by Nikki Chase
I know two minutes is barely enough time to do anything, but all that time I waste waking up a few minutes too early must add up. Two minutes today, five minutes yesterday, three minutes the day before that…I must lose, like, one whole hour of sleep every month.
Another day, another interview to fail, I think to myself cynically as the shower sprays hot water onto my body.
Life as a millennial sucks. It used to be that a regular college degree could get your foot in the door.
But now, they want a college degree with exceptionally good grades and heavy involvement with multiple student organizations. And let’s not forget the multiple years of work experience required for entry-level jobs these days.
For someone like me, who didn’t even go to college, all those things combined together basically mean I’m screwed.
Every now and again, I come across some news article about how millennials are lazy and how people used to start in the mail room and slowly climb their way up the corporate ladder. Nothing makes me angrier. Those old, irrelevant people have no idea how much more difficult it is to even get a job — any job — these days.
If I can’t even get a shitty job to tide me over while I improve myself and find a better job, how am I supposed to move forward in life?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, letting the water wash over me.
I once went to a yoga class where the instructor recommended meditation during the morning shower by letting all thoughts flow away down the drain with the water. It was a good trick and it worked, for a while at least, until… Well, let’s just say it worked until it didn’t.
But this is not the time to feel sorry for myself, or even to fill my brain with anything unrelated to today’s interview. I need to clear my mind.
I got a tip about this interview from Alice. It’s an entry-level junior marketing position at Foster Hotels, a local chain of chic boutique hotels here in San Fransisco.
I’ve always wanted to work in the travel industry, so this is a big opportunity for me. I don’t usually get interviews for something that matches my interests so well. Alice told me that Marco, our childhood friend in Seattle who works in hospitality, has put in a good word for me. Which reminds me, I should probably thank him.
I turn off the shower and dry myself while practicing my answers for common job interview questions. I’ve done nothing but read up on interview skills and attend actual interviews these last few months. I’m practically a professional interviewee at this point.
“My biggest weakness is I don’t have a degree,” I recite as I walk back into my bedroom and close the door.
I scan the items in my wardrobe and quickly settle on a gray button-down shirt. It’s a safe choice that shouldn’t turn any potential employer off. And it’s in better shape than my other office-appropriate shirt.
“But that also means that I’m a blank slate, ready to absorb knowledge and skills from your excellent training program. I don’t have any preconceived ideas about how things should be done.”
I quickly blow-dry my long honey-blonde hair and put it up in a neat French twist. It’s my go-to hairstyle when I don’t have much time to look put together.
I mastered it after watching and re-watching like ten tutorials on YouTube all day — that was back when I had the luxury of time to waste and back when I actually cared about my appearance. Now it’s just a practical up-do.
“I’ve also been reading up on industry trends and learning a lot about hospitality from books in the library, as well as online sources. I believe my efforts show my commitment to this line of work. My inner motivation and thirst for learning will benefit Foster Hotels as I continue to improve my skill set.”
The books and articles I’ve read say to stick with natural makeup that won’t distract the interviewer from my qualifications — not that I have much to show in that department.
“Once I settle into my new position, I fully plan to further my education so I can contribute more value to Foster Hotels.”
I spread some tinted moisturizer all over my freshly washed face, dust a bit of rosy blush on my cheeks, fill in my eyebrows with a dark brown pencil, apply some waterproof eyeliner to my upper waterline, and put on some waterproof mascara.
“I also plan to update my shitty wardrobe, so you don’t have to worry about having someone who looks like a bag lady representing your luxury brand,” I say while checking my own reflection in the $5 full-length mirror hanging over the door.
I’ve paired the gray shirt with a black pencil skirt. They’re both a little baggy. I’ve lost a lot of weight over the past year and a half. I may look out of place in a fashion magazine, but I think this outfit is professional enough. At least my clothes don’t look like they came from the clearance section of the thrift store.
I take a deep breath.
You can do this, Emily, I tell myself. If you just get this job, you can start to build a life again. A life you love.
I feel the familiar pricking in my eyes as sadness comes over me, but I fight it back. I’m not going to let it overwhelm me. Not today.
Stop it. You’ve cried enough. Focus on the here and now.
I grab a tissue and dab at the corners of my eyes, briefly thanking Maybelline for their line of affordable waterproof makeup products.
I grab my bag and check that I have all the documents I need inside. A copy of my resume, a copy of my reference list, and a cheat sheet with details about Foster Hotels that I plan to review on the bus. Perfect.
You’ve got this.
I walk out of my room and follow the aroma of waffles and coffee into the kitchen. “Hey.”
“Hey sleepyhead,” Alice says, looking up from the cup of coffee in her hands.
She has the same blonde hair and blue eyes that I do, but she’s always been the taller one, the prettier one, as well as the smarter one.
“Hey, don’t judge. I’m just not a morning person.” I shrug. I grab a mug from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, and gulp it down.
