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Artwork adorns the walls; furniture is sleek and retro. This place is upscale, and I’m sure everyone employed here is brilliant. My self-esteem is taking a hit. Why did I wear this dress? Did I apply too much makeup? These shoes are hideous. I won’t fit in here. So, what am I doing?
I take a meditative breath and center myself.You’ve got this, Amber. I feel my shoulders relax and notice the mass of desks and cubicles behind the reception area. Bright and airy.
“Ms. Allen?”
The woman approaches me from the blindside, and I flinch. She’s about forty-five but appears younger. She’s wearing a dark blue one-button blazer over a white silk blouse. Her skirt is dark blue as well. The shoes on her tiny feet are Christian Louboutin pumps and probably cost her two grand. Her hair is spot-on: One would have to wake up three hours early to style hair like that. Red carpet stuff.
“Ms. Allen,” she says again.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
She extends a hand. “I’m Mrs. Kyle.”
I shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I’ll be handling your interview, so if you’d follow me.”
She waits while I stand and then marches off. Leads me through a maze of desks to a sunlight-filled office. “Please, sit,” she says and takes a seat behind her desk.
“A lot of windows in here,” I comment.
“Yes. It’s nice.” She picks up a pen. “I understand you’re here for a marketing position.”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have your resume?”
My resume. It’s bleak. College internship and summer help. Macy’s and temp jobs since arriving in New York. Nothing I can do about it now.
“Right here.” I snatch it from my purse and hand it over with shaking hands.
“No need to be nervous.” She takes it and examines it. The room turns quiet. A fly buzzes in the next room. “You’re from Chicago, yes?”
“Yes. I was born there.”
“Friendly town.”
“It is.”
“I was there twenty years ago. Went to a little bar calledThe Cage. Ever heard of it?”
“Sorry. Can’t say that I have.”
Mrs. Kyle taps her lips with her pen as she relives a memory. Must be quite the memory because she’s smiling a nasty smile. She snaps herself out of it by shaking her head. “That’s enough of that, I guess. We should probably begin, huh?”
I sit up in my chair. “I’m ready.”
We’re twenty minutes into the interrogation when the phone rings. “Excuse me.” She answers. “Yes. Uh-huh.” She swivels her chair sideways. “Yes. I think so. Yes. All right. Thank you.” She hangs up and mumbles, “That was interesting.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing.” She hands me back my resume. “Can you start today?”
I manage not to squeal. “Yes.”
Mrs. Kyle rises from her chair with immaculate posture. “You can wait in the break room while I line things up.” She wriggles her delicate fingers. “I’ll show you the way.”
Thirty minutes pass before Mrs. Kyle returns and takes me to another room that holds a long table with ten chairs on either side and a screen on one end. A projector on the other. She has me take a seat and then sets a mountain of paperwork in front of me. “Why don’t you fill these out, and if you have questions, you can ask Ms. Joyce. She’ll be in shortly to walk you through everything. There’ll be some videos for you to watch. Need anything?”
