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Chapter 1
The Interview
So today is the big interview. I just found out about it, and already my expectations are soaring. This could change everything, and though I’m fighting hard to keep from getting my hopes up, it’s hard. I’m already imagining a hundred different outcomes, each with me succeeding wildly at changing my stars.
God knows, I need to change my stars. And quickly.
So I try my best to ignore the fact that it’s raining during this not-so-lovely spring morning in Los Angeles as I push through the fancy chrome-bedecked entrance of the Montage Beverly Hills.
Whoa, talk about snob central.
I abruptly shorten my stride as the soles of my sensible—but very wet—heels slip across the perfectly polished marble. I pause, catching my breath and swallowing the lump in my throat. I need this. No one here needs it more than me.
And I’m smart. You’ve got this, girl!
My roommate Sam’s voice echoes in my head again with her usually cheery upbeat encouragement. I do have this. Or if I don’t have it yet, I’ll grab it with both hands and never let it go. I’m determined.
But the only details I have are that this is for a personal assistant position and the pay is omigod fantastic. That was more than enough to pique my interest. Strangely, she’d only shrugged when I’d pressed her for more info.
The lobby of the Montage, Beverly Hills is done all in dark teak wood and stylish colored glass. Luxurious and modern in a trendy, Craftsman-inspired way. As a tuition-poor student of a private university, I’d rarely seen inside a place like this unless working a night job cleaning rooms or manning the reservation desk. I check the notes Sam scribbled out for me—a secretary would meet me at the entrance to one of the hotel’s restaurants to handle my intake. Unusual, yes. Maybe this is for a high-speed start-up with low initial overhead?
But…in Beverly Hills?
I glance at the time on my phone. Shit. I’m late, really late. Damn rain.
As I approach a table manned by two women in very fashionable business attire, I pull my application out of the folder in which I’d been carrying it.
One of the women smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. “Your name?”
“Madeline Swanson,” I answer. “I have a two o’clock interview.” Hopefully she won’t notice it’s almost two thirty. But her eyebrows rise as she glances at her gold wristwatch.
“I, uh, I got a little lost,” I add.
“No problem.” With a tight smile, she hands me a form on a clipboard with a pen attached. “Fill these out and wait right here.” She indicates the row of seated women to her right. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”
I take the forms and walk to the only available seat. It doesn’t miss my attention that every woman here is beautiful, and I suddenly fear I’ve stepped into the wrong interview. They know this is for an assistant position, right? Not a modeling gig? This is Southern California, after all, but sheesh, someone should be plain-looking…. Maybe that was what I was here to do. To fulfill that quota.
I suddenly feel self-conscious in my black cardigan and flowered pencil skirt, a hand-me-down from one of my roommates, Gwen, who wears a size smaller than me. It’s too tight and doesn’t exactly scream professional assistant, but it’s literally the only skirt I own.
I glance down at the form the woman gave me. It’s all medical questions, which I answer pretty quickly, checking off no for nearly every question. The second form is a non-disclosure agreement. I fill in my name and sign without reading the details.
Once done, I take a minute to size up my competition. If they’re hiring on looks alone, then my chances are pretty dismal. Every woman here looks like an out-of-work actress—tight, thin bodies, carefully manicured nails, perfect makeup and smooth, flawless hair, designer bags. They don’t even bother to return my curious glances. With my hair up in a ponytail and my discount clothing, I’m clearly no competition.
After a few minutes, the woman calls me up and points toward an elevator. “Take that all the way up to the top floor, penthouse.”
I blink at that little bit of information she’d so casually delivered. Why they’d secure the penthouse for something as trivial as assistant interviews, I could never guess. Maybe the company wanted to make a good first impression? I’m not even sure what company this is for anyway. I’d noticed no logo on the application forms. But I’m so desperate, I hardly care.
As I walk toward the bank of elevators, my insides begin to shake, my heart hammering hard against my ribs. I feel a little faint. But I manage to keep it together as I push the button for the penthouse.
The elevator sweeps upward with maximum velocity, and I lose my stomach around the third floor. By the time the elevator doors whoosh open, my knees are practically knocking together in an attempt to hold me up. As I step through, my heels sink into plush pink carpeting and I look around. It’s a small receiving area, and to my left there’s only one door. It’s cracked open, but I knock anyway.
I hear a brusque, “Come in,” and push the door open.
Blinking as I step in, I fight the urge to gasp. The suite is extraordinary—huge, for one thing. It’s at least one hundred times the size of my tiny shared room in student housing. And the place is drenched in luxury. The furniture is all glass and chrome—sleek, but in the classic style. Windows line the entire far wall, looking out over the spectacular skyline of downtown Los Angeles.
The sunken living room is ringed by a raised platform all around, which butts up against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Suddenly, I realize I’m out of my element. This is all a big mistake. Sam must have gotten her wires crossed. Whatever these people are looking for, it’s definitely not me.
