A million different answers spun through my head as I tried to second guess how they'd be interpreted, but in the end, I just decided to go with the truth.
I'd never been a good liar anyway.
“I watch a lot of cooking shows and true crime documentaries.”
There. I said it. Judge as you will.
To his credit, he didn’t look completely put off. “So you like to cook?”
"No," I replied, hoping I successfully stopped myself from wincing noticeably. After all, that was everyone's usual assumption. "I just find it soothing to watch other people cook."
He chuckled, and I couldn’t tell whether it was a with-me or an at-me situation. Had I just completely blown the interview by not having a life? I knew I should have taken up Cressida on her suggestion to try hot yoga.
“What’s your favorite cooking show?” He threaded his fingers together on the desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world.
“Anything Jamie Oliver does, probably. He’s got a really easygoing way of looking at life and cooking.”
“Jamie Oliver’s an idiot.”
“And to think, he speaks so highly of you,” I retorted. Then I realized what I’d said and my mouth dropped open. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t—”
Todd put up a hand, halting me mid-apology. “That will do, Ms. Paulson.” This time when he chuckled, it was definitely at me. “That was just a little test to see how you handled your opinions being questioned or mocked.”
I knew there’d be a test!
“And I passed with flying colors?” His smile was neither an affirmation nor a denial. This guy was impossible to read.
“I have a few more candidates to interview,” he said, “but I should be able to let you know within a few days if your application has been successful.”
I gulped. I was being dismissed and we’d barely even spoken about the job.
Crap.
“Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I appreciate your consideration,” I said, accepting my defeat.
He rose from the desk, sending his chair scraping across the hardwood. “Follow me please. I’ll show you out.”
He walked me back the way we’d come in, and the thoughts I’d had upon entering the space resurfaced.
“This antechamber is a waste of space,” I mused, more to myself than anyone else.
“Why do you say that?”
I flinched, not having expected Todd to be listening, and pointed to the small desk in the corner—the space’s only occupant. “All this space for a little desk? I know these kinds of rooms had purpose back in the day, but they’re outdated now.” I pressed a hand against the wood-paneled wall. “These will hold if you take the dividing wall out. I’d suggest adding more space to the library.”
“Interesting,” he noted, continuing on to the foyer. “Anything else?”
I snorted, pointing to the resplendent crystal chandelier that crowned the grand space. “Unless Andrew Lloyd Webber lives here, the chandelier has got to go. If the person you hire tells you different, they’re a fool.”
He waited politely by the front door. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Amusement glinted in his eye.
“Final word of advice,” I said, pointing to the curving staircase up to the landing on the second floor. “Gut the whole foyer. Put in a double L staircase with a pendant chandelier.”
“I think Mr. Bentley is quite fond of the foyer as it is,” Todd replied.
I laughed and shook my head. “He might be, but I guarantee you his guests aren’t. It’s pretentious.”
Hell, if I was going out, I was going out in style. Even if he didn’t hire me, Todd would remember me.
“There’s another keypad on this side of the gate,” Todd said, opening the door for me. “If you press the call button on it, I’ll open it so you don’t need to exert yourself physically again.”
“Uh, thanks.” I stepped out onto the front porch and waved at him. “I hope to hear from you.”
I turned away, keeping my face bright until he couldn’t see it. My hope could not compete with the doubt that hung heavy in my stomach.
2
Elizabeth
I was barely in my front door before Cressida thrust a glass of white wine in one hand and a mozzarella stick, still warm from the oven, into the other.
And who said living with a roommate was a bad thing.
“Wine while you whine?” she inquired in a dignified tone.
I laughed and took a bite of the cheese stick, passing the wine back to her momentarily while I slipped out of my coat and boots. I often wondered if she had some sort of sixth sense when it came to cheering people up. All I’d texted her was that I was on my way home.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I cooed.
“Thought you might be,” she replied.
I giggled and snatched the wine glass back out of her hand. “I was talking to the wine.”
“I know,” she winked.
Cressida always knew the right thing to say when I was down. We met in university, back when I’d thought I wanted to be a teacher, and had been inseparable ever since. She was the only person who’d enthusiastically supported me when I changed my major to art and design in junior year, and had continued this support when I pursued a diploma in interior design after graduation.
“I think I just screwed up the highest profile job I’ll ever get the opportunity to interview for.”
Cressida waved a dismissive hand at me. “Oh shush,” she said. “It’s a wonder you ever get anything done with that dark cloud hanging over your head. Now come sit down and enjoy your vino with me. I made classy hors d'oeuvres.”
I smiled and followed her into the kitchen, where she’d set up a platter of mozzarella sticks and spring rolls in the middle of the table. Raising my eyebrow, I asked, “What happened to the classy ones? Did you eat them already?”
She plunked down into her seat and gave me a flat look. “I didn’t have time to run to the grocery store, okay? I had to make do.” She gestured to the seat across from her with a flourish of her hand. “Besides, you love this shit.”
She had me there. I sat down and shoved the rest of my mozza stick in my mouth, washing it down with a hearty sip of wine. “This is delicious,” I said. “What vintage is it?”
She leaned back and opened the fridge door, craning her neck to peer inside. “Uh, that would be the 2016 Yellowtail Pinot Grigio,” she said. “In a box, to preserve its coveted plastic-y taste.”
I swirled my glass, sniffing appreciatively. All wine usually smelled the same to me. “I’m getting notes of onion and garlic. Has it been in the fridge long?”
She sat forward and closed the door, picking up her own glass and giving it a shrewd look. “Yes, about two weeks I believe.” She took a dainty sip. “I believe it is now at its peak in terms of flavor and depth.”
We both descended into fits of giggles.
“I’m sorry that the interview didn’t go well,” she said once she’d calmed back down. “I’m sure it went better than you thought though.”