I cough my throat clear. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, taking hold of the cab’s door handle. But he moves fast, sweeping past me and jumping into the cab. My cab. ‘Hey,’ I say indignantly, my arm jarring as I lose my grip of the handle when he pulls the door shut behind him. I step back in shock. He doesn’t even look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s left me stranded on the kerbside. What I do see, though, is a broad back beneath a grey blazer and a navy scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. And then, when he settles in the seat, I catch sight of his profile. I’m rendered pathetic again for a second. He has the most perfect profile of any man I’ve ever seen.
I shake myself from my inappropriate observations. This wanker just stole my cab – an arsehole move that wipes out the fact that he saved me from my fall in the first place. Or that he’s a gorgeous son of a bitch. I will him to look at me so I can toss him an evil look, but the bastard evades my eyes and the cab pulls away before I can yank the door open and hurl a load of abuse at him.
Stunned and irritated, I stand on the kerb with my mouth open, staring at the rear of the cab driving away. He slowly turns his head and looks out of the back window. The cab might already be fifty-odd feet away, but I definitely see the slow formation of a smug smile.
‘You arsehole,’ I breathe, and stare for far too long until the cab gets lost among the other traffic. ‘Shit.’ I pull myself together.
My eyes shoot across the road, my arm flying into the air once more, but I don’t get lucky again. Every cab sails right past.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head as I reach down and remove my heels. I don’t have the time or freedom to be bothered by what I’m about to do. ‘Excuse me,’ I sing as I rush down the street in my bare feet, weaving and dodging everyone in my path. My legs work fast, and despite drawing a few frowns from the pedestrians jumping from my path, I focus on making it to my interview on time.
But I’m not on time.
I land outside the grand building at quarter past ten after taking too many wrong turns. My face is damp, my long, red hair is in my eyes, and my cheeks are probably pinker than usual. I must look a mess.
Holding the side of the wall, I slip on my shoes then take a risky peek at my reflection in the window. ‘Bollocks.’ My fears are confirmed. I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. My brown eyes are watery, my mascara running. Hardly fitting for an elite auction house.
I spend the next five minutes straightening myself out, which now makes me a full twenty minutes late. If I wasn’t so desperate for the job, I wouldn’t be so cheeky to present myself at reception and reel off my excuses. But I am desperate. I really need this job. And I really, really want it. This particular London auction house – Parsonson’s – is renowned for dealing in only the most famous and collectible pieces. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Okay, Eleanor. You can turn this around. Smile. Stand tall. Let’s do this.
My phone starts ringing, and I growl my frustration as I dive into my bag. My ex-boyfriend’s name on the screen adds to my already frazzled nerves. ‘Go away, David,’ I mutter, rejecting the call before turning off my phone. I said everything I had to say while he chased after me yanking his boxers on. Which was a basic fuck off. Hasn’t he got the message yet?
Throwing David out of my mind, I focus on the task at hand: getting myself a job. Removing my mac and straightening my shoulders, I push my way through the glass revolving door into the reception area. I immediately feel out of place. It’s clinical, with only a curved white desk that blends into the white floor and walls, and four white leather couches are positioned to form a square. It’s also silent, but my tentative footsteps, clicking loudly on the marble floor, soon breaks the quiet, drawing the attention of a pristine woman behind the desk.
She looks over her glasses at me and smiles, warming the chilly atmosphere. ‘Good morning,’ she greets, standing from her chair.
‘Hi.’ I surreptitiously pull my blouse into place, conscious that my attire is too drab, and this place is anything but. ‘I have an interview. I was told to ask for Shelley Peters.’
‘Ah, Mr Timms’s secretary. You are?’
‘Eleanor Cole.’
‘Yes, I have you on our system.’ She reaches for a clipboard and passes it over the high desk, and I relax a little, relieved that she hasn’t mentioned my lateness. ‘Sign in here, please.’
I take the pen and scribble down my name before pushing it back across the desk. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Take the lift to the seventh floor.’
Smiling my thanks, I make my way over to the lifts, press the call button, and take the time while I’m waiting to restore my equilibrium. When the doors open, I step inside, and I’m whisked up to the seventh floor where I discover that the minimal theme is uniform throughout the building. With the exception of a few plants, this space is just as sparse and cold. ‘Hello,’ I say as I reach the receptionist’s desk.
A lady looks up, not a hint of friendliness on her pointed features. ‘I assume you are Eleanor Cole,’ she snaps, tossing a file to the side of her desk.
I tense under her disdainful look and straighten my cheerful face. ‘Yes.’ I have a feeling that even if I told this woman I’d been run over and had dragged myself out of hospital to get here, it would be of no concern to her, never mind some rude arsehole stealing my cab. ‘I’m sorry for—’
‘Let’s not waste any more of each other’s time. Mr Timms is a very punctual man. You’re over twenty minutes late.’
‘It’s just—’
‘The dog was run over? Your train derailed?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Mr Timms has moved on to the next candidate, who, by the way, has qualifications.’
‘But I believe I have working, practical knowledge to rival any other candidate,’ I argue. My CV was something to be proud of when I’d finished it, even if it was missing some important things . . . like qualifications. With a lack of those, I had to be creative. I wrote pages and pages of words, touching on everything I know. Which is a lot. It must have caught potential employee’s attention, since I got this interview. Or did have it.
‘It’s irrelevant now,’ she mutters. ‘Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’ A well-manicured hand picks up the phone. ‘Good morning, Parsonson’s.’
I step away from the desk, well aware I’ll get nowhere challenging her. And, actually, I’m certain I wouldn’t want to work here even if I was destitute.
As I slowly walk to the lift, I ignore the cold-hard fact that I am pretty much destitute, and this job could be the difference between keeping my new home and pursuing my dream, or returning to Helston a failure. My reality is suddenly all too real as I enter the lift and fall back down to earth with it. The cab-thieving bastard.
After offering the nicer receptionist a tight smile as I slip past her desk, I enter the revolving door and use my waning strength to push it around. I’m feeling a little lost and defeated, walking with no sense of where I’m heading.
What will I do now? I guess it’s back to square— the door jars and I crash straight into it, ricocheting off the glass with an almighty bang and dropping my bag. ‘Goddamn it.’ I blink my vision clear, taking my hand to my knee and rubbing away the stab of pain before I crouch and start gathering up the contents of my bag. Could this day get any worse?