“Oh, I…” Anything? That’s too much.
“Just let me know what your favourite food is,” she adds.
“Could I maybe have a bit of bread and cheese? And I’ll make a sandwich.” I don’t want to inconvenience anyone. I’m used to fending for myself, and there is a kitchen in the hotel room. Suite. Well. It’s more like a luxury apartment.
“Cheese sandwich.” She nods. “Would you like it toasted?”
My stomach rumbles, answering for me, and I give a sheepish laugh.
“One cheese toastie,” she says with a smile. “It’ll be brought to your room.”
“Thanks.”
Back inside, I curl up on a sofa as I unwrap the box, enjoying every silky slide of the ribbon and expensive thunk of the lid. Inside on the top is a folder which opens to a sheet of paper with a handwritten note:
I hope you enjoy your stay.
K.A.
I wonder who K.A. is but get quickly distracted. Below is a miniature bottle of champagne, with a glass flute to drink it from. Then blue glass bottles and pots that turn out to bedivinely scented toiletries. I sniff each one and rub the creams onto the back of my hand. There’s even a toothbrush and toothpaste.
Everything I need.
I go through the folder, which turns out to be what seems to be generic information about the hotel, Croydon and London sightseeing, all in loose sheets. But one sticks out. Not a glossy advertisement, but a simply typed informational flyer, withJobs Vacantat the top.
A single role is listed: graphic designer.
My intake of breath would be audible if there were anyone listening, though of course it’s just me here. So I’m talking to myself when I say, “Oh wow.”
It must be a mistake. All these flyers, and it got scooped in somehow. But it’s such a lucky accident. Excitement flares in my chest.
It’s a permanent position. Tasks include redoing the brochure of the hotel, creatives for the social media accounts, and an overall brand redesign. I bite my lip. I’d love to do it. This is exactly the sort of job I dreamed of during my degree.
Not only that, it says accommodation is provided. I stare at the advert. The salary range is enormous, but I’m sure I couldn’t get the job. A billion other way more qualified people than me will be competing for it.
The deadline for applications is midnight.
There’s a knock on the door and I rush because I want to tip the chef or the waiter. I might be skint, but I have manners, and someone went to a lot of trouble to get me food.
But when I pull open the door, there’s no one. Just a large white plate, and the mouth-watering scent of bread and melted cheese.
I guess I missed them, but the elevator doors are shut and the number above it is static. Huh. Odd.
But I’m too hungry to dwell. I pick up the plate and regard the golden-brown grilled cheese sandwich, complete with a bright salad garnish with dressing. Yum.
I take it to the kitchen and sit at the marble-topped island. The first bite is utter heaven, and I groan a bit. My neck prickles and I smooth the hairs down as I nibble, trying to make the food last forever. When I’ve licked my fingers and eaten every crumb on the plate, I bring up the online application on the fancy computer in one of the smaller bedrooms.
I’m ready to spend the rest of the evening on it, but the form only needs a few details and qualifications.
“Fingers crossed for foolhardy,” I murmur aloud as I click submit. It would be mad not to apply for my dream job.
I sigh. This is silly. I shouldn’t get all?—
But the open tab of my email account flashes up with an alert. An email.
I guess it’s just an automated confirmation of receipt, but I check it anyway.
Dear Miss Sullivan,
