I ride the elevator to the workrooms on the second floor. The staff up here greets me with a chorus of smiles too.
“Hi, Min.”
“Cheers, Minerva.”
“Morning, Min.”
I wave to them. When I reach the conference room, my intern, Lea, attempts to wrestle my trench coat from my arms. That’s right.Ihave an intern.
I was thoroughly in the “no” camp of having one until Clarissa talked me into it. She could suggest that I try a bath of hot lava and I’d probably go along with it. But in this case, boy am I ecstatic she sent Lea my direction. Lea is about five foot one and has waist-length jet-black hair. She has a sharp mind, and is highly motivated and eager to learn.
“You know, hanging up my coat and getting me coffee when I arrive isn’t a part of your job description.”
“I know.” She nods and hands me the cup and my tablet. “It’s something I want to do. My mum has always taught me to respect your teachers. This is my way of thanking you for all the knowledge and experience you’re giving me.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Thank you.”
It’s nice and hot. The sugary notes of the cinnamon-bun latte dance on my taste buds. I feel a boost of energy hitting my system even though it’s physically impossible for the caffeine to have already affected me.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” I ask.
Lea shrugs. “It was fine. Mum and Dad came down from Birmingham to visit.”
“Did they pressure you to reconsider your plan to apply to the London School of Fashion?”
Lea gazes out the window overlooking the main road. The top of a double-decker bus is just visible. I know that look. It’s the same one I used to have when my parents asked me to reconsider my future in dance.
“They did.”
“And?”
“I got them to agree to let me finish out the internship before I made any formal decisionson uni.”
Lea is only seventeen and sat her A levels a year early. She’s earned places at Durham, Cambridge, and Edinburgh in chemistry if she passes on fashion.
“How about you? What did you do this weekend?”
I take another sip of my latte. “My best friend and I had a girls’ day at the St. George Hotel spa.”
“You didn’t go and view any flats?” she teases me.
“No.” I wince. “I know I should’ve, especially since the move-out date is less than three weeks away, but I just needed ameday.” I’ve been an emotional mess.
“Well, if you’re interested, I found a few flats that fit your criteria.” Lea clears her throat. “I emailed you the listing info and agent’s names about an hour ago.”
“Lea, you shouldn’t have.”
“I needed an excuse to escape Mum and Dad.” She turns and faces me. “There is one in Whitechapel, one in Battersea, and one in Belsize Park. All of them need a bit of doing up, but they are projects that are mostly cosmetic. You get a lot more for your money if it’s a project flat than a move-in-ready place.”
I’m speechless as I open my email. Thesearein budget, which I’ve been able to expand, thanks again to Clarissa. The question is how did Lea discover these gems? I’ve spent days and days scouring the listings and haven’t had much luck, and she’s found not only one butthreepotential options.
“Belsize Park is one of the priciest boroughs in London. This one has two roomsanda garden? Wow. I think that’s my favorite of the three,” I whisper.
“Mine too.”
We sit down at the round table next to one another and discuss the merits of each of the flats and what we woulddo to update it if we were blessed with an unlimited renovation budget.
Other members of the project team trickle in. At eleven on the dot, Sonya joins us. She’s dressed today in a crisp white blouse and black-and-white houndstooth skirt. Her hair is slicked back into a long ponytail. “Happy Monday to you all.” She closes the door to the room and sets herself at the table. “I can’t wait to hear how everything is coming along.”
