Mr. G frowns, sticks his hand over the mouthpiece, and mutters, “She sounds bossy.”
“She can be like a raging dragon, but it’s because she cares. She’s probably calling to remind me about the deadline at three today.”
“Deadline?”
I rub the back of my neck. “It was for an internship, but I don’t think I’m going to bother applying.”
“And why not?” He shoots me a sharp look.
“The sketches I was going to submit for it were ruined when I spilled coffee on them. This internship is for one of the most highly regarded companies in the UK. I don’t want to submit anything that’s shoddy.”
“Are those the papers I saw spread out over the table in the break room?”
I nod.
“Min, what’s taking you so long?” I hear Liz shout. “I know you can hear me. Stop second-guessing yourself. This is your voice of reason.”
Mr. G strokes his chin. “And what company was this for?”
“The Clarissa Lee Atelier.”
“I see.” He glances at me, then back to the phone as if he’s considering something important. There’s an off chance he’s heard of Clarissa Lee, but I doubt it. Mr. G isn’t exactly fashion forward. His wardrobe never strays from his uniform of an olive-green or black jumper and black trousers.
“Minerva . . .” Liz’s voice is growing frantic.
“What you do is up to you, but your friend is right. Don’t second-guess yourself. Those drawings are brimming with talent.” He places the phone in my hand. “I’ll watch the till until Steve returns from lunch. Go speak to your friend.”
I feel like a fish gasping for air above water as Mr. G gently pushes me toward the break room. Just when I didn’t think he could surprise me again, he compliments me. I never thought I’d see so many different sides of him in one day.
“Hi, Liz,” I say, holding the phone about a foot from my ear.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me, Minerva Hana! Do you know what time it is?”
“Two forty-five?”
“Yes!” She sounds exasperated. “Have you done it yet?”
“No.”
“Then hurry up and crack on with it. You don’t have much time left!”
“I’m not doing it.” My eyes flutter. “There was an accident this morning with my sketchbook. I refuse to send in work that looks as if I threw stuff together at the last minute. I have a reputation to maintain, even if they don’t know who I am. You only get one shot at a first impression.” I fill my voice with false cheer. “They’ll open internships again in six months. I’ll apply then.”
“Stop being thick. Just include a note explaining what happened. They’ll be understanding. Trust me when I say they won’t care about the state of the paper. It’s the sketches on them that count. Maybe it’ll make you stand out even more.”
“That’s not the kind of standing out I want to do.” Iwince. “Look, it’s five to three. I don’t have enough time to scan and upload the sketches to the website.”
“Min, no . . .”
“Liz, it’s fine. I need to get back to work. Look, how about we meet for dinner after I get off.”
“Fine.” Her tone is tight. “I’m buying, and don’t try and talk me out of it.”
We agree to meet at our favorite place near Seven Dials and I disconnect the call.
My body is a tangle of emotions. Working for Clarissa Lee has been a dream of mine since I moved to London. It’s one of the main reasons I applied to the London School of Fashion, the same school she went to. Her designs are magical. She knows how to craft a dress that can fit any body shape and make it look like a million bucks.
I’ve applied for an internship at her design house every time the announcement is posted on her website, but so far, nothing has ever come of it. Missing it this time around, while painful, isn’t the end of the world. I’ve had all day to accept that it just wasn’t meant to be. In six months, I’ll have another shot.
