings about the adventures of Sasha?”
“I don’t know how that got in there, I’m sorry”, I say, dying of embarrassment.
“It’s alright”, Jack says. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, I like it. The cocks look really realistic, and Sasha’s clearly enjoying it.”
Now I definitely want the world to swallow me up.
“You shouldn’t be ashamed of expressing what you like”, Jack continues. “Isn’t that what art is all about?”
“Not according to everyone”, I say. ?
?Some people would look at that and think it’s porn.”
Finally, Jack puts the dirty image away and zips up the portfolio.
“Sorry”, I say again. “That really wasn’t meant to be in there.”
“When can you start?” Jack asks.
I feel like I haven’t heard him correctly, and by staring at him open-mouthed I think he gets the idea.
“We’ve got a number of ongoing projects I think you would be perfect for”, he adds. “I love your style, and could do with someone like you in my team.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, if you’d like to say yes, it would make me very happy”, Jack says. “I might even insist you carry on the Sasha series.”
“Okay”, I say hesitantly, wondering where the catch is.
In the real world, I would have been asked politely to leave the building escorted by a group of security guards, but right now, I’m being offered a non-specific drawing job by a man that looks look a superhero who seems to be pretending we’ve never met. I could easily be dreaming this, but I guess if I was, I’d cut to the chase a little quicker. It would be me and Mr. Mysterious across his desk so quickly you wouldn’t even get the first syllable of superhero out.
“Are you sure?” Jack asks. “You can think about it for a while if you want.”
“No, no, I’m sure”, I say. “One thing, though, how closely will we be working together?”
Jack lets the question hang like the advertising billboard it is.
“Well, you’ll report directly into me, so I’ll be on top of everything you do”, he says eventually. “I run a close team, and it’s important that we all get along, so if you’re okay with seeing a lot more of me in the coming weeks, I think you’ll be very happy here indeed.”
I can’t put the brakes on my imagination sending an image of Jack physically on top of me into my mind’s eye, and I know he knows it too. Out of all of the words he could have chosen, I don’t think it’s by chance that he picked the most suggestive. He’s seen my innermost thoughts committed to paper, and right now it feels like he’s flirting with me. First he gives me his phone number, and now he’s offering me a job. What the hell is he going to suggest next week, his hand in marriage?