“The waffles are on the counter,” Alice says.
“Awesome. I like waffles,” I say, grinning. I pick up the plate of waffles and pour hot coffee into the mug.
“I know you do, idiot. That’s why I made them.” Alice kicks a chair out for me.
“You’re too good to me, Alice.” I take my seat. I know she means well, but sometimes I feel like she pities me and I hate that. “But I don’t need waffles, you know. A lot of things that you do for me, I don’t need you to.”
“I know. I want to do those things for you. You’re my sister.”
“I’m your sister and I never make you waffles.”
“That’s true,” she says, acting like she’s in deep thought. “So pancakes tomorrow?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” The corners of my mouth tug upward, dragging my lips into a smile.
“You’ve been through a lot, Emily.” Alice places a hand on my upper arm. “It takes time to heal. So take as much time as you need.”
“Ah, damn it. Now you’re going to make me cry.” I sigh.
“That’s okay,” Alice says. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m going to pay you back someday, Alice. Somehow…” I let my voice trail off while I fight to suppress my tears. God. I haven’t been awake for even one hour and I’m already a weepy mess.
“I look forward to my luxury, all-expenses-paid vacation in Bali,” she says, shooting me a cheeky grin.
“God, that would be nice. Sunny weather, sandy beach, warm water, and…mysterious foreign men?” I raise an eyebrow at Alice, and we both laugh.
We’ve never had money to travel, and the thought of us lounging by a swimming pool in the tropics sounds ridiculous at this point in our lives.
I’m dead broke and would be homeless without Alice.
And Alice, well, she does okay, but she also has to provide for her freeloading, dead broke, almost homeless sister.
She always h
as been my entire support system and I truly feel horrible about holding her back in life.
“You get that job,” Alice says, winking. “And we’ll be flirting with international men of mystery in Bali in no time, Em.”
Cole
“Pop. You must’ve read that report at least five times.” I look across the desk at him, anxious to get him out of my office.
“It pays to be meticulous. The devil is in the details,” he says calmly.
“I know. That’s all you ever say. That’s why I have a bunch of professionals to check and re-check everything.”
He waves his hand dismissively and adjusts his reading glasses. He looks almost like an old, harmless librarian when he does that.
I take a deep breath and try to ignore him, distracting myself by reading the news on my phone.
I can’t afford to give him any clues about just how restless I am. Of course he has to choose today to visit the office, of all days. I should’ve expected this.
You’d think I’m a slacker, the way the old man’s acting. But I’m far from it.
My employees think I’m a micro-manager, but they only say that because they have never worked directly with Robert Foster. Even in supposed retirement, he sticks a finger in every damn pie.
This is the shitty thing about a family business, no matter the size. Normal people worry about their work bleeding into personal or family life. I have family digging into my work all the time, scrutinizing and criticizing every little thing.
I take a deep breath.
Patience. Remember, there wouldn’t be a Foster Hotels in the first place without Robert Foster.
Hospitality isn’t a cheap business to get into, and my father gave me the resources I needed to start. I have access to the best brains on his team and of course some of his money as well.
I do remember and appreciate his support now that Foster Hotels is thriving. But I also wish he’d give me less of that same support.
I’ll admit that things have improved compared to three years ago when I first founded Foster Hotels. Back then, he probably spent as much time in my office as I did. And I had to suffer through an interrogation session every time I went home for family dinner.
Compared to those days, he’s practically letting me run the company on my own now, but the old man doesn’t seem to be able to completely let go just yet.
Now he only comes into the office for a weekly update. That’s as close to a vote of confidence as I’ve gotten.
I suppose I should take that as a compliment from a man like Robert Foster, who requires everyone, even his sons, to earn his trust.
“I only have high expectations of you because I believe in you,” he’d say often.
But I’ve been bending over backward to meet his demands and still he maintains a tight grip over my business. I’m starting to think I would’ve fared better if I had just taken out a business loan or sought investor funding to start the company myself instead of leaning on him.
Honestly, I was already looking into it when I decided to just accept my father’s help. Caine works with him and is pretty much free to do what he wants, I thought back then. But I failed to take into account the fact that I’m not my brother.
I hold my phone up with one hand and ball my other hand into a fist, afraid I’m going to start fidgeting in front of my father. If he gets a sniff of my anxiety and finds out it’s because I’m about to have a meeting, he’d insist on staying. And that wouldn’t do. Not today.
“Okay.” My father takes off his reading glasses. “Everything seems fine. How’s the plan for expansion to Seattle?”
“The initial report is being prepared, and I’m planning to go there again in a few months. We’ll have a better idea of what to do after that.” I try to keep my voice calm and steady, pacing my words so they don’t tumble out all at once in my haste.
There’s still time. There’s still enough time.
“Good,” he says, putting on his suit jacket and standing up. “I’ll see you next week. Probably on Thursday or Friday.”
“Okay, Pop. See you then.”
