Eyes Wide Open, Page 2

  She sighed. This was the exact reason she hadn’t told anyone—except Bob—about the job application she’d sent off. Her flatmates, she knew, would have been nothing but supportive, but rejection was bad enough without the humiliation of them knowing about it too. Then coming out with the usual, Oh, there’ll be other jobs or you’re too good for them anyway or even well, it’s their loss.

  “I applied for a job.”

  “Uh, yeah? Isn’t that kind of the point of being here?”

  “Well, yes, but this one’s special. Or it was, anyway. It’s a PR role at a swish Mayfair hotel. I saw the ad in a newspaper a few days ago. Trouble is, I’d already missed the closing date for applications by the time I saw the ad, but I sent my CV and a covering letter anyway.”

  “Good for you. But I’m still failing to see why this is a bad thing.”

  “Well, they’ve emailed me.” Unconsciously, she crept her hands across the laptop and gripped its edges, as though it would spring open by itself if she didn’t.

  “So read it!”

  “I can’t! They’re bound to have said no. I was late sending in an application, and I’ve no experience.”

  Gary shook his head, unfolded his lanky frame from the chair and came to perch on the arm of Fiona’s. “They may also have said yes, but you’ll never find out while you’ve got your frigging laptop in a death grip. Come on. Open it up. Or give it here and I’ll read it for you.”

  “No!” She cradled the machine to her chest, then reluctantly placed it back on her lap. “All right… I’ll look. But if it’s a no, can we just move on and forget about it, please? No sympathy. Just go back to what we were doing before this conversation even started? And please don’t mention it to the others, either.”

  He held his hands up in supplication. “You have my word.”

  Nodding slowly, Fiona carefully lifted the laptop lid up and waited for the screen to flicker back to life. After a second or two, her inbox reappeared, now with that particular unread email sitting at the top, seeming to scream at her to open it.

  Taking a deep breath, she did just that. It took all her effort not to squeeze her eyes shut as the words filled the screen. She felt the heat from Gary’s body as he leaned in closer to read it, too, but she forced herself to ignore him and focus on the message.

  Dear Ms. Gillespie,

  Thank you for your recent application for the PR assistant’s role at the Totally Five Star London. Having read your covering letter and CV, we would very much like to invite you to attend an interview at our premises. Are you available at 2.30 p.m. on Wednesday?

  We look forward to hearing from you.

  Kind Regards,

  Jane Cresswell

  Human Resources Department, Totally Five Star London

  Gary reacted before her brain had even processed what she’d just read. “Wow, that’s fantastic, Fiona. Well done! See? There must have been something in your CV or letter that they liked, because despite you missing the deadline, they still want to see you.”

  “Th-they want to see me.” She blinked. Then it suddenly hit her. “Holy fuck, they want to see me!”

  “Yes! Come on. Pull yourself together, woman, and email them back, letting them know you’ll be there on Wednesday.” He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow, grinning.

  Playfully nudging him back, she was aware that her own face had broken out into an enormous smile too, but she tried to rein in her excitement. Just because she had an interview didn’t mean she had the job. Not even close. A job like that, at a place like that, with those benefits and career prospects, was very desirable. She’d have a ton of competition. But, she reminded herself, it was all good interview experience. She had nothing to lose.

  Dear Ms. Cresswell,

  Thank you for your email. I would be delighted to attend an interview with you at 2.30 p.m. on Wednesday. Thank you for the opportunity.

  Kind regards,

  Fiona Gillespie

  “Does that sound all right?” She turned the laptop so Gary could read her reply more easily.

  After a minute he replied, “Yep, looks great to me. Enthusiastic but not desperate, polite and professional. Damn, you really know how to work that degree of yours, don’t you, gorgeous? I think I’m gonna have to get you to have a look at my CV.”

  “Let me just send this, and I’d be happy to.” Reading the email through one more time, just to make sure she hadn’t made a silly mistake or typo or anything, she then gritted her teeth and hit ‘Send’. Okay, it was gone. She was officially going for an interview for a job—a brilliant job! One that could launch an exciting and lucrative career—

  Shaking her head to rid herself of all the thoughts that were bubbling around in her mind, she looked up at Gary. “I mean it, you know. I could do with something to distract me now, I’m so bloody excited. Do you want to email me your CV and I’ll go through it with you? I’m sure there are some improvements that can be made.”

  “Yeah, sure. Hang on. I’ll go and grab my iPad. Shall we celebrate with a cup of tea?”

  “Oh yes, good idea. Go on. You get your iPad and email me the file. I’ll make the tea.”

  * * * *

  Fiona stepped carefully from the Tube and scurried over to the wall to avoid being pushed and shoved by the rushing crowds. She’d deliberately left plenty of time to get from her dump of a flat in Leytonstone to Mayfair, determined not to arrive at the Totally Five Star sweaty, stressed and flustered.

