by Carrie Elks
At the top of the stairs I pass through the ticket barrier and onto the wide plaza leading to the tall, shiny buildings of Canary Wharf. Clutching my bag tightly to my chest, I walk towards One Canada Square, the building that houses Richards and Morgan, the Management Consultancy firm where I start my internship today.
I was offered the position three months ago, and accepted eagerly. My college tutor told me that nobody from the University of East London had ever been offered a place at Richards and Morgan before. I’d snapped it up, delighted by the high salary, as well as the fact it’s a short journey from my home in Plaistow, but now I’m having second thoughts.
There’s no way I belong somewhere like this. Not Amy Cartwright, the girl who can’t get the London twang out of her voice no matter how hard she tries. I’m never going to fit in among the Oxford and Cambridge types who usually get the internships. I’m going to stand out like a sore thumb. An impoverished, common, badly-dressed thumb.
Somehow I make it to the revolving doors, pushing on the glass and shuffling my feet until I walk inside the impressive lobby. My new shoes click against the polished tiles as I take small steps—my progress constrained by the tightness of my new dress. Everything about this building screams opulence. From the brown-marble walls of the security desk to the cream-and-brown pattern of the ceramic floor that criss-crosses the entire lobby. Even the people—women in smart dresses and even smarter hairdos, men in crisp blue shirts and expertly knotted ties—add to the feeling of luxuriousness the architects were determined to create.
Ignoring my rising panic, I walk over to the desk. A security guard looks up, his eyes lidded, his face bored.
“Which company?”
Richards and Morgan isn’t the only firm that rents space here. The tower is over 28,000 square feet and holds more than 30 different companies with over 9000 employees. I remember all this from my interview—that awkward half day when I had to persuade somebody in a suit to take a chance on me.
“Richards and Morgan, my name’s Amy Cartwright. It’s my first day.”
The guard shoots me a withering look, one that tells me he really doesn’t want to make small talk. Instead he types something into his laptop and prints out a badge, which he slides into a clear, plastic sleeve.
“Clip this to your dress. You should have it on display at all times when you’re in the building. Richards and Morgan are on the tenth floor. Take the left set of elevators and press the tenth button. Your pass won’t allow you above that floor. If you’re found walking any other floors you’ll be reported.”
Every word is accompanied by a narrowed stare, and I feel like a naughty school kid.
“Okay.”
“When you leave this evening you need to hand the pass back. Richards and Morgan should arrange for you to get a permanent pass today.”
This time I just nod. The guy is doing nothing for my nerves except heightening them. Clipping the pass to the neckline of my dress, I pick up my bag and head for the elevators.
There’s already a crowd at the lifts by the time I reach them. Two cars fill up before there’s a space for me. Squeezing myself against the wall, I watch as people press the buttons for their floor, willing somebody to press number ten so I don’t have to say a word.
Of course, they don’t.
“Can you press floor ten?” I ask quietly. Nobody takes the slightest bit of notice. They’re all staring ahead, their faces neutral, their eyes glazed.
The lift starts to move. First stop is two, where only one person gets out. There’s still not enough room for me to reach them.
“Can you press floor ten please?”
Everyone ignores me.
By the time we make it to the eighth floor I’m unnerved. It’s stupid, I know, because if the worst comes to the worst I can get the right floor on the way down. But the memory of the security guard telling me I can’t get out on any floors except my own is playing on my mind.
“Can you press floor bloody ten!” I finally yell, my accent making me sound like a fishwife to the power-suited professionals. This time everybody turns to look at me. More than one person raises their eyebrows, and somebody laughs at the back of the lift. A tall redheaded man reaches forward and pressed the button, barely able to contain his smirk.
When the lift comes to a stop I have to fight my way out, aware that every single person in the car is staring at me. Squaring my shoulders, I grimace and step onto the tenth floor, thankful that nobody else is getting out, and that none of them are going to be my co-workers. My relief lasts all of two seconds, until the button-pusher follows behind me, and I feel my stomach contract painfully.
“Ten was already lit,” he tells me, his words shaped by a Scottish burr. “I’d pressed it when I got in.”
“So why did you press it again?” I snap.
This time his eyebrows rise up until they’re almost touching his messy, thick hair. “Because you asked so bloody nicely.”
* * *
An hour later I’m sat in a boardroom with the other interns attending our induction session. At the front of the room, next to what might just be the most boring PowerPoint presentation ever, is the HR Manager for Richards and Morgan, Diana Joseph. She’s already made each of us stand up in turn and introduce ourselves. I’ve discovered I’m the only intern that doesn’t go to either Oxford or Cambridge, and the only one that doesn’t know the others.
“In a few minutes your placement managers will be coming in to introduce themselves, and then they’ll take you to your desks to get you started. Your log-in details are in the folders in front of you, along with a list of online training that you’ll need to do before the end of the week.”
Diana brushes a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. She looks around thirty-something, with the porcelain complexion of the upper-middle class. “There’s one last thing I need you to do. As you know, Richards and Morgan is an American company, and we follow the rules they set down for us. One of those is that we expect all our employees to follow the highest standards of conduct, and I’d like you all to sign the policy that’s in your folders and return it to me before you leave.”
