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“Thank you. I’m looking forward to the interview,” I replied.
“Of course you are, dear. The marketing coordinator is quite the coveted role,” she remarked wryly. “The benefits are simply to die for.”
I chuckled, immediately put at ease by her playful exaggeration. “Well, in that case, I’ll bring my A-game today.”
“Excellent. We expect only the best,” Clara said with a dramatic flourish of her hand.
I grinned, catching on to her humor. “Naturally. I plan to wow you with my wit and charm.”
“Careful now, some of our authors bite,” she stage whispered.
I mimed, zipping my lips closed and throwing away the key.
Clara smiled approvingly. “Confidence. I like it. Mr. Dalton will see you now.” She motioned to a hallway leading off the lobby.
“Thank you,” I expressed, turning to traverse the paneled corridor. Glancing back over my shoulder, I caught Clara’s gaze. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it,” she replied with a wink.
Grinning, I continued down the hallway, Clara’s unexpected humor managing to alleviate some of my nerves. The hope for a smooth interview lingered.
Yet, as I turned the corner, my optimism wavered when my purse strap snagged on a precariously stacked pile of literary magazines perched on a side table. In an instant, the glossy periodicals cascaded to the hardwood floor in a papery landslide.
“Oh, no!” I gasped, hastily dropping to my knees to salvage the mess. My hands fumbled with the slick covers as I endeavored to hastily restack them. A rueful thought crossed my mind—what a fantastic first impression.
As I kneeled to pick up the magazines, I heard a faint ripping sound. To my horror, my knee had snagged on my gray wool sheath skirt, splitting the seam up the back. I could feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.
“Everything alright out here?” a male voice called out. I looked up sheepishly from the floor to see a distinguished older gentleman peering out of a nearby office door. He had kind eyes and a neat salt-and-pepper beard. I guessed this was Henry Dalton, my potential new boss.
“Um, yes! So sorry about this,” I said, trying awkwardly to hold the torn edges of my skirt together while also gathering up the magazines. I could feel my face growing even redder.
To my relief, Henry smiled warmly instead of looking annoyed. “Not to worry, happens all the time,” he said, stepping forward to help me pick up the remaining magazines.
Once we tidied the table, Henry extended his hand, tactfully not commenting on my wardrobe mishap. “You must be Etta. I’m Henry Dalton. Pleased to meet you.”
I shook his hand gratefully, giving him a sheepish smile. “Likewise, and again, so sorry about the mess.”
Henry waved his hand breezily. “Think nothing of it. Now, shall we begin the interview?”
I nodded, exhaling in relief as I followed him to his office, tugging self-consciously at my torn skirt; so much for making an excellent first impression.He led me to a snug office lined with bookshelves. The sweet aroma of chamomile tea filled the air. He motioned for me to sit facing his antique oak desk in one of the wingback chairs.
As I settled in, a woman entered the office behind Henry. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, of Hispanic descent, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun. She had an air of quiet confidence about her, accentuated by observant hazel eyes that seemed to take in every detail. Her outfit was stylish yet professional - a black blazer with an embroidered scarf at the neckline.
“Etta, allow me to introduce Lucia Mendez, our senior editor,” Henry said warmly. “She’ll be joining us for the interview today.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Lucia said, extending her hand. Her voice was smooth and melodic.
I shook it politely. “Likewise, Ms. Mendez.”
We all took our seats, and the interview begun. Henry and Lucia asked thoughtful questions about my background, skills, and interest in the role. I did my best to emphasize my passion for publishing and literature and relevant experience from my journalism career.
Lucia, in particular, seemed interested in my writing background. “What drew you from journalism to publishing?” she asked, studying me intently.
“Honestly, it was a desire to return to my first love - books,” I explained...
***
After ten minutes of pleasant small talk, Henry smiled apologetically and said, “Well, it seems our CEO is running behind schedule. But no matter, we can continue.”
