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I inhale deeply. So, he didn’t tell her about the Savoy, then? It’d not only infuriate her, but for some reason, I think it’d go against rules, too. And him not seeing me again has become a rule, has it?
“Thanks, Sharon. I’ll bear that in mind.”
I hang up before it gets any more awkward.
Part Three
The Conman
Chapter One
Ugh, Valentine’s Day. And I’ve got a job interview. I can already tell I may as well have not bothered. What a day to be trying out for a new job. Yuck.
Climbing the Gherkin in a lift all by myself, it’s a lonely feeling and I’m dwarfed not only by the scale of this building, but by my own crippling sense of unworthiness.
The past month has been a truly terrible time. I’ve had to sit home alone with my thoughts since leaving Chrissy’s PR company.
I miss Albie, but I also miss Miles, strangely.
Most of all, I miss who I used to be.
You know how they say that you don’t know what you had until it’s gone…
I used to be without a care in the world, scooping up messes and collecting coffee orders. My ambitions were limited and I was happy as Sharon’s scooper-upper. Now look at me. I went to work for Chrissy and found out I’m more than just a dogsbody. More than someone who had to occasionally moonlight as a bouncer to make ends meet.
I’m more than just someone’s bit of stuff, or worse, their infatuation which will never be realised—because their whole life is based on being a lothario.
Just as I was getting to understand my worth, my power—things happened and I had to go from Chrissy’s employment.
My greatest regret is that I signed that contract of hers. Yeah, she plopped twenty grand in my bank account so I’d sign it—but within days of me leaving HypoChrissy, the clients I’d handled while working there got in touch through LinkedIn having heard I was no longer working for Chrissy. One person messaged with these exact words:
We’d love a reason to extract ourselves from HypoChrissy. You’re what we’ve been waiting for. Miles is great and if not you, we’ll probably go with him, but we’d rather you—your insights are fresh and your attention to detail amazing. Our vision requires a female touch.
Three bottles of wine and a crying fest later, I had to tell them that I’d signed a no-competition contract with Chrissy. I was really sorry, etcetera, etcetera…
They came back saying nobody would need to know and I could even be absorbed into their in-house team. Unfortunately, my own morality got the better of me, plus the fact I didn’t want to have to explain why I left Chrissy’s employ in the first place. I still said no. And I’m still kicking myself to this day.
Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, and sometimes I nearly have myself convinced I was right to get out. On my low days, everything feels too much and I don’t even know why I’m so bothered about it all.
Anyway, I was on the cusp of giving up my flat, putting everything in storage and going backpacking around the world, when a late-night email arrived. Someone had seen that I was looking for a new position on one of those job sites, and here I am, about to interview for the proposition I received that night.
I leave the lift feeling slightly seasick, if that’s even what this is. We’re high up and as I emerge into the corridor, at the end of which is a big glass window that makes it seem as if there’s nothing between you and the gigantic drop to the ground below, I decide this isn’t going to work. I can’t spend my days in a fucking skyscraper, I’ll be vomiting constantly!
Up here the amber lighting and gold trim everywhere makes it seem even more like a trippy experience. Taking a deep breath, I tell myself I can just interview for this job for the experience, there’s no onus on me to accept it. I need to get back into the swing of things so that’s all this is. If not this job, then I’ll need to be ready for another, won’t I?
Reaching the slick desk of the receptionist, a curved walnut monstrosity housing her workstation with the same gold trim everything else here has, she smiles broadly and exclaims, “Welcome to Linklater Investments. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes, it’s Mirabelle Perez. To interview with Mr Linklater.”
The highly put-together woman whose skin is as alabaster as snow and as smooth as any of Rodin’s masterpieces, raises one perfectly drawn, pencil-thin eyebrow, her style much reminiscent of the French, and remarks, “Oh, you’re Spanish?”
“My father is,” I tell her. “But he’s lived here since he was small.”
“You’re so fair for the daughter of a Spaniard,” she says, still with a haughty but impressed demeanour.
For a moment I wonder if this is part of the interview. Perhaps they already did background checks and are trying to psyche me out. After all, confidentiality must be a huge thing at a place like this.
“My mother is Scottish,” I tell her straight, “and I’m pretty sure a lot of Scots are descended from Vikings.”
