He’d also sent five other texts about innocuous topics. One asked if I thought he should wear a suit or if black jeans would be okay. I’d replied that he was Oliver Blake, and he could walk in wearing a bin bag with the Union Flag wrapped around his junk, and they wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
The other texts had been iterations of the same topic. He’d asked about his shirt and whether I thought he could pull off a pink-coloured one. I told him I didn’t care and asked him to stop texting me. This caused him to double down and send me multiple messages containing half sentences.
O: I think we should
O: Grab a
O: Coffee after
O: dya wanna?
I was one more message away from blocking his number when the bus rumbled to a stop. I hopped off, saying a quick thanks to the driver.
Walking briskly along the street, I skirted around people who all seemed to be in as much of a hurry as I was.
I’d taken this route every day for two years. A sinking feeling started in my gut when I rounded the corner, and the giant building loomed before me. It never used to be this intimidating… did it?
Feeling the need to channel someone else—someone who was confident and had every ounce of their dignity intact, I pulled my shoulders back. The unfortunate side effect of that was my breasts protruded out almost obscenely. I could hardly walk in there tits first. Slumping a little, I stepped through the revolving door.
One small hope that blossomed and kept me from turning and running away was that no one would recognise me. When I’d left Morgenson, my hair had been a dark brown, and I’d had an obsession with bright floral skirts and oversized blouses.
A far cry from the outfit Rosie had forced me to wear. In my best friend’s words,dress to impress and show the fuckers what they’re missing.That was the official tagline of this outfit.
High-waisted slacks made my bum look fantastic, and a scoop-neck purple blouse gave the barest hint of cleavage to be suggestive rather than explicit.
I looked hot. Professional… but hot.
The foyer emanated cool and professional. Potted plants and uncomfortable chairs were designed to make you never want to linger too long.
My ballet flats made almost no sound as I walked across the large foyer to the reception desk.
A woman with raven black hair was tapping disinterestedly on the computer in front of her.
Stacey.
I walked past Stacey every day for two years without getting so much as a flicker of warmth. I didn’t know why she had always seemed to loathe her job and random employees, but she spent most of her time with a face like she was constantly smelling something rotten. Black eyeliner coated her eyes. So thick she could have given Jack Sparrow a run for his money.
Sensing another person, Stacey looked up from the screen wearing a practised and oh-so-fake professional smile. Upon seeing it was me, the smile dropped, turning to a sour purse of her lips.
‘Thought you got fired.’ She drawled in her thick Essex accent.
I had no desire to spend any energy on her. The day was going to be hard enough. So, I forced a smile—one I hoped was more believable than hers—and put on my best-unaffected voice.
‘I’ve got a meeting with Belinda Morgenson at nine.’
Stacey narrowed her eyes, looking me up and down.
‘But ya got fired.’
My smile didn’t drop.
‘I’ve still got a meeting.’
Stacey made no move to check the computer and give me a pass to access the lift. She kept her judgmental eyes laser focused on me.
‘You put a buncha dicks on Charlie’s car.’
My top lip curled. ‘Stacey. Meeting.’ I cocked my head towards the computer.
