I don’t want to assume how often she drinks a whole bottle of wine, but it doesn’t sound good. I don’t really want something short term on my CV.
“Still interested?” she asks.
On the other hand, I’ll get to meet Hamish Cameron. If it’s a total disaster, I can always leave it off my CV. A short employment gap won’t look too bad after a maternity leave cover, especially in the current job market.
“Yes, very much so.”
“Good. I’ll give him a call and arrange a time for you to go and meet him. He’ll decide whether you’ve got the job or not.”
“Do you mean an interview?”
“I think it will be more of an informal chat and a test of your coffee-making skills.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not. “Sounds great.”
She picks up the phone and hits one of the speed dial buttons. Yeah, that’s not good.
“Hamish! It’s Valerie Marchant, from Next Generation Recruitment.”
Even though the phone isn’t on speaker, I can hear Hamish’s gruff voice.
“Have you got another numpty PA to send me?” He has a Scottish accent, soft and musical, with heavily rolledr’s. Even though he’s clearly in a bad mood, his voice sends a delightful shiver down my spine.
“I’ve got a young man with an excellent CV. His name’s—”
“I don’t care what his fuckin’ name is as long as he can do the fuckin’ job. Send him over.”
“What day and time?”
“He can come now or not bother at all.”
“Of course, Hamish.” Valerie hangs up. “He’d like you to go over as soon as possible for an interview.” She must know I’ve heard every word. “Still interested?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll order you a taxi.”
* * *
I spend the taxi ride reading up on Hamish Cameron. I'm familiar with his books—I've got a dozen of them on my bookshelf and several more on my Kindle—but I've never bothered to read the 'About the Author' section. He grew up in Scotland before moving to London after hitting the bestseller lists for the fourth time and has won tons of awards for his writing. I don't care about that stuff—this guy is my all-time favourite author.
As a teenager, I fell in love with his young adult books, especially the ones featuring thirteen-year-old super sleuth Dougie Clarke. My copy of the first book in the series is dog-eared, has a cracked spine, and loose pages from being read so much. Corey bought me a new copy of it for my birthday last year, but that version has sat on my shelf, unread. Why is that original copy so special to me? Because it’s the only one of all my Hamish Cameron books that’s signed. Not that I’ve ever met him. Sometimes he goes to book stores and signs random copies of his books. I found one when I was in the book store, pocket money burning a hole in my pocket. It was like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Now I’m about to meet him. Fuck.
My pulse spikes, and my skin goes clammy. I can pretty much guarantee I’m going to get all tongue-tied and fluff my interview. I grab my shirt and fan the fabric against my skin. I don’t want to stink of nervousness when I arrive at his house.
Valerie’s flippant comment about how quickly he goes through PAs is stuck in my brain on a repeating loop. What if I’ve built him up to be this amazing guy, but he turns out to be a total bastard to work for? Assuming I get the job, obviously, which is looking less likely the more nervous I get.
Oh, fuck. I’m going to meet Hamish Cameron.
Take a deep breath.
Calm the fuck down.
You’ve got this, Archie.
Several deep breaths later, the taxi pulls up outside a set of wrought-iron gates, which leads to the most amazing house I've ever seen. It's an old square tower, with ultra-modern glass extensions on the front and side. It's absolutely huge. My mouth hangs open.
“Are you getting out?” the taxi driver asks. “I’ve got another fare to pick up.”
