“Yes. All right. Well, call me later to let me know how it went.”
“I will. And thanks, Mom.”
Whichever company calls, it will be fine because I only applied for the good jobs. It doesn’t seem professional to take a business call at the pool, so I bundle my keys, towel, water bottle, book, and cover-up tee. I keep my phone in hand just in case any minute means right this minute.
I’m five feet from my front door, when Jeremy comes bounding down the stairs. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, which makes my bikini-clad body seem totally naked by comparison. Ten seconds, Chelsea. That’s all the time it would have taken you to slip on your cover-up.
Jeremy rubs the bridge of his nose while pretending he’s not looking me up and down. He clears his throat. “Hello. I was just on my way out.”
“Cool.”
“I … um … about … last night.” He smooths his tie. “I’d like to apologize for my clumsiness and—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
His gaze travels down my body and back up so quickly I’d bet he isn’t even aware of it.
“But at least, let me pay for the carpet cleaning.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
“No, I insist.”
I meant it wasn’t necessary to clean the carpet for one little stain, but obviously he thinks it is. “Sure. Fine.”
“Good. I’ll arrange that when I return.” His eyes zip down and up again.
Just to mess with him, I tuck my phone under the top edge of my bikini bottom.
His eyes close for a second. He clears his throat again. “Yes. Well then …”
I take a step to the side, out of his way, and he rushes past me. When I catch him glancing back, he snaps his head forward and quickens his pace. As I unlock my door, I’m grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
*
Drummond & Associates was not at the top of my list, but the chance to get a new job within a week of losing the old one moves them up. Sitting outside the personnel office in my Gabi-approved business dress and heels, I’m worrying that I sounded desperate by agreeing to come in right away for the interview. Desperate is not good, but when I think about my bank balance, how can I not be?
I distract myself by wondering where Jeremy was going this afternoon. Isn’t it funny that we both had a reason to dress up today? But how unfair is it that he’s seen me nearly naked and I’ve seen only his bare hands and face? I’m deep in daydreaming about Jeremy’s body when the personnel director calls my name. My sunbathing may have been cut short today, but the heat rising to my face will give me a glow just the same.
“I’m Bill Edwards,” he says when I walk up to him. “Please, come in. Be seated.”
All the rules of self-presentation I learned in class are colliding in my head. Smile. Appear relaxed but attentive. Sound confident but not cocky. Do not flirt—unless you’d rather get a date than a job. Okay, that last part is my rule. Not that I’d want to flirt with Mr. Edwards, who’s probably ten years older than my mom.
He looks up from my application. “You’re acquainted with dot?”
I have no clue what he’s talking about. It must be some new software. I’ll fake it. “DOT, yes I am, but I can’t say I’m proficient with it. Not yet.”
He stares at me for a moment. Then he blinks. “Dot Blair? Dorothy Blair? She brought your application to my attention?”
“Oh, that Dot.” I give him my hundred-watt smile, so he’ll think there really is an app called DOT and be momentarily distracted, making a mental note that he needs to check it out. “Actually, she’s a friend of my mother’s.”
“Oh. I see.” He frowns and gives his head a slight shake. He picks up my application again. “So, you have a BA in business?”
“Yes, I did well in all the requirements, of course, but I excelled in marketing.” Uh-oh. Maybe the job I’m applying for has nothing at all to do with marketing. “But I think it’s good to get experience in various aspects of the business world, don’t you?”
“Yes. I suppose it is.” He looks at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Management was my focus. Thought I might rise a little higher by now. Then again, I started at the bottom.”
“And hard work got you where you are today.” At first he looks a bit confused, but I’m beaming, and apparently he accepts I meant that as praise because he smiles back. I shoot for another point in my favor. “I’ve always put my best effort into any job I’ve had,” I tell him.
He nods. “Any job worth doing is worth doing well.”
“Exactly.”
