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That thought settles it. I’m not that girl, I refuse to be. I’m better than that.
Opening my eyes, I catch Luke’s gaze, and stop myself recoiling at his icy glare.
“Go home, Luke. I've had enough.”
2
Stepping off the train, I follow the crowds as they move along the platform, allowing the sea of commuters to push me forward. The four-person wide queue thins down to two as we reach the escalators, and I have to cling tightly onto the handrail to make sure I’m not jostled over.
At the top of the stairs I pass through the ticket barrier and onto the wide plaza leading to the tall, shiny buildings of Canary Wharf. Clutching my bag tightly to my chest, I walk towards One Canada Square, the building that houses Richards and Morgan, the Management Consultancy firm where I start my internship today.
I was offered the position three months ago, and accepted eagerly. My college tutor told me that nobody from the University of East London had ever been offered a place at Richards and Morgan before. I’d snapped it up, delighted by the high salary, as well as the fact it’s a short journey from my home in Plaistow, but now I’m having second thoughts.
There’s no way I belong somewhere like this. Not Amy Cartwright, the girl who can’t get the London twang out of her voice no matter how hard she tries. I’m never going to fit in among the Oxford and Cambridge types who usually get the internships. I’m going to stand out like a sore thumb. An impoverished, common, badly-dressed thumb.
Somehow I make it to the revolving doors, pushing on the glass and shuffling my feet until I walk inside the impressive lobby. My new shoes click against the polished tiles as I take small steps—my progress constrained by the tightness of my new dress. Everything about this building screams opulence. From the brown-marble walls of the security desk to the cream-and-brown pattern of the ceramic floor that criss-crosses the entire lobby. Even the people—women in smart dresses and even smarter hairdos, men in crisp blue shirts and expertly knotted ties—add to the feeling of luxuriousness the architects were determined to create.
Ignoring my rising panic, I walk over to the desk. A security guard looks up, his eyes lidded, his face bored.
“Which company?”
Richards and Morgan isn’t the only firm that rents space here. The tower is over 28,000 square feet and holds more than 30 different companies with over 9000 employees. I remember all this from my interview—that awkward half day when I had to persuade somebody in a suit to take a chance on me.
“Richards and Morgan, my name’s Amy Cartwright. It’s my first day.”
The guard shoots me a withering look, one that tells me he really doesn’t want to make small talk. Instead he types something into his laptop and prints out a badge, which he slides into a clear, plastic sleeve.
“Clip this to your dress. You should have it on display at all times when you’re in the building. Richards and Morgan are on the tenth floor. Take the left set of elevators and press the tenth button. Your pass won’t allow you above that floor. If you’re found walking any other floors you’ll be reported.”
Every word is accompanied by a narrowed stare, and I feel like a naughty school kid.
“Okay.”
“When you leave this evening you need to hand the pass back. Richards and Morgan should arrange for you to get a permanent pass today.”
This time I just nod. The guy is doing nothing for my nerves except heightening them. Clipping the pass to the neckline of my dress, I pick up my bag and head for the elevators.
There’s already a crowd at the lifts by the time I reach them. Two cars fill up before there’s a space for me. Squeezing myself against the wall, I watch as people press the buttons for their floor, willing somebody to press number ten so I don’t have to say a word.
Of course, they don’t.
“Can you press floor ten?” I ask quietly. Nobody takes the slightest bit of notice. They’re all staring ahead, their faces neutral, their eyes glazed.
The lift starts to move. First stop is two, where only one person gets out. There’s still not enough room for me to reach them.
“Can you press floor ten please?”
Everyone ignores me.
By the time we make it to the eighth floor I’m unnerved. It’s stupid, I know, because if the worst comes to the worst I can get the right floor on the way down. But the memory of the security guard telling me I can’t get out on any floors except my own is playing on my mind.
“Can you press floor bloody ten!” I finally yell, my accent making me sound like a fishwife to the power-suited professionals. This time everybody turns to look at me. More than one person raises their eyebrows, and somebody laughs at the back of the lift. A tall redheaded man reaches forward and pressed the button, barely able to contain his smirk.
When the lift comes to a stop I have to fight my way out, aware that every single person in the car is staring at me. Squaring my shoulders, I grimace and step onto the tenth floor, thankful that nobody else is getting out, and that none of them are going to be my co-workers. My relief lasts all of two seconds, until the button-pusher follows behind me, and I feel my stomach contract painfully.
“Ten was already lit,” he tells me, his words shaped by a Scottish burr. “I’d pressed it when I got in.”
“So why did you press it again?” I snap.
