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I watch the man sort of close in on himself. He definitely is regretting what he just said. He acted on the spur of the moment, but…
“You’re absolutely right to make that decision,” I say, nodding my head. “You’re absolutely right.”
I wouldn’t want an Albie situation, or a Miles situation, ever again.
Yet this still leaves me unemployed and listless. A dire loneliness nestles itself once more inside me; a deep-down, hollow yearning that’s not very new, actually.
“I feel terrible because you’d have fit in great around here.” He gestures at the general surroundings and that’s when I realise, I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. This emptiness, in such an intimidating, big space, is not me. I prefer warm environs working close with other colleagues, not desks that are sat in the middle of acres of space, closed off and ensconced in some high castle of doom.
“It’s a shame because I think I’d have been a really good PA to have on your side.” That bit is true.
“Absolutely, no doubt about it.”
Then another crazy thought hits. If he’s not attracted to that Juliette Binoche lookalike out there in reception, who is currently gainfully employed, then I am a monkey’s uncle.
“I am so sorry,” he says, “I feel awful.”
“No, please.” I get up and start to walk out.
He hurries after me and asks, “Mirabelle, please. Wait.”
I turn and watch the way he watches me. Yes, there’s definitely a bit more than simmering attraction there. Holding out his black business card, embossed with gold writing of course, he tells me with a smile in his eyes, “I’d love to take you to dinner. If you’d like? No pressure. Just call my mobile, anytime. I’ll pay, of course. To say sorry.”
“Oh… thanks.” I take the card with a slight hint of hesitation and he notices.
“I really feel dreadful. I know what it’s like to want to feel useful again,” he says, once more reading me so bloody flawlessly. “I have several contacts who are always on the lookout for good people.”
Oh, so he still thinks of me as “good people”.
“I can make my own way,” I decide, starting to become a bit pissed off.
“I didn’t tell you but I called one of your referees ahead of this meeting, just because I’ve been struggling to find the right person and I was eager to give you the job on the spot if you were.”
“Miles Farringdon?” I make an educated guess.
“Yes. I believe he’s Chuck Farringdon’s son. I’ve done some business with Chuck. And so, the name rang a bell and that might have also been what prompted me to call ahead.”
That revelation nearly shocks me off my feet.
“What did he say?”
“That I’d be a fool not to employ you and that you’re one of the most talented people he’s ever met. Plus, he’s sorry he can’t employ you himself… what with the competition clause in your contract, since you both left Chrissy around the same time and he took half her clients with him.”
Heat springs to my cheeks and I decide I’m definitely done with this fucking nightmare now. There is no way on earth a man as talented as Aidan Linklater hasn’t put the pieces together and figured out my whole entire life. Not after I just told him a bunch of stuff that I was lulled into telling him. Stupid me! This entire time, I didn’t know that I was actually interviewing to be his fucking girlfriend. I really didn’t know that this is how CEOs do things these days.
They’re not on Tinder or Snapchat or whatever the hell it is kids use, they’re on LinkedIn or on job sites, inviting people over for bogus interviews, during which they have you spill everything under the guise of them potentially giving you a living, only for them to say, “I couldn’t possibly employ you because you’re too hot.”
“I, um, will think about giving you a call,” I say breezily, even though I won’t be doing that.
No way!
“Please, I’d love to take you out. Mirabelle.” He lingers over my name as though he likes it on his lips. “I’m truly sorry. I can’t help that I find you utterly beautiful.”
“Okay, bye now.”
I rush out and down the hall, and into the lift.
“Your badge!” the woman screams.