He returns to my application. “This says your last employer was Delicious, Inc., but you forgot to indicate your position there. Did you work in the corporate office?”
Now, here’s where I sense the interview will start going downhill. I begin fidgeting with the buttons on my dress. “No. I was employed by one of their subsidiaries. DEE·LISH?” He waits, obviously expecting me to say more, but I’m not about to give myself any harder push down this slope than I have to.
“Employed in marketing?” he asks.
“Not directly.”
“Management? District supervisor perhaps?”
His optimism depresses me. “No.”
“Then what position did you hold, Ms. Cole?”
My fingers are working frantically, unbuttoning, buttoning, unbuttoning, buttoning. “I worked in one of the stores.” His eyes narrow. I give up and spill it all. “I was a deli technician.”
He sighs. “You made sandwiches.”
“And deli trays. Which were beautiful presentations, by the way.”
He sighs again and pushes his chair back to stand.
“Mr. Edwards, please. I know my last job doesn’t showcase my abilities.” I lean forward, to show my earnestness. “But I assure you I am qualified to—”
He shoots to his feet. “Ms. Cole! I’ll have you know I’m a family man. Happily married and a devout Christian. I do not appreciate such a tawdry attempt to persuade me to hire you.” He looks pointedly, though briefly, in the direction of my chest.
I glance down. I gasp. The blood drains from my face and then rushes back, boiling. My fidgeting fingers had stopped on the unbuttoning round, and in leaning forward I displayed my entire cleavage, black demi-cup bra and all.
I don’t even try to explain. I just stand and walk out of his office without another word.
CHAPTER 6
Aren’t there confidentiality laws for job interviews? Less than an hour ago, I slunk out of Mr. Uptight’s office, and here’s my mom calling me about it.
“I really don’t understand why you would do such a thing,” she says.
“I didn’t do anything, Mom. Not on purpose, at least.” I’m pacing my bedroom.
“You exposed yourself.”
“Geez. He only got a little glimpse of my bra.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
I fall onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. “By tomorrow they’ll be saying I stripped naked and danced on his desk.”
“Oh my God!”
I can’t help rolling my eyes. “I was joking, Mom.”
“I think it’s too soon to laugh about this, Chelsea.”
I mime taking a hammer to my head. “I’m not laughing. I was just pointing out how people exaggerate. I just had a slight wardrobe malfunction. It could happen to any woman.”
“Why did it happen to you?”
“I got nervous.”
“Nonsense. Since when do you get nervous?”
Since I started falling apart. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’m just sorry you didn’t get the job, sweetie.” She sighs. “I’ll keep asking around. Something will turn up.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I have to go now, but for the next interview … no buttons.”
“Right.”
After we hang up, I lie there thinking about her disbelief that I was nervous. A year ago, I wo
uld have charmed Mr. Edwards into hiring me. Hell, a year ago is when I should have been interviewing for jobs like that. Why didn’t I?
*
It’s hard to break the habit of waking before dawn. And because I no longer have a job, waking that early is especially maddening. I’ve been lying here watching daylight creep into the room. “Bring it on, sun, I’m already up.”
I dreamed about Jeremy. It was kind of like the night he brought pizza, except his hands were empty when I opened the door. But even better, he said, “I love you.” Then—squee—he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately. Of course, just as things got really hot, I woke up. Frustrating, right? I direct a sigh toward my ceiling. I wonder if he dreams about me.
Judging from the previous three mornings, Jeremy will wake in—I look at the clock—fifty-seven minutes. He showers, then grows quiet for an hour, more or less, during which I assume he’s having coffee and whatever he eats for breakfast. Maybe he drinks tea. Tea and scones or something like that. After breakfast, he gets on his phone or his computer for about thirty minutes. I know this because with our windows open, I hear the sporadic murmuring of a one-sided conversation or equally sporadic keyboard sounds.
