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That probably accounts for a lot of who I am—and why I get myself into skirmishes quite often, without even intending to.
The receptionist busies herself collecting a few things and laughs lightly. “My parents are French. And when I say French, I mean, you know, French. Seems there is not a person in London without connections elsewhere.”
Now I’m hearing her voice, there is a slight lilt of something else, as if she has been back and forth to France for long stays over there.
“This way, then,” she gestures, leaving her desk.
As we’re walking, she hands me a visitor pass to clip on my jacket.
She takes me to an enormous seating area where you can, in fact, go stand by the window and see all the way down to the bottom. I don’t go near it, however. I stare around at all the enormous potted trees, glass furniture with business magazines laid out pristinely, then a wall that has a number of famous people photographed meeting the same man, shaking hands. No doubt the grey-suited man everyone’s pictured with is the boss.
“You get used to the heights,” she says, reading me. “He’ll be with you any moment now.”
She heads into an office which is on the other side of the seating area, some paper in her hand that she no doubt intends to give to Mr Linklater. There is too much space for this to be any kind of small outfit. This is a place of big business, representative of a man that can afford to show off, with such a big open space that seems not to get utilised. I notice a water cooler and grab myself a little bit of refreshment. As I’m walking the floor, I realise I’m not imagining it. Big buildings like this do move, a bit like a cruise ship, I suppose. You get used to it, but it’s there—that subtle shift. Well, it’s windy out there today.
“Ah, Miss Perez, won’t you come through?” a male voice announces, booming through the echoey space.
I’m shocked out of my reverie, turning quickly and almost spilling the remaining water in my paper cup. The receptionist stifles a smile when she sees me panic, heading straight back to her desk without another word.
I make a mad dash for my handbag and then rush to catch up with Mr Linklater who has already held the door open for me ten seconds too long.
We share a friendly smile as I walk into his office after him.
He’s nothing very extraordinary, I decide. I can do this. I’ve got life experience.
He doesn’t seem too scary, does he?
“Please, take a seat,” he says.
I look around and find nothing that might tell me anything about this man. No photographs anywhere, no family pictures or professional ones. He doesn’t have much in the way of ornaments that give away any sort of ostentation. In fact, it seems like the opposite is true. I’d got used to Miles with his braces and tie pins, fancy silks and shoes that never had a mark on them. This guy is rugged with just a plain shirt and tie, his jacket hanging up on a bland coat stand, no special cufflinks with his initials (Miles always had cars, boats or sport-themed ones).
“Miss Perez, may I call you Mirabelle?” he asks, as I seat myself and try to breathe.
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m Aidan but in front of clients, it’d be best to call me Mr Linklater.”
I nod that I agree, while part of me is trying to grasp the fact that there is so much glass in this place. We must be in one of the offices near the very top because the curving ceiling is making me feeling overwhelmed. I’ve never been interviewed anywhere like this before.
“Is it the height?” he asks, noticing how my eyes are darting around, no doubt.
“I never thought I had a problem with heights, Mr Linklater. But here I am. Thinking that maybe I do!” I laugh nervously.
“A drink? What can I get you? A little hot chocolate, perhaps? To settle the nerves.” He points to where his flash coffee-making machine sits to the rear of the room. Now that thing looks ostentatious for damn sure.
“Now, that would be lovely,” I agree.
“Good, because I’m gasping, too.”
As he strides around his desk and does the honours, I notice his walk. His body. He is fit and tidy. Not as tall as Miles or Albie (really need to stop comparing everyone else to them), but he is sort of buff. Jesus, when he turns his back… I finally look down and notice that butt in those grey trousers. It could make women weep. He has to play rugby on the weekends or something, because he has thick thighs and boulders for arms, too. So no wonder he doesn’t need jewellery to make himself look good.
After the machine does its job, he brings me my drink, placing it right in front of me. I get a waft of some woody cologne and see his eyes close up for the first time. They are as blue as the Aegean and his hair as dark as matte black. He must have shaved this morning but already there’s a dirty amount of stubble pushing through and his hair is closely cropped, but if allowed to grow out, would no doubt be a little curly, I decide.
I take a sip of the hot chocolate which is much thicker than I was expecting it to be and delicious.
“Wow, right?” I exclaim, forgetting myself.
“I’m an espresso man myself.”