Pulling the three-page policy from my folder, I skim read. It covers dress code, politeness and emphasises that no office romances should take place. Glancing around the room—at the three rich boys who form part of the intern group—I have no hesitation in scribbling my name across the bottom.
Diana collects the papers and shuffles them into a neat pile. Then she opens the door and calls our managers in. They stand up to say hello, explaining what part of the firm they work in, and their main responsibilities. I listen avidly, wondering which one will end up being my boss, hoping against hope that it’s Maria Giles, who heads up technology services.
When they’ve finished, Diana stands again. “Okay, so let’s start with Miranda Vesey.” The girl sitting opposite me stands up. “Your placement is in Corporate Tax and your manager will be Stephen Spiller.”
One by one she calls the interns until I’m the last person left. That’s when she realises there isn’t a manager to assign me to. Her panic is almost comical, as she glances down at her sheet then back at me, her brows drawing together as she stares.
“There appears to be an error.”
The need to laugh disappears, replaced by a quivering inside my chest. I wait for her to tell me that I shouldn’t have been offered the internship, for her to ask me to leave the building. By the time she starts to speak I’m already planning what I’ll tell my tutor.
“You were supposed to be assigned to Sandra Davies in Organisational Development, but she’s taken early maternity leave. Stay here while I make a couple of calls.” With that Diana all but runs out of the room, leaving me sitting here on my own.
Leaning back in my chair, I run a hand over my tied-up hair, checking it’s still smooth. Then I look around the room, at the polished wood table and state-of-the-art screens on the wall, and wonder what the hell is going to happen
to me today. I’m too nervous to keep still, too antsy to do nothing, so I end up pouring myself another lukewarm coffee from the dispenser on the sideboard and sip away until Diana comes back.
It takes her ten minutes, and when she sweeps back in the harassed look is still painted on her face. Inclining her head, she indicates for me to follow, and I stand up and gather my things.
“I’ve found you a placement in Technology Integration. They’re a head down due to a recent resignation, so you’ll be working temporarily as Personal Assistant until they’ve sorted out a project for you. Am I right in thinking you have PA experience?”
She’s marching along the corridor, and I have to run to keep up. “Yes, but I need to work on a project in order to get my degree.”
Diana huffs. “I just said you’ll be given a project, it will just take a few days, that’s all.”
Chastened, I nod. “Okay.”
“Well, this isn’t always the easiest department to work in. The techies tend to be a bit abrasive and rude, but I can promise you’ll get some excellent experience during your time here.”
Eventually we reach the end of the corridor, and she leads me into a block of offices. Each one is fronted with glass. Diana points at a desk. “This is where you’ll sit. Mr Ferguson sits in there.” She gestures to a door, which leads into the main office. “He’s the head partner for the Technology Integration division, so he’s a very busy man.”
For the first time, Diana smiles at me, and it seems to contain an apology. Then she raps at the door with her knuckles, taking a step back and waiting for a reply.
“What?”
“Mr Ferguson?” Her voice wobbles as she pushes the frosted glass door. “I have your new PA, Amy Cartwright.” Turning to me, she gestures with her hand, telling me to go in. “She’s a new intern, full of enthusiasm and ready to go.”
Standing in the doorway, I see Mr Ferguson for the first time. He’s bent over three LCD screens, hammering his fingers on the impressive keyboard that seems to cover half his desk. Slowly, he raises his head, and I notice the thick, dark red hair that falls across his brow, and the piercing green eyes that seemed to bore into me earlier.
“I know you,” he says, still staring. This time there’s no hint of a smile to his lips, just a granite-set jaw that tells me he isn’t very pleased to see me. “You’re the lift-shouter.”
Nodding, I step forward, trying to hide the tremble in my legs. “I’m Amy Cartwright.” I offer him my hand, but he ignores it.
“I don’t take on interns, Diana, you know that. Doesn’t HR have any slots?” He sounds almost bored.
“Amy’s skills lie in the technical side, Mr Ferguson, and we’ve not been able to recruit a PA for you yet. It’s only temporary, until we fill the vacancy and then we can move Amy to her new job.”
Mr Ferguson drops his head to the side, studying me. “How much experience do you have?”
“I was a PA for two years before I went back to University.”
“What University are you from?”
“The University of East London.”
I don’t expect he even knows there is a university in East London.
“Where did you work before you went to University?”
“I was a legal PA at Barker Moorefield LLP.” I flash him a pointed look because I know he must have heard of them.
“But you set your sights on the lofty heights of the University of East London. It sounds very Jude the Obscure,” he drawls. “Tell me, Miss Cartwright, what made you give up a well paid job in law to go to some shitty university in Stratford?”
Okay, so he has heard of the University of East London. He must have if he knows where the campus is. Even so, his words make me want to climb over his desk and land a smack on his face. Pompous, arrogant dick.
It might be because I didn’t get very much sleep last night, or it might be because I’m still so angry with Luke I can hardly see straight. It might even be because I’m sick and tired of being left out and treated like dirt and the one everybody has a dig at. Whatever it is, I feel my muscles start to tense as a bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck.