When, at ten o’clock, the typing becomes regular, more or less, I know he’s started his morning writing session. He works for two hours, takes a break for lunch—again, I’m assuming—then he has another two-hour work session. The last two days he left his apartment after the afternoon session and came back before five thirty on Sunday and just after six yesterday. Then at seven, he begins writing again.
It’s amazing how much you learn about a person by constant observation because you’re bored out of your mind—and because he’s fascinating. But I’m way too obsessed with his schedule, aren’t I?
My phone rings and scares the crap out of me. It’s my mother, of course. “Hi, Mom.”
“Are you still lying in bed?”
“That’s what people do when they sleep.”
“But you were awake. You’ve always been an early riser.”
“Whatever.”
“You’ll feel better if you get up, shower, and dress.”
“You mean like I have some place to go?”
“Why don’t you and I go to breakfast? Or lunch?”
“We did breakfast two days ago. Besides, I have some things to do around here today.”
“That’s good, sweetie. Keep busy. Maybe tomorrow? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I’m free.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know. Talk to you later.”
I throw back the sheet and head for the shower. The room is full of sunlight now, and I’m faced with the closet I never finished straightening up. I need to get back to that.
The bathroom mirror reveals way more reality than I’m ready for this early in the morning. Maybe if I get more sun, I’ll look less like a zombie in the making. The apartment complex pool isn’t the best, but it’s not the worst either. I’d prefer lying on the beach, but gas conservation is something I have to keep in mind. Necessary trips only.
I’m eating Frosted Flakes and trying to decide which bills I can put off paying this month when I realize I’ve avoided checking my mail two days in a row. I hate soggy flakes, and it’s not like I get so much mail I need both hands to carry it, so I grab my key and take the bowl with me, continuing to eat as I walk to our building’s communal mailbox.
I set the bowl on top of the box while I unlock my cubicle. Lying under the two bills I’d rather not see is a magazine. I don’t subscribe to any magazines. It’s not even one I’ve ever heard of. Oh, wait. It’s addressed to Mr. Jeremy Pearce—readdressed, actually. The original address on the mailing label is for a place in Notting Hill, London. Like the movie. Hmm. If I take this back to my apartment, I could copy the address and do a Google Maps search and maybe see where he used to live. That’s totally legal. I can take the magazine to him later and say the mail carrier put it in my box accidentally, which is true. No harm done.
“Good morning, Chelsea.”
Startled, I jerk my hands upward. The top edge of the magazine launches my bowl of milk and soggy flakes into the air where it flips upside down as it arcs in my direction. The plastic bowl bounces off my shoulder and shoots off to who-knows-where. The spoon clatters behind me on the cement. My face and Jeremy’s magazine are left dripping.
Damn you, Jeremy. I’ll give him this, though—he’s not laughing.
I fold the drenched magazine in half, cereal and all. With it mostly hidden behind the bill envelopes, I clutch it to my wet chest and turn to face him. He’s not so noble after all. He’s practically choking with suppressed laughter. His eyes water from the effort.
I glare at him. Evidently, the power of a glare is diminished when you have the remains of your breakfast sliding down your chest and arm. He totally loses it.
“I’d expect you to have better manners than to sneak up on someone like that, Mr. Pearce.”
He chokes off his laughter and clears his throat. “I don’t believe merely approaching my postbox constitutes sneaking, Ms. Cole.”
With amusement still dancing around his lips and eyes, his attempt at resuming his Mr. High Tea stance fails. It only infuriates me more.
“You know damn well you meant to startle me.”
It’s early on a Friday morning. I didn’t expect to see anyone out here so I’m barefoot and dressed in a ratty tee and baggy boxers. Considering that I’m also wearing my breakfast, I manage an impressive semblance of dignity as I barge past him and back to my apartment. For good measure, I slam the door behind me.
I’m still slumped against it, trying to figure out why I seem unable to have a single normal encounter with him, when someone knocks. I turn and look through the peep hole.
