The caller, Mrs Tyrell is a regular customer and loaded, seriously loaded. Like richer than God but her favourite designer, Ronaldo has left after falling in love with an Italian that he’s followed back to Milan.
“I loveDante’s Inferno,” I tell her for no reason I know. This could go horribly wrong because she, Mrs Tyrell, is a bit awkward at times and can be more than a little testy when the mood takes her, but I do loveDante’s Infernoand I like the fact she knows it. “Although from what you’re saying you probably only have the yellow face of Satan in that room, maybe the red one too,” I say, finally giving in to laughter, laughter she actually joins in with.
“I demand to speak to Christian, Mr Peterson. I expect a full refund and a reworking of my room,” she tells me as I roll my eyes in Sean’s direction.
“Let me just check if Mr Peterson is available for you, Mrs Tyrell.” I bring up his online diary on my screen. While I wait for it to load, I make conversation. “How’s Mr Tyrell?” I do it as a time filler but also because the subject of him calms her. She clearly loves him, adores him from the way she speaks about him.
“Oh, aren’t you a sweet girl,” she coos down the line meaning both of my objectives in using his name have been achieved.
I allow her to continue talking as the diary appears on my screen showing nothing at all for my boss until almost noon, meaning he should be free, but as Mrs Tyrell is in full flow, I allow her to continue.
I recall that she is an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with highlighted hair and blue eyes. I remember seeing her, the first and only time when Ronaldo was leaving and was shocked at how in condition she was, still is. Obviously, she’s a gym bunny, or more likely has a personal trainer on the payroll.
Mrs Tyrell is always nice to me when we speak, except when she is getting stressed or pissy, like today, but in fairness she never directs her anger at me personally. I think Ronaldo told me that her husband is not her first husband but is her favourite one. The richest one I assume. I reckon in her younger years she was a goer, a real goer and absolutely stunning.
Briefly, I wonder if she was the sort of woman to partake in one night stands, she kind of looks the sort, although if that is the case I must look like her because I am now the sort of woman who partakes in them too. But last night was different and I have never done anything like that before and in my own defence am unlikely to again.
We, my friend Sarah and I went out, her idea to cheer me up since I have recently split up with Brad properly and although I insist I have not been moping Sarah disagrees. She is smugly in love and engaged to Jed who she is marrying in a couple of months’ time. They are just perfect for each other, so perfect that Sarah wants everyone in the world to feel the same.
Brad and I ran its course several months ago but neither of us admitted it until more recently and although we were together for almost two years, we were the on/off couple. Sarah romanticised it into a Burton and Taylor,can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘emscenario and refuses to accept that I’m not heartbroken on some level. We never were that couple and I think we were simply relieved to just be off with no pressure to get it back on again.
Last night we went to a club which is where I metMr hair gel, ripped muscles and tattoosas my friend named him. Once she was happy that he wasn’t a mad axe man she bailed, called Jed and left me to it. I don’t mind that she left and when she did, I was as sober as a judge, almost, so I was safe. I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to call or text her with the details of what happened next, although I am sure I recall my overnight guest texting Sarah from my phone when we got back to mine, he didn’t want her to worry. I really need to check what he sent to her, possibly just check my phone because he could have text anyone, well anything’d anyone from my number.
“But apart from that he’s okay,” Mrs Tyrell informs me, reminding me that I am supposed to be working and checking where Mr Peterson is and as if by magic, he appears from his office.
He’s a strange man really, nice enough I suppose, but strange. He is only a couple of inches taller than me at about five and a half feet and whilst not fat he is what you’d describe as stocky. His hair is a mass of soft, messy, mousy curls. He is only thirty but seems older with his tales of mortgage rates, catchment areas and keeping a family that consists of a wife, three children, two cats, a dog, a hamster and six goldfish.
“Mrs Tyrell,” I begin, about to tell her that I am putting her on hold when Mr Peterson, who insists on being called Mr Peterson at all times during office hours is shaking his head and doing some strange hand signal to say he won’t be free until later and then he disappears into his office with his fresh coffee. “I have Mr Peterson’s diary here and he is quite busy today,” I lie. “I can get a message to him and have him call you as soon as he’s free and in the meantime, I will email an outline of your dissatisfaction to him,” I offer.
“Thank you, dear.”
Before I know it, I’ve hung up and wonder why my boss was unwilling to speak to someone who puts a lot of business our way, her own and that of her friends which equals big bucks.
After fielding another couple of calls and with Mr Peterson in a good mood, a very good mood I rediscover my earlier conviction to confront him about my own future. Grabbing my condensed portfolio that I put together some time ago for prospective clients and employers I head towards his office, stopping at the desk of a junior admin worker to ask her to cover reception. The door to my boss’ office is ajar and I can see him through the gap, sitting at his desk sipping his coffee between taps on his keyboard.
“Mr Peterson.” I gently knock the door and enter, my appearance startling him.
“Sorry,” he says, causing me some confusion with his apology. “Mrs Tyrell,” he expands. “I will call her back after lunch,” he assures me in a confusing near whisper.
I feel a little irritated at his assumption that Mrs Tyrell is the only reason for me entering his office.
“She was really upset about her sunroom,” I explain, getting sidetracked from my real reason for coming in. “She’s talking refund and free reworking.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, almost dismissing me, but not quite so I seize my moment before I lose my nerve.
“Look Mr Peterson, I need more than you’re giving me here,” I tell him and am thankful that nobody else is here to hear how those words sound when spoken aloud to my boss because what I want is entirely professional.
“Excuse me?” He looks directly at me giving me his undivided attention.
“Professionally, I need more. I am not a receptionist, well I am because that is what I do here, but that is not really what I am, you know that. You know I have a degree in art and design and the reason I applied for my job here was because of the business it is. I told you that when you interviewed me over eighteen months ago. I was honest about the fact that I wanted to gain design experience and you encouraged that idea, but nothing has been forthcoming.” With all the words out, I finally take a breath.
“I see.” I am not convinced that he is taking me seriously. “We should talk about this later, maybe Wednesday. I am free on Wednesday afternoon,” he replies, and I am irritated further because as far as I can see he is available right now.
I huff and glance around the room willing myself not to tell my boss to stick his job up his arse. My focus is drawn to the open door that leads onto the balcony that Mr Peterson insists on calling a terrace, but regardless of the noun we use to describe that area, I love it. I love the idea of one day having my own office with a balcony. I smile at that thought and then my smile drops through the floor as a body comes into view, in the open doorway of the balcony and I immediately recognise him as my one-night stand.
Shit, could this day get any more surreal?
“Christian.” He steps into the room he is now crossing. “I am happy for you to deal with your staffing issues.” He remains focused on my boss. “In fact, I would be interested to hear your receptionist’s ideas.”
