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I almost jump on the sofa Tom Cruise style. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m a hard worker, and I can easily work under pressure. I promise I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Are you free to catch up for a coffee this afternoon? We can go through the details of the job and the expectations.”
She tells me her address, and I scribble it down eagerly. We agree to meet at four o’clock, and when we both end the call, I jump on the sofa and hug the piece of paper, grinning to myself.
I will show Sonia Jones that I can do the job.
It is my mission.
I grab my cell off the sofa and dial Mama’s number, eager to tell her the good news and hear her voice.
Maybe, just maybe, this will work out after all.
Chapter Five
Public transportation in Los Angeles is a joke.
Without my own car, I have no other means of getting around. Back home, I’m spoiled. Not only do I have my own car, but a boyfriend who makes sure it turns on and gets me from A to B.
The bus ride is uneventful, folks keeping to themselves and staring out the window in a dull state of mind. I plan to stop off at a coffee shop near a place called The Grove. According to an old newspaper that I found on our doorstep, it’s a popular place to shop and eat with many celebrities frequenting the joint. Not that I care. I just want to get my hands on this ridiculously expensive cake to say thank you for employing me even though I’m a rambling mess.
The coffee shop is busy, many people occupying the small tables which are scattered around. The glass display is full of delicious desserts. Rows and rows of mouth-watering sweets, making my stomach growl loudly enough that the lady carrying a tiny rat-looking dog in her purse, takes notice.
“The caramel baked cheesecake with crushed Oreos and peanut butter cups, please.”
The cashier, Sarah, packs the cake into a silver box, sliding it over the counter as I hand her some cash. Politely saying, “Thank you,” I turn around deciding to open the carton to catch another glimpse of this oh-so-perfect cake.
The side of the lid gets caught in the corner. I nudge it slightly to close it shut again when all of a sudden, my body slams into another person causing me to gasp loudly.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!”
Frazzled, I look up to see an annoyed guy wearing a thick leather jacket, standing in front of me, arm draped around a pretty girl and carrying a helmet in his spare hand. She appears to be amused by something, and following her eyes, I stare down at my white dress now covered in Oreos.
Shit. Shit. SHIT!
“Might wan
t to do something about that dress of yours,” he snorts, arrogantly, twitching his hazel eyes with a fiendish grin.
“Excuse me?” Perhaps I’m overreacting, but this moron just cost me thirty dollars. Who does this asswipe think he is? “How about you learn some manners!”
I’m not the type of person to raise my voice at a stranger, usually controlled and able to walk away from such nonsense. Yet something about the way he makes me feel like a pathetic nobody just rubs me the wrong way.
He—and his Hollywood bimbo—don’t deserve any more of my time. The damage is done, I have a ruined cake and an equally ruined dress. Of course, I had to wear white today.
I turn back around with a red face, greeting Sarah at the counter. I could see the sympathy in her eyes together with a disappointed smile.
“You know what?” Sarah is examining the damage. “I’m sure Mona can quickly fix the top. Saves you having to buy another.”
Sarah disappears into the kitchen only to return with a smile, asking me to wait for a few minutes while Mona fixes the icing. She hands me a small cloth which I use to carefully wipe the excess cake off my dress.
Mr. Dick, as I like to call him starting from this moment, moves closer to the counter, ordering a triple-shot coffee as if he didn’t do anything. I stand, waiting, impatiently tapping my feet with my arms crossed to cover the hideous stain. I have no time to get changed let alone spend money on another dress.
He hands over a credit card, trying to eye-flirt with Sarah.
“You know, you might want to watch where you’re walking. Head buried in a cake box is probably not the smartest thing to do.”
“Neither is being a dick,” I mumble under my breath.
