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“I was a PA for two years before I went back to University.”
“What University are you from?”
“The University of East London.”
I don’t expect he even knows there is a university in East London.
“Where did you work before you went to University?”
“I was a legal PA at Barker Moorefield LLP.” I flash him a pointed look because I know he must have heard of them.
“But you set your sights on the lofty heights of the University of East London. It sounds very Jude the Obscure,” he drawls. “Tell me, Miss Cartwright, what made you give up a well paid job in law to go to some shitty university in Stratford?”
Okay, so he has heard of the University of East London. He must have if he knows where the campus is. Even so, his words make me want to climb over his desk and land a smack on his face. Pompous, arrogant dick.
It might be because I didn’t get very much sleep last night, or it might be because I’m still so angry with Luke I can hardly see straight. It might even be because I’m sick and tired of being left out and treated like dirt and the one everybody has a dig at. Whatever it is, I feel my muscles start to tense as a bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.
I give him a sickly smile. “Oh, I don’t know, Mr Ferguson. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this country is run by elitist arseholes who think that they’re entitled to everything just because they were born into money.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “I’m guessing they didn’t teach you diplomacy during your time at college.”
“They couldn’t fit it in between the cockney slang and spray tan refresher classes,” I reply. I’m about to add that it’s good of the upper class to even allow us to leave our hovels when I hear Diana clearing her throat behind me.
“Okay then, I’ll let you settle in, Amy. Perhaps you can let me know when you’ve finished the online training.”
With that, she leaves, and I’m alone with Mr Ferguson. The same Mr Ferguson who has decided to studiously ignore me, staring at the screen in front of him and occasionally pressing his keyboard.
That’s when I realise what an idiot I am. This man holds the key to my future, the ability to dictate whether or not I actually get a degree. And I decided to be rude to him the first moment he clapped eyes on me.
“I’ll just… ah… go and set up at my desk then,” I say, slowly backing out of the room. Mr Ferguson looks up at me again. This time his green eyes look softer, hazier. The hard expression on his face has gone.
“Okay.”
“Would you like a coffee, Mr Ferguson?” I ask, deciding that the only way out of the hole I’ve dug for myself is some serious arse licking. It might be my imagination, but I think I see a hint of amusement flash across his face.
“Black, no sugar.” He nods, looking back at his work. Then, without raising his eyes up again, he adds, “And my name’s Callum, not Mr Ferguson. Otherwise I’ll think you’re talking to my father.”
“Does he work here, too?” I ask.
“No, he’s been dead for nearly thirty years.”
Oh, well done Amy.
With that, I pull my foot firmly out of my mouth and decide to make Mr Ferguson—Callum—the best damn cup of coffee he’s ever tasted. Before he ends up kicking my butt right out of here.
3
I switch on the computer, watching it flicker into life as the screen casts a blue glow across the glossy, white surface of my new desk. While it boots up I find myself rearranging the pens in my drawer; blacks then reds, blues then greens. Every now and again my eyes glance up and I peer past the glass door that opens into Callum's office. He's busy working on something. Whatever it is draws his lips into a frown, and I can hear the slap of his fingers as he types furiously.
First days are always the worst. Full of trying to look busy and failing miserably. The minutes drag past as I set up my email account, and when I glance at my watch it's a shock to see it isn't even twelve o'clock.
I'm about to go through the contents of my desk drawers just for the hell of it when a message flashes on my screen.
Simpson, C: How's it going?
I have to wrack my brain to remember who Simpson, C is. Eventually I recall that one of my fellow interns is Charlie Simpson. From what I remember he was assigned to Corporate Tax.
Cartwright, A: It's going.
