Chapter Two

Zoe

Mug of steaming coffee in hand, I wound my way back to Isaac’s laptop. With an empty purse and a repair bill for a Jaguar I-Pace winging its way to me, I can’t afford coffee, but I can’t afford to not job hunt, nor will my finances stretch to reinstating my home internet service. On the slim chance I avoid jail time, I owe Isaac a class trip, Bella a school dress and I need new shoes. I googled Greyson’s fancy car. The eyewatering starting price stands at eighty thousand dollars. My house isn’t worth eighty thousand dollars. I can only imagine the horrific repair bill. The custom made watch he sported wasn’t much cheaper.

The cracked screen blinked to life, I sipped my coffee, waiting an age for the job site to load and typed unskilled, no experience into the search bar. I almost spat my coffee at the screen at the first offering.

PA to a busy CEO, attractive starting salary, flexible working hours, extensive health care and bonus schemes. Jobs like that don’t get offered to people with no experience but its what the company asked for. Experience, they claim, is a bonus but full training will be given to the right candidate. My chances of bagging an interview are approximately zero but I fired off a copy of my woeful resume anyway. The second job proved more realistic, waitressing for minimum wage in a rundown diner. As the post requested, I called for further details.

“Hi, I’m calling about the waitressing job you advertised online.”

“Excellent, do you have any experience?”

“Um, yeah. I’ve worked in diners and fast-food places my entire adult life.”

“Great, sounds like you’re ideal for us. Can I take your name and the name of your previous employer for references?”

My previous employer sacked me today. Any reference he gave me would be the opposite of glowing. I ended the call, dropping my head to the table. My stomach growled. The table vibrated, I eyed my phone, wondering what bad news the unknown number wanted to inflict on me.

“Hello?”

“Zoe Smithson?”

“Who’s speaking, please?”

“Mabel Collins, I’m calling from Total Software Solutions in regard to the resume you just sent us.”

“Oh.”

My brain froze. Words refused to leave my mouth.

“Are you Zoe Smithson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid you applied rather late. We are holding interviews today. Are you free at two?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent, we’ll see you at two.”

“Thank you.”

My heart pounded, sweat lined my palms. I have an interview for a proper career with healthcare and bonuses.

Okay, Zoe, breathe, don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s an interview. You don’t have the job yet. I tossed Isaac’s laptop into my bag. I need to shower, brush my hair and find an interview outfit. Shit, I’m a waitress, my interview outfit consists of faded black jeans and a black t-shirt with a hole in the armpit. My feet hit the sidewalk running. There’s a charity shop on the route home. It never has much in my size but with a grand total of six dollars to my name, it’s my only option.

***

Total Software Solutions sits in centre of downtown LA. I managed to beg a ride from the neighbour. His dog hair and saliva covered car wove through the busy streets as quick as a geriatric sprinter.

“Oh, man, Zoe, that was a helluva smash you got your car into,” he said as we rolled past my battered car. I really should call someone about my car.

“Would anyone tow it for free, for scrap?” I asked.

“I dunno, love. You can try.”

I bet you get fined for leaving smashed cars on the roadside. It’ll be just my luck to get one.

Total Software Solutions dominated the city centre. Sunlight glinted off the mirror-like glass fronted building. Folk in immaculate, finely tailored suits slipped in and out through the sliding doors.

“Thanks. Wish me luck,” I said, as the car pulled up out front.

“Knock ‘em, dead, kid,” Mick smiled.

I sucked in a great lungful of smoggy, city centre air and hauled myself from the car, pausing to straighten my ill-fitting pencil skirt. The court shoes I bought from the charity shop hours earlier grated my heels as I wobbled towards the sliding doors. My gut tightened. I don’t belong here. I’m so far out my depth I was drowning before I entered the reception area.

The spacious white reception area benefitted from high ceilings and floor to ceiling windows across the front. Clinically clean and white, the only hints of colour came from the bright, graphic art hanging from the walls, like the ones Isaac creates for me.

A young, impossibly attractive woman glowered at me from behind a glossy white desk.

“Can I help you?” Her gaze dropped over my shoddily put together charity shop outfit. Her upturned button nose crinkled.

“Zoe Smithson, I’m here for an interview with, um, the CEO.”

“Top floor, elevator’s over there,” she waved towards the back of the airy reception hall. A bank of mirror-fronted elevators sat in the far corner, separated by three small, potted palm trees. My legs trembled, I trotted in my too small shoes towards the elevators. I need to go home. This whole thing is a stupid idea. I am not PA material. If Kobe could see me now he’d piss himself laughing.

Fuck, I never asked the CEO’s name. I don’t even know if he’s male or female.

The elevator pinged, the mirrored doors slid open, soft music flowed from inside. It was too late, if I learned his name it would be by reading the sign on his office door, assuming he is a man. He might be a woman. I stepped inside, my stomach doing back-flips. The mirrored walls offered an unwelcome 360-degree view of my outfit and horrifically frizzy hair. I ran my fingers through my bushy ponytail. Electricity flowed through my limbs urging them to run home, bury themselves in my duvet and spare my brain the humiliation of what was to come. I counted back from ten. If it helps me manage my anger, maybe it will work on my anxiety. I let the soothing music ebb through me.

You're fine, Zoe. You made it through High School; you survived Kobe Jenkins, you'll live through this.

The elevator stopped. I smoothed my too-big skirt and stepped into another white entrance way. The same glossy, white desk sat in the centre. the same bright art hung on the walls, but I preferred the upstairs receptionist to the snotty cow downstairs.

"Hi, you must be Zoe Smithson? He's running right on time, Zoe, he'll be with you soon. Can I get you anything?"

She called him he. There's no sign on his door. I can't ask her his name. It will prove I undertook zero prep for my interview.

"No, thank you. I'm fine, thank you."

"Okay, take a seat, Zoe."

She waved towards a gleaming white coffee table surrounded by pristine white leather chairs. I hobbled towards them, relieved to be off my too-small shoes for a second. The magazines piled neatly on the table offered no hints on who owned Total Software Solutions. Hands shaking, concentration fucked, the words on the pages swam. I read and reread the same line twice, it still didn't sink in.

The door to his office swung open. A tall, leggy brunette with gravity-defying breasts and freshly blow-dried hair sashayed from his office with a leather bound file clasped under her toned, tanned arm. She's PA material, she is what a PA looks like with her permatan and expensive, stylish skirt suit. She sneered at me, turning on her designer kitten heel and stomping to the elevator.

"Doesn't seem she was his type," the receptionist mused at her vanishing back. She picked up the white phone on her desk pressing the intercom button. "Your two o'clock is waiting, Sir."

"Send her in."

There was something eerily familiar about his voice and I still didn't know his damn name. I shuffled to his door, my toes smooshed in my super-tight shoes. My foot hit something unsteady, I crashed to the gleaming white tiled floor. My skirt slipped down my waist, offering my interviewer a peek at my greying, sagging panties. Tears rushed to my eyes, my cheeks burned harder than my bruised knees and my ego withered. I tossed back my frizzy ponytail, peering up. Greyson Elliot sneered at me from behind a huge cherry oak desk.

Fuck.

At least I know his name, I guess. ​