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Sorry, I’m starting that temp job tomorrow. These next two days are gonna be crazy. How about mid-week? Wednesday?
I jump at how fast he texts back.
OK. Wednesday. Your place?
I think for a moment.
Yeah. If that’s ok? Like, around seven?
Okay. Sounds good. I’ve missed you, Indie. You, and that smoking hot body of yours.
Fuck.
I put a heart emoji under the message and put my phone down as Fran puts two sachets of tea into two empty cups.
“He’s coming round Wednesday night.”
Fran’s eyes dart to mine. “You don’t want to do it over the phone?”
“Um, wasn’t it you, madam, that told me I need to stop being so afraid of all men?” I retort.
“He’s not aggressive?”
“No. Never. I’m not worried like that. I just want to explain that I need some space right now. Maybe we can just be friends or something…”
“He seems really keen.”
Yeah… and he really did kind of come out of nowhere. We met at my friend’s art gallery and exchanged numbers just out of politeness. I’ve never really had a man be that insistent before… other than Micah.
“I know. That’s why I don’t want to mess him around.”
“Plus it’ll leave more room for hot stuff next door.” Frannie wiggles her brows.
“Stop,” I chuckle as we wait for the water to boil. “I think I’m gonna avoid the red flag bearers for at least another year.”
5
Indigo
Monday
“You’ll be using Carrie’s office while she’s away.”
I follow the perky blonde in the tight pencil skirt and wearing the kind of red heels you normally see on stage and gloriously wrapped around a pole down the corridor of ELC Public Relations Agency in the heart of Washington DC’s main political district.
I was already nervous after walking across the granite floor of the lobby with its cavernous vaulted ceiling and Art Deco design, followed by a trip in the shiniest elevator I’ve ever set eyes on which took me all the way to the top floor.
It doesn’t help that I’m wearing an outfit that I’d never normally wear. Carrie told me to pick out a blouse and pencil skirt from her closet, and I’m wearing one of only two pairs of high heels that I have.
My skirt isn’t quite as tight as Donna’s, the lady walking me down the corridor, past meeting rooms and offices, and mine at least goes past my knee, but it’s still awkward as hell to be wearing this.
Carrie told me I’d need stockings, which I bought myself. I honestly can’t believe women still wear these nylon torture skins on their legs yet here I am sashaying my little ass down this ridiculously clean top floor in them, pretending I know what the hell I’m doing or that I even fit in. I tied my hair into a tight bun, but you can see the pink in the knot of hair, but oh well, I’m sure they’ll survive.
Carrie filled me in a little on what she does here—logistics mainly, and while I’ll do my best to do her proud, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ll be paid her full salary—three thousand, or three months’ rent for me—I’d honestly never consider a job like this.
Just walking past the buff men in suits and ties eyeing me up in the corridor or glancing at me as they make what I imagine is hive-inducing small-talk next to a coffee machine in one of two kitchens I’ve already spotted gives me the kind of anxiety that I associate with the rat race I hope to never find myself in, even if that means I’m destined to live in damp basement suites for the rest of my life.
However, with my finances in the mess they’re in, I can’t exactly afford to be picky right now. Plus, it was really sweet of Carrie to pitch the idea of me replacing her, and of her boss to agree to it when I’m sure he could have easily got a temp in for way less money.
