‘Ouch.’ He laughs a little, pulling the lapels of his jacket in, but that frown is still there. ‘Then how about you stop following me?’
‘I’m not bloody following you,’ I breathe, exasperated.
‘Sure you’re not.’ He turns on his expensive brogues and walks off. ‘See you around, princess.’
‘I hope not,’ I yell to his back. That arse. It brings tears to my eyes. Bastard.
I feel bemused, hot, lustful, embarrassed, mystified . . . annoyed. ‘Such a twat,’ I say to myself, quickly checking the time. ‘Shit.’
My thoughts realign in a heartbeat. If he’s made me late for this interview, too, I will most definitely be stalking him . . . so I can wring his fucking neck.
I dash off in the opposite direction, waving my arm frantically for a cab. At least I know Mr I believe this might be foreplay won’t be taking this cab.
I’ve never met such a conceited wanker.
Chapter 4
First impressions. They really do count, and what I’m staring at right now doesn’t bode well for my interview. An alleyway. There’s an iron door guarding the entrance with an old metal sign with ‘The Haven’ above it.
The Haven? ‘Hardly,’ I say quietly. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I ring the buzzer on the keypad next to the door and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I ring it again, this time holding it down for a few seconds so the irritating shrill stretches out, making me wince. There are a few crackles then a huff of displeasure. ‘Patience is a virtue,’ a woman’s voice snaps, making me step back. ‘How can I help?’
I inch forwards, putting my mouth closer to the intercom. ‘Hi, I’m looking for The Haven.’
‘You’ve found it.’
‘I have an interview today. Arranged through the agency.’
‘Your name?’
‘Eleanor Cole.’
‘Push the door.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The door, dear. Push it.’
I stare at the intercom. Never have I heard the word dear said with such snark. I can almost hear her eyes rolling. A shift of metal snaps my attention from the intercom to the door, and I gingerly reach out and give it a little push. It opens, revealing an alleyway that doesn’t seem to have an end. Or a light. Despite being slightly wary, I cross the threshold, trying to adjust to the dark. There’s a smell of damp brick walls, making my nose wrinkle in distaste. It reminds me of my father’s workshop – old and neglected. The familiar smell dashes my enthusiasm further as I slowly edge forwards. I don’t know where I’m heading or what I’ll find once I make it there. If I make it there. I’ve moved five paces and still can’t see any signs of life at the end. It’s eerily silent.
Bang!
‘Shit.’ I fly around, startled, my heart rate rocketing, the sound of the door crashing closed echoing around me, trapping me within the confines of the brick tunnel. My hands start grappling at the wall, feeling their way across the bricks in an attempt to get me back to the door. The ground beneath my heels is rocky, my shoes not coping with the uneven surface, making me trip and stumble.
It’s a few frantic moments, but I finally make it back to the door, and it takes just two solid tugs on the handle for me to conclude I’m going nowhere except further into the black hole. ‘Fabulous.’ I have two options. I can stand here in the dark and rot, because it doesn’t seem like anyone is rushing to greet me. Or I can risk breaking an ankle while attempting to make it to the end of this black hole to nowhere, because it seems the only way I’m getting out of here is by finding someone who can let me out.
I feel my way down the alleyway again, tentatively putting down each foot before settling my whole weight on it. This is ridiculous. Has every interview candidate endured these conditions? ‘Some light would be handy,’ I grumble, hearing a repeat of my words when the echo travels into the black distance ahead of me. ‘Phone!’ I blurt out, blindly feeling in my bag for it. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?
But the second I lay my hand on my mobile, light floods the pit of darkness. My hands instinctively come up to shield my eyes from the sudden glare.
‘There you are, dear.’ It’s that voice again, except this time there’s no trace of irritation, only warmth.
I blink repeatedly, trying to find my focus, and when the black blobs finally dissolve from my vision, I see a face that matches the voice perfectly. The voice belongs to a small and round woman, aged at least seventy, and the short curls sprayed into position on her head are violet. Once I can bring myself to rip my eyes away from her wild-coloured hair, I let my gaze drop to find her dressed just how I would have guessed. A mid-length skirt, a two-piece matching blouse and cardigan, and to round the look off perfectly, a string of pearls draped around her neck.
‘Hello,’ I say cautiously. She defies the unnerving circumstances and environment that I’ve found myself in. She’s all cute and cuddly. This place is anything but.
‘You made it halfway, dear,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll escort you the remaining distance.’ She gives me a little jiggle of her head, an indication for me to follow, before she turns and leads the way. I rush to catch up with her, watching my feet on the uneven cobbles as I go. ‘The name’s Mrs Potts, dear.’ She marches on, and I smile to myself at the fitting name. ‘We’ll have a chat over a cuppa.’
‘A chat?’
‘Oh.’ She laughs, waving a hand indifferently. ‘I’m sorry. We’re supposed to call it an interview, aren’t we? A bit formal for my liking.’
‘Formal?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Forty-three years, dear.’
My eyes widen and my heart plummets. Everything so far suggests I’m walking into an interview for a job that’ll be no more beneficial to my dream career than running my dead father’s dead business. I wince at my stray thoughts. ‘That’s some service,’ I murmur.
‘I’m part of the furniture, me.’ She takes a sharp right, and I follow, glancing around, regardless of there still being nothing but brick walls closing me in. ‘He’ll need a wrench to turf me out.’
‘He?’ I ask.
‘Yes, dear. The boss.’
My eyebrows rise, my face contorting into something I can only imagine looks like bewilderment. If she’s seventy-odd and has worked here for forty-three years, how old is the boss? ‘What’s the name of the company, if you don’t mind me asking?’