I give him a sickly smile. “Oh, I don’t know, Mr Ferguson. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this country is run by elitist arseholes who think that they’re entitled to everything just because they were born into money.”
The corner of his lip twitches. “I’m guessing they didn’t teach you diplomacy during your time at college.”
“They couldn’t fit it in between the cockney slang and spray tan refresher classes,” I reply. I’m about to add that it’s good of the upper class to even allow us to leave our hovels when I hear Diana clearing her throat behind me.
“Okay then, I’ll let you settle in, Amy. Perhaps you can let me know when you’ve finished the online training.”
With that, she leaves, and I’m alone with Mr Ferguson. The same Mr Ferguson who has decided to studiously ignore me, staring at the screen in front of him and occasionally pressing his keyboard.
That’s when I realise what an idiot I am. This man holds the key to my future, the ability to dictate whether or not I actually get a degree. And I decided to be rude to him the first moment he clapped eyes on me.
“I’ll just… ah… go and set up at my desk then,” I say, slowly backing out of the room. Mr Ferguson looks up at me again. This time his green eyes look softer, hazier. The hard expression on his face has gone.
“Okay.”
“Would you like a coffee, Mr Ferguson?” I ask, deciding that the only way out of the hole I’ve dug for myself is some serious arse licking. It might be my imagination, but I think I see a hint of amusement flash across his face.
“Black, no sugar.” He nods, looking back at his work. Then, without raising his eyes up again, he adds, “And my name’s Callum, not Mr Ferguson. Otherwise I’ll think you’re talking to my father.”
“Does he work here, too?” I ask.
“No, he’s been dead for nearly thirty years.”
Oh, well done Amy.
With that, I pull my foot firmly out of my mouth and decide to make Mr Ferguson—Callum—the best damn cup of coffee he’s ever tasted. Before he ends up kicking my butt right out of here.
3
I switch on the computer, watching it flicker into life as the screen casts a blue glow across the glossy, white surface of my new desk. While it boots up I find myself rearranging the pens in my drawer; blacks then reds, blues then greens. Every now and again my eyes glance up and I peer past the glass door that opens into Callum's office. He's busy working on something. Whatever it is draws his lips into a frown, and I can hear the slap of his fingers as he types furiously.
First days are always the worst. Full of trying to look busy and failing miserably. The minutes drag past as I set up my email account, and when I glance at my watch it's a shock to see it isn't even twelve o'clock.
I'm about to go through the contents of my desk drawers just for the hell of it when a message flashes on my screen.
Simpson, C: How's it going?
I have to wrack my brain to remember who Simpson, C is. Eventually I recall that one of my fellow interns is Charlie Simpson. From what I remember he was assigned to Corporate Tax.
Cartwright, A: It's going.
Simpson, C: Oh dear, as good as that?
I think about telling him about my morning, and the boss from hell, but decide I've already shot myself in the foot once. I don't need to make a habit out of it.
Cartwright, A: Just teething problems. I'm sure it will get better.
Simpson, C: A few of us are meeting for lunch. Top floor restaurant at 12:30. You coming?
This time when I look up, Callum's staring straight at me. The intensity of his gaze stills my fingers. There's something about him, a rugged hardness that makes me want to tear my eyes away, and I feel my bottom lip tremble. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry.
I'm still looking at him as I touch type a response
.
Cartwright, A: I'll see you there.
Callum's phone rings, pulling his gaze from mine. He snatches it up, growling his name into the phone. Letting out a lungful of air, I finish my conversation with Charlie—whose boss is apparently a big sweetheart—then get to work on the online induction course. By 12:30 p.m. I've learned how to avoid tripping over trailing wires, that if there's a fire I should vacate the building, and if somebody sends me a dodgy attachment I really shouldn't download it. I store these gems of knowledge away in my mind and lock the screen on my computer.
Rolling my chair back, I stand up and walk over to Callum's office. He's facing away from me, looking out of his large picture window, leaning on the desk as he talks into his phone. Curling my fingers around the doorjamb I wait for his conversation to finish, but he goes on and on, talking about projections and prototypes.
Eventually I clear my throat. Loud enough for the inner lining of my neck to protest at the rush of air that tears across it. Callum's head snaps around and he runs a hand through his hair, pulling it off his brow.
For an arsehole boss, he really does have pretty eyes.
He covers the mouthpiece of the phone with his free hand. “What is it?”
I refuse to let him intimidate me. “I'm going to lunch.” I literally have to bite my lips shut to stop myself from asking if that's okay. If he can't be civil to me, I'm not sure I can be bothered to do the same.
“Yeah, sure. Do you know where you're going?”
“Yup. The top floor canteen.”
“Okay then.” He turns away and resumes his conversation, effectively dismissing me. I stand there like a Muppet, mouthing words that he can't hear, and I have to remind myself why I'm here.
First I get my degree.
Then I get a good job.
Finally I get the hell away from Luke.
That's the Amy Cartwright master plan. If it takes nine months of working for Mr Charisma, then I'll do it.