Oh God. It’s Jeremy. He knows I stole his magazine. I tuck the evidence in the back waistband of my shorts and pull my tee over it before I open the door.
“You forgot these,” he says, holding out my bowl and spoon.
“Thanks.” I reach for them and gasp. Audibly. A cold mush is oozing from his magazine and down my butt cheek.
Concern creases his forehead. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” That came out more squeak than word, so I clear my throat. “Nothing. Thanks. Good-bye.” I start to close the door, but he pushes a palm against it.
“I rang the carpet cleaner.”
“Yeah?” My body heat has now warmed the mush, which only makes it feel different, not less disgusting, and the loose elastic of my boxers has allowed the magazine to slip.
“I’ve already arranged the payment,” he says.
“Cool. Thanks.” Before I can move the door a fraction of an inch toward closed, his hand shoots out again.
“I’ll need your phone number.”
“Why?”
“So the cleaning company can ring you to schedule an appointment.”
“Right.” I wait for him to pull out his phone. He looks at me blankly. “Your phone? You can just enter my number.”
“Oh,” he says. “I don’t have it with me. Would you write it down, please?”
I consider the logistics of moving five feet to the right to get pen and paper from my desk. How odd would it look if I crab walk to keep my backside hidden from view? And exactly how lubricated is my left butt cheek now—enough to cause the magazine to slide right over it and drop to the floor at my first step? How would I explain that one?
Oh. I’ve got this.
“Later, Jeremy. I really have to pee. Right now.” I slam the door in his face. The magazine slides down my leg.
Chalk up two abnormal encounters in one morning. Four in one week—so far. I give up. I don’t even want to know what he thinks of me. For sure he can’t see me as someone he wants to date.
And damn it; why isn’t he following his schedule?
Life without Internet service sucks. It’s not easy viewing Google Maps street views on my phone, but three times in the last two hours I’ve checked the imag
e for the address on Jeremy’s magazine. All this time I’ve pictured him living in the English countryside, in one of those Gothic manors, so when this townhouse popped up on the screen, I thought I’d typed the address in wrong. But no, this is the place. Why would someone willingly move from a beautiful, and obviously high-rent, townhouse to the Ocean View (not) Luxury (not) Apartments?
Hmm. Maybe my original idea that he’s working undercover isn’t so far off the mark. Okay, so it’s probably a stretch that he’s undercover with the CIA or whatever they call it in England, but he could be hiding out for some other reason. Judging from the life he must have left in London, I’ll bet the dude hates that he has to hide out as working class.
Oh. Maybe he’s in a witness protection program. He’s probably in disguise like that fake book he carries around. And Jeremy Pearce is probably not his real name, so there’s no use Googling that.
I do it anyway. And I get millions of hits. Few of them show photos, of course, so how would I know if any of these are him? I’m not even sure how old he is. Doing an image search turns up no Jeremy Pearce who looks like him. What if his disguise involved plastic surgery? If it did, what did he used to look like? Oh great. Now I won’t be able to quit thinking about that.
Anyway.
Mr. Jeremy Pearce is more than he appears to be, so maybe it’s not weird to keep track of his schedule after all. That information could come in handy if I’m ever called to testify or something.
I’m halfway through typing out my suspicions in a text to Gabi when I realize the problem with the hideout scenario. If you go into hiding, you don’t have your mail transferred, do you? Still, Jeremy left England for a reason. What could that be?
Wait a frigging minute.
The mailboxes are visible from my patio, and I saw him come down to get his mail yesterday. And since he’s lived here long enough to know our mail is never delivered before noon, there was absolutely no reason for him to be skulking around there early this morning. So why was he?
Questions, questions, questions. I ought to go up there right now and ask them. “Explain yourself Jeremy Pearce … or whoever you really are.” Oh hell, why not? I get up and open the door but freeze when I hear his voice drifting downstairs.
High Tea & Flip-Flops Page 5