Chapter Three

Greyson

“Oh, yes, Sir, I’m flexible. I take yoga classes. It really helps with my flexibility.” She ran an unnervingly long red talon up her smooth, orange leg, thrusting her cosmetically enhanced tits out and continued waffling about yoga. It’s not what I had in mind when I asked if she was flexible after explaining the position involved occasional travel. Ever since I agreed to that damn interview for a vacuous gossip rag, money grabbing harlots like the one toying with her scrawny legs in my office plagued my life. I should have guessed they'd infiltrate my professional life when Mabel announced her intention to retire. And I should've known better than to mention my deep craving for a relationship and willingness to settle down and start a family to a rag called Sexy Bachelors of LA. It didn't help that the photographer dressed me in tight pants and an unbuttoned shirt and arranged my poses in a way which made it super clear I had more than enough in the trouser department to satisfy a woman.

I should forbid Mabel’s retirement and demand the grandmotherly woman works for me until her dying day. Or I could train Mrs Cook, my housekeeper, to be my PA, she doesn’t want to marry me. Half the time, I’m not sure whether the middle-aged widow actually likes me or not. She for sure loves the fat pay checks I dump in her bank account every week. Overtime is her middle name. She refuses to take a day off.

My interviewee leaned forward, resting her elbows on my desk and squeezing her cosmetically enhanced tits together.

"Thank, you, Miss, um...."

My mind went blank. She was the same as all the other women I interviewed that morning. One of a sea of desperate socialites.

"Fox, Bella Fox, you can call me Foxy."

"I'd rather not, Thank you for your time, Miss Fox. We'll be in touch by the end of the week if you've been successful."

She leaned over the desk, pouting her puffy, blood red lips, "don't I get a goodbye kiss?"

Jesus, is she serious.

"Don't make me call security, Miss Fox."

Miss Fox’s face darkened. She fixed me with a disgusted scowl, stood so fast the chair she sat on almost tipped over, turned on her designer kitten heel and stomped from my office, slamming the door behind. I leaned back in my chair, heaving a sigh of relief. Five interviews down. Six left to go.

I glanced down at the list on my lap. Zoe Smithson, her name scribbled in black biro between my one and three o clock interviews. She only applied that morning, around two hours after she totalled my new car. I only learned she applied ninety minutes ago when Mabel rushed into my office, manically waving a resume in the air.

“Greyson,” she babbled excitedly, “another of your former classmates have applied to work for you.”

I snatched the resume from her. Mabel knew only too well of my horrific high school experience at the hands of bullying classmates. She loved it almost as much as I did when a former bully came crawling to me with their tail between their legs begging for a job. They rarely recognised me. I was a late developer, not growing into myself until college.

A small smile crossed my lips when I read Zoe’s name at the head of the resume. Mabel cocked her head, giving me a knowing glance. Zoe was different to the others. Zoe was the reason I made it through high school. Zoe was the reason I was still single. I measured every woman against her despite never having had a real-life conversation with her until this morning. Today, even Zoe Smithson doesn’t measure up to Zoe Smithson. She’s a shadow of her former self but something in my gut still stirred when I read her name jotted on my notebook as she stood by my battered Jaguar with her scruffy children lined up on the sidewalk behind her.

Plus, Zoe isn’t here because she wants to marry me, Zoe is here because she is desperate and broke.

“Send her in,” I called.

The double doors to my office opened. I held my breath and… my heart sank.

Zoe stumbled into my office appearing scarcely better than she did this morning. A grey skirt, two size too big hung from her shapely hips. An off-white blouse, akin to something my Grandmother would wear covered her top half. At least, I sighed inwardly, she’d washed her hair, A perverse desire to punish her for breaking my heart and for ruining herself and any chance we had together swept over me. I fought to swallow it down.

As she lifted her foot the vile court shoes she clomped around in remained planted on the high-gloss tiled floor, the heel caught the edge of the ornate rug when she shuffled her foot forward. Zoe crashed to the ground, landing face down, ass up on the hand-crafted rug, a position I would have gladly paid to see her in in her glory days. I winced at the sound of her bare knees smashing into the solid floor.

She pulled herself to her feet, smoothing down her wretched skirt, her shoulders hunched. The dazzling emerald green of eyes took me back as she peeked up me from under long, glossy lashes. I’d never forgotten her eyes. The dark bags under them did nothing to detract from them. The outfit, however, did. It overshadowed anything attractive about her. Clearly the woman didn’t own a full-length mirror.

"Take a seat, Miss Smithson,” I said leaning back in my chair. It was probably for the best Zoe Smithson moved away before I turned into some-one she would pay attention to. With her non-existent sense of style our relationship would never have worked.

Zoe shuffled to the seat opposite me, chewing on her full lower lip, her shoulders still curled. The stress-worn, beaten down woman in front of me was nothing like the smart, confident and fiery girl I fell in love with in high school.

 What happened to her?

Not an appropriate interview question, I decided, not that it mattered, let's face it, Zoe would not be employed by my company anytime soon. 

"Your car insurance lapsed three months ago."

"Shit, I mean, oh, um, sorry. I'll call them."

"It's a bit late now,” I tried not to snap but the words came out clipped and harsh. I wasn’t even pissed about the car, if I was honest, I never liked the thing anyway. I was pissed Zoe was not Zoe. I was pissed her failure to use adequate contraception and her inability to practise self-care had shit all over the imaginary life I spent years building for us. “Here," I slipped an invoice across the table. "I'm willing to take instalments."

Zoe sniffed, gripped the bridge of her nose and swallowed hard. Her cheeks flushed, highlighting the smattering of freckles under her watery blue eyes. I cleared my throat, crossing my legs.

"I assume you don't have the means to pay upfront?"

Zoe bowed her head, wringing her hands on the desk in front of her.

"Four hundred a month is fair, I think. I'll have my PA call you on the first of every month to take payment."

"Four hundred?" Her voice shook, barely audible.

"Yes, four hundred. Someone needs to pay for my car and I don't see why it should be me. I could always report you for driving without insurance?"

"No, I'll pay. I'm sorry about your car,” she said, smoothing her ridiculous skirt as she stood to leave.

"Sit,” I snapped. Her ass hit the padded leather chair hard. "Now, we have the unpleasantness out of the way, we'll start your interview."

Her mouth fell open, her hand flew to her chest drawing my gaze to her breasts. For a woman with three kids they held up well, almost as perky as they were back in her Cheerleading days. I wet my lips and shook my head and reeled off the questions one by one.

Zoe’s gaze downcast, she muttered one word replies.

It's like she doesn't even want the job. She's working as a waitress in a filthy burger joint, for Christ's sake. She should be falling over herself to impress me.

She’s smart and savvy. You might lose your looks but you don’t lose your brains. I frowned, shaking my head at her. An ache rose in my throat.

"Do you have any questions?" I pleaded.

Zoe shook her head.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed heavily. "Look, Miss Smithson, I'm trying to give you a chance. I remember you fondly from school. You’re the only student I do remember fondly but you're not making it easy for me. What time do you collect your children?"

"Six, they're in after school club."

"Excellent, my final interview is at four. Go home, change into something more fitting to the role you are applying to, prepare yourself properly and come back as the Zoe Smithson I remember and you might stand a chance. Lord knows, there's no-one who's impressed me much today and let's face it, I'm unlikely to get my money while you're working at Stanley's Burgers."

"Thank-You."