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It’s also situated beneath an apartment in which resides a herd of basketball-playing elephants. Currently—at nearly eight a.m.—they appear to be marching up and down as if they’re soldiers being drilled, accompanied by cupboard doors and drawers opening and shutting, voices yelling, and even spoons banging on breakfast dishes.
Still, my room is self-contained, which means I don’t have to interact with anyone, and I do what I’ve always done when I want to shut myself off from the rest of the world—put on my headphones and crank the music up. It’ll be time to head out soon, anyway.
Opening the cupboards, I peruse the contents, already knowing there’s nothing edible in there. Food has always been one of the things I find it easiest to cut back on when money’s tight. There are other items I consider necessities—like my phone and internet subscriptions, because without my phone I have no way for agencies to contact me, and without the internet I can’t work in the evenings, and if I can’t top up my day work with online jobs, I can’t pay the rent. I would also have no entertainment, as I don’t have a TV, and no YouTube means no movies, and no internet means I can’t download free books or read Reddit articles or the news. These things might not be essential to survival, but they are essential to keeping my sanity. I’d rather go without breakfast than go without the internet.
I did have a job lined up before I left for Auckland, working as a legal secretary in a small law firm. It wasn’t a bad place either, although it did take me over half an hour to walk to it every day. But only two months after I started there, the owner unfortunately died in a car accident and the firm had to close down, and since then I haven’t been able to find another permanent position. I’ve had to resort to signing up with a secretarial agency and temping, and supplementing my income with online computer jobs at night, doing web designing and other simple programming jobs. So far, I’ve just managed to keep my head above water, but after I’ve paid the rent and bills, there isn’t much money left—hence the meager cupboards.
I’m out of Weet Bix and there’s only half an inch of milk left, so no breakfast today. I could have a slice of toast, but I’m not in the mood. I’ve got half a pack of pasta, several tins of economy baked beans, and a sausage left in the fridge. I’ll do a sausage and bean casserole tonight. It’ll be more bean than sausage, but it’s better than nothing, and it’ll fill me up with a couple slices of toast.
Lunch will have to be jam sandwiches as usual, made with economy strawberry jam, which I tell myself is part of my daily fruit intake, although I’m convinced it doesn’t contain any real strawberries. I make them quickly, then slip them into my backpack along with a bottle of water.
I pull on my black jacket, and then it’s time to head out. It’s Monday, and I’m starting a new job today. I only got the call at seven a.m. when the girl who’d been booked to work there called in sick. A computer firm called Kingpinz located on the edge of Alexandra Park, not far from Wellington Hospital, needs someone to cover a PA who’s on her honeymoon, and I’ll be working there all week. Kingpinz is a clever name, the ending reflecting what most of us call our country—En Zed. And computers, yay! Considering the past three firms I’ve worked at have been a building firm, an accountants, and an interior decorators—and I know nothing about any of those industries—at last a business I know something about!
Luckily it’s only a fifteen-minute walk away, so I head out just after eight for an eight thirty start.
Unfortunately, I’m only halfway there when it starts raining. My jacket doesn’t have a hood, and I don’t own an umbrella. I turn up my collar, stuff my hands in my pockets, and hunch my shoulders as I speed up.
By the time I arrive, I’m soaked through. It’s late November, and nearly summer, so the wind isn’t as biting as it would have been a few months ago, but even so, I’m shivering by the time I walk into the foyer and approach the reception desk.
“Goodness,” the young receptionist says as she sees me. “Is it raining?”
“Sasha!” A kind-looking fifty-something woman with wavy salt-and-pepper hair scolds her. “Of course it’s raining. Look at her. You poor dear. You’re not Catie O’Clery by any chance?”
I nod. “I’m so sorry, I’m dripping all over your carpet.”
“Not your fault at all, love. Come with me—I’m sure we’ve got a towel in the Ladies’.”
I follow her across the foyer, looking around me as I walk. The front of the building was innocuous, just red brick and lots of windows, but it’s pleasant inside. It has gray carpets, light-blue walls, and lots of oil paintings—mainly abstracts, painted to look like the interiors of computers: motherboards and CPUs, that kind of thing, which is cool. In the waiting area for visitors, a group of dark-gray chairs line the wall with a water cooler. Real flowers sit in a vase on the table, a pretty splash of red. It all looks clean and freshly painted.
The woman with me pushes open a swing door into a corridor. To the right, through the glass, is a big, open-plan office. It’s full of people getting ready for the working day, walking around with coffee cups, carrying post, chatting, most of them looking relaxed and happy, which is always a good sign. Throughout the office are several large square tables filled with paper, pens and other stationery, and reference books—I can see the title of one:68 Specific Ways to Harness the Power of Javascript. Oh wow. I wonder whether they’ll let me wander around on my lunch break. I’d love to leaf through some of these.
On the other side of the office, through a doorway, I can see a room filled with computers. I sigh. I’d much rather work there, but the job is secretarial, and I’ll take whatever I can get.
“I’m Marion,” the woman says, leading me along the corridor. “I’m Head Secretary here, so anything you need, come and see me.”
“Will do, thanks.” I follow her into a decent-sized Ladies’. Painted light green, it has five cubicles, and it’s clean and smells of the lavender potpourri someone’s placed in bowls on either side. There’s even a sofa in there, and a pile of magazines. What woman spends time reading magazines in a bathroom at work?
“Here.” Marion opens a cupboard under the sink, takes out a towel, and hands it to me. I dry my hands and face, then attempt to recover my hair, but it’s a hopeless task, the scruffy bun hanging limp, and the strands that normally tumble around my face now thin and straggly. Still, I do the best I can, and when I’m done she takes the towel from me and throws it in the laundry bin. “All right, love?” She smiles. “Come on then.”
We walk out, and she takes me further along the corridor, to where I can see a chain of offices. “You’re covering for Janine,” she says, “she’s off on her honeymoon. I’m so sorry it’s such late notice but the girl we had organized fell sick.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s okay—I didn’t have anything else booked, so it was kind of a relief really.”
“I’m so glad. Come in here. This is her desk, where you’ll be based.” She leads me into a pleasant office that overlooks the park. Oak trees with new green leaves arch over rolling lawns. The rain has stopped, and the sky behind it is a bright blue. Maybe things are looking up?
The desk is at an angle so the light from the window doesn’t fall on the computer screen, and contains everything I’d expect in a PA’s office—a selection of stationery: Post-it Notes, stapler, hole punch, pens and pencils, highlighters; an in-tray filled to bursting with manila folders; a typing stand; a headset which suggests audio typing is part of the job; and a phone with a dozen flashing buttons.
“Hang your jacket here,” she says, gesturing to a coat stand. “Hopefully it’ll dry by the end of the day.”
I hook it up, next to a long brown coat, a bit like the one Saxon wore that night in the bar. My lips curve up, the same way they do every time I think about him.
“I’ll take you in to meet the boss in a minute,” she says.
“What’s his name? Sorry, they didn’t tell me anything about the company or who I’m working for.”
“Oh, it’s Mr. Chevalier. He… can be a bit grumpy at times, but he’s a sweetheart when you get to know him.”
“Who’s a sweetheart?” a male voice says with amusement.