  Emerging from Bond Street station, she stood out of the way of the throngs as she retrieved the map she’d printed out to get her from here into the heart of Mayfair. It wasn’t an area she knew, aside from having done some shopping—mostly window shopping, but also a smidge of the real kind on Oxford Street, Bond Street and Piccadilly—and admired the luxury hotels on Park Lane. It was barely a ten minute walk to the hotel, nestled in a spot between Grosvenor and Berkeley Squares, and she still had fifty minutes until her interview—ample time to get there, have a little look at the adjacent buildings and get a feel for the area, then head inside and announce herself.

  Tracing the route with her finger as she memorized it, Fiona nodded, then put the piece of paper back into her handbag.

  Right. Time to get this show on the road.

  She looked up and around, as well as ahead, as she walked, admiring the beautiful, regal-looking buildings, exclusive boutiques and restaurants and garages selling high-end luxury and sports cars. It was like a complete other world, particularly when compared to the grimy, run-down area of the city she’d just come from.

  God, what would the interviewers—she assumed there’d be more than one—make of her, a recent graduate with a broad Brummy accent? Yes, she’d made a serious effort with her appearance. She wore a beautiful outfit she’d splashed out on when arriving in London, seeing it as an investment in her career, in her future, but she couldn’t hide who she was—just a regular girl from the Midlands. How was she supposed to fit in with the other staff, never mind the clientele, who would all be filthy rich and speak in posh upper-class British accents?

  Pausing on the opposite side of the square from the hotel, she chastised herself for being so ridiculous. For one, they knew perfectly well where she was from. It was there on her CV in black and white. Secondly, the very idea that all the hotel staff and clientele would sound the same was ludicrous. Both the employees and the patrons would come from all over the world. It was bound to be a veritable melting pot of appearances, backgrounds, voices and accents. One slim, blonde Brummy was not going to stand out, not even a little bit.

  Her silly ideas knocked on the head, Fiona moved across the square, drinking in the lavish sights before her. Damn, she hadn’t even crossed the threshold yet and already she was impressed. The square was quiet—especially by London standards—since it was well off the beaten tourist trail, and it was full of beautiful red-bricked buildings with white stone window frames, balconies and porticos.

  The hotel itself was the
epitome of style from pavement to rooftop, in the same red and white as the surrounding buildings, with elegant railings at the very top, suggesting a roof garden. Maybe even a pool, though she felt that was unlikely, given that they were in England, not Ecuador.

  Smiling, she stood in the shade of a large tree that, at some point, had had an artistic-looking fountain built around it, and watched as a sleek gunmetal gray Mercedes purred its way up to the front doors. It had barely stopped when a smartly attired attendant zipped over and opened the rear car door. Following a gesture, another attendant scurried around to the other side, opening that door, too.

  Fiona shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, but her mouth dropped open as she realized just who was getting out of the car. Glancing around to make sure no one was paying any attention to her, she watched the world-famous footballer and his equally famous wife emerge from the vehicle. They came together at the base of the stairs, where the wife took her husband’s arm and they entered the hotel, without a second thought for the luggage they’d left in the car.

  They didn’t need to give it a thought, Fiona realized, as the hotel staff had it well under control. The designer luggage was placed carefully onto a trolley and taken inside. It would no doubt be whizzed up to the penthouse suite in a service elevator and be in the room before its owners, maybe even with snappily dressed, highly efficient housekeeping staff unpacking it for them.

  Shaking her head, Fiona found herself feeling pleased that she’d allowed herself this extra time in order to simply observe. Only now had it really sunk in just what a lavish world she was about to enter. Yes, this place was cosmopolitan, but they’d still expect the very highest standards from their staff—even those that didn’t have regular contact with the clientele. She’d have to tread carefully, do her very best to impress, to show that she was keen to learn, determined to get it perfect. Let them know that she was a good choice for the role.

  This was an amazing opportunity, and she wanted to give herself the best chance at success.

  Chapter Three

  Fiona opened her bag and pulled out the bottle of water she had stashed in there. Holding it away from her body—she didn’t want to end up with splash marks on her gorgeous clothes—she twisted off the cap and took several long swallows of the cool liquid. It probably wouldn’t stop her throat going dry with nerves once she got inside the interview room, but at least she wouldn’t get dehydrated.

  Replacing the bottle, she whipped out her compact mirror and did a quick check of her makeup, which was fine. Then, knowing she didn’t have any more time to waste, she tugged at her clothes to make sure they were straight and crease-free, and walked toward the hotel.

  One of the door attendants she’d seen buzzing around the Mercedes was there, and he moved to open the door for her, giving a polite nod.

  “Thank you,” she said, flashing him a warm smile and passing through into the lobby.

  The first impression that hit her was one of space. Damn, this was just the reception area and it was cavernous. And yet it was far from sparse. Off to the left side was what appeared to be a sitting area, which was probably also used for informal meetings. It was carpeted in a lush dark purple, with round, very stylish, light-wood tables and comfortable-looking black leather chairs.

  To her right, she saw a couple of elevators, and a large archway, which, according to the sign over it, led to the spa and gym facilities. She suspected it was situated just inside the main doors because it was open to non-guests too.

  The floor beneath her feet was marble, and large potted plants and trees were dotted around, drawing her gaze to the beautiful wooden paneling on the walls, and the paintings hung at what she suspected were far from random intervals. The whole place had an authentic, old-fashioned feel to it, but more like it had been decorated to look that way, rather than because the décor had been like that for decades. It all appeared fresh and immaculate, and she didn’t envy the no doubt huge team of people employed to keep it that way.

  Finally, she turned her attention to the reception desk. It was set in an alcove, with a wooden surface that matched the wall paneling and had stunning flower arrangements perched at each end. There was still plenty of room between, however, and no less than three pretty receptionists waited there to deal with guests—or should she say two pretty ones and one handsome one, since there were two women and a man.

  Pulling in a deep breath and straightening her posture, she moved from where she’d been loitering off to one side of the main doors and walked to the desk—aware how easy it would be to tumble off her shoes on the smooth surface beneath her feet. It was the sort of place where people would rush to her aid and make sure she was okay, rather than laugh their arses off, but still, that was not the kind of first impression she wanted to make. Plus, she wasn’t sure her ego could take the humiliation.

  “Hello,” the nearest receptionist, a redhead, said, as Fiona approached. “Welcome to the Totally Five Star. How can I help you?”

  She’d obviously clocked that Fiona didn’t have any luggage or a bellboy hovering nearby, which was why she’d not asked if she was checking in. Smiling, Fiona replied, “Hello. I’m here for an interview. My name is Fiona Gillespie.”

  “Oh right. Just bear with me a moment, Ms. Gillespie, I’ll let them know you’re here.” She picked up the telephone receiver nearest to her and punched in a number. After a beat, she spoke, “Hello, it’s Isa from Reception. I’m just calling to let you know that Fiona Gillespie is here for her interview.” A pause, then, “Yes, of course. No problem. Thank you.”

  Putting the phone down, she smiled at Fiona and said, “Do you want to go and take a seat in the area over there? Someone will come and get you shortly.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. And good luck!”

  “Thank you.”

  Isa’s smile seemed genuine. Fiona returned it warmly, then made for the area with the comfy leather chairs. Choosing one near to the edge, so she was easy to spot when someone came to collect her, she tugged at the hem of her skirt a little before settling down onto the cool material and subtly angling her body so she could see all around her.

  With a quick glance at the stylish clock on the wall opposite her, with its huge face and roman numerals, she saw she still had fifteen minutes left before her interview. She could relax a little. She was here. She was ready. All she had to do was get up when someone arrived, put one foot in front of the other until she reached the interview room, then do her best to wow them. Broken down into small chunks like that, the whole thing didn’t seem nearly so daunting.

  Determined to try to take her mind off her nerves, she looked around some more. She hadn’t been able to see it from the door, due to the angle—which, in hindsight, she realized was likely deliberate—but from her new vantage point, she could sneak a glimpse into the restaurant. One of the restaurants, anyway. This one was probably the more casual one, for want of a better word—one that allowed non-guests to book tables—though it’d still probably be well in advance—and was more suitable for daytime dining.

  The super luxury restaurants were probably tucked away in more secluded corners of the building, not that the one she could see was exactly a greasy spoon, but still… Her research had told her that the head chef had three Michelin stars—one of barely a handful of chefs in the country that did. So no matter which part of the hotel one ate in, a serious gastronomic delight was a given. She’d never been much of a foodie, but spending time in this place would be enough to change anyone’s mind, she was sure.

  Immaculately dressed staff whizzed back and forth between the tables, delivering food and drinks, taking away empty plates, swapping cutlery, bringing new linens… The tasks were myriad, and endless, and they were all performed with quiet efficiency. By the looks of it, patrons would have water carafes and coffee cups refilled before they even realized they were empty. Nobody, not even the pickiest, most awkward diva-ish folk could find this place anyth
ing but utterly amazing.

  What’s more, the members of staff looked happy, too. There was a difference between smiling because it was what was expected of you and was polite, and smiling because you actually enjoyed your job and wanted to be there. The door attendant, the receptionists and the whizzing waiters and waitresses in the restaurant all appeared to be in the latter group. Of course, they could just be very good at faking it, but Fiona doubted it. The warmth behind Isa’s smile and her tone of voice when she’d wished her luck had been real.

  Well, so much for distracting herself and trying to keep the nerves at bay. Yes, her observations had given her some interesting insights into the place, its staff and the way it was run, but they had also driven home for her just how much she wanted this role. She hoped like hell that the aching need she now had in her stomach would aid her performance in the interview, because she knew if she didn’t get the job, the ache would turn into a big, heavy ball that would sit in her tummy and make her life very unpleasant.

  “Ms. Gillespie?”

  The voice startled her out of her thoughts, and a gasp escaped her lips before she could prevent it. She smiled and rose from the seat, turning to face the owner of the voice. “Hello. I’m so sorry I didn’t see you there. You startled me. I’m Fiona.” She held out her hand.

  The woman, a tall, curvaceous brunette maybe ten years her senior, took her hand and they shook. “Sorry,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m Sophia Lowrey, PR Manager. It