He nods, then unceremoniously walks out the office door. Chatty, as usual.
The door slams shut and I let out a big sigh a relief, slumping into my leather chair.
I check the time again.
Everything should be fine.
Emily Webb.
That name, which sounds so familiar in my head, now looks out of place on the computer screen. The work computer screen.
After making a few mistakes in the beginning, I now keep my personal life strictly separate from my work, which is why I’m not completely comfortable with what I’m about to do. But I don’t see a better option.
“Cole.” My personal assistant’s voice filters through the phone speaker, breaking the silence.
As I pick up the receiver, I notice my hands are shaking. I’ll have to get my act together.
“Yes, Lily.”
“Emily Webb is here to see you,” she says.
“Send her in,” I say, taking a deep breath.
I’m as ready as I can be.
“Okay,” Lily says. I can hear the first syllable of what she says to Emily before she hangs up and the line dies with a click.
I’m sure Lily is confused about why I’m doing the interview for the junior marketing position myself. When I told her to put this in my schedule, she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion for a second. Luckily, one perk of being the boss is not having to explain my actions.
The truth is, I already know all about Emily Webb, and I already know I’m going to hire her. It’s just not something I can tell HR. It would seem too strange.
Stranger than the CEO interviewing a nobody for an entry level position?
Okay, it still doesn’t look one-hundred percent normal. But at least this way, no asshole from HR can reject her job application and I can see for myself that she gets hired today.
Steffi, the marketing director, is extremely picky when it comes to hiring people for her department. I can’t risk her meddling in this. This is too important.
I take a deep breath, and then another, deeper breath.
I hear soft knocking on the door and my heart jumps out of my chest. I clear my throat.
“Come in,” I say. I hope I sound normal.
The door swings open, and there she is.
Emily Webb.
In my office.
As beautiful as ever.
Well, these days she’s thinner and she doesn’t get dolled up as much as she used to, but she’s still beautiful. She has put her hair up today, which makes her look more serious.
But she has the same sparkling blue eyes, shiny blonde hair, and full lips. The same long legs are hidden underneath the unflattering black skirt she’s wearing, which shows just the slightest hint of the feminine flare of her hips.
“Good morning, Mr. Foster,” she says as she approaches my desk, her hips swaying, hypnotizing. Her voice is loud and clear. Confident. Practiced.
“Good morning.” I’ve done hundreds of interviews and I know what to say by heart. I can do this if I just switch to autopilot mode. I smile, stand up, and extend a steady hand. “Please, call me Cole.”
“Emily,” she says. Her hand feels small and delicate. They’re a little cold too, now that it’s fall. I fight the urge to hold it a little longer, maybe grasp it between both my hands to warm her up.
“Nice to meet you, Emily,” I say, as if I haven’t memorized every single detail about her, as if she hasn’t tortured my thoughts every night. I gesture at the chair across the desk from me. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, Cole,” she says, my name sliding smoothly out of her mouth. I think about how, for a moment, she holds something of me on her tongue, between her lips. I ache for more. More of anything from her.
Get ahold of yourself, damn it. It’s just a name.
“So, Emily,” I say, leaning back in my leather swivel chair. “Tell me about yourself.�
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“Well, I worked in customer service for eight years. I started working as soon as I turned sixteen. I’m highly motivated and driven. I enjoy connecting with people and building relationships with them. I find that’s the key to customer retention and sales,” she says without hesitation.
Clearly, she has prepared and memorized her script before this interview. Hell, she probably has said the exact same thing to dozens of other interviewers before.
“Customer service,” I say, pretending this is just another interview to me, too. “Would you say that is your strength?”
“Yes. And I know marketing is different, but really it’s about customers too, only at a more macro level.”
She continues her perfect delivery of her rehearsed lines, so I take her cue and play my part as well.
She looks determined. There’s a flame burning in her eyes. With that kind of obvious hunger for success, I’d probably hire her even if she wasn’t Emily Webb.
Her bare lips look a little dry. I watch them as she talks. More than anything, I want to grab her and run my tongue along the surface, feel the texture and memorize it with my own lips.
I hate myself for thinking these thoughts, but I can’t help it when she looks so fucking edible.
Irrationally, my heart clenches at the thought of her other interviews. Those men (and women — but let’s face it, there were probably more men than women) spent time alone with her, sitting in positions of power relative to her.
Are you really getting jealous, asshole? You have no right.
I take a deep breath. This charade has gone on long enough. It’s time to just end this interview.
“Okay,” I say as soon as she finishes saying her answer to my previous interview question. “I think we’ve covered everything.”
She gives me a polite smile. She looks nervous with her fidgeting fingers, but she’s meeting my gaze. Hope smolders in her sapphire blue eyes.
“Can you start on Monday?” I say.
I can almost pinpoint the exact moment she realizes she’s getting the job. Anxiety seems to evaporate from her body and relief takes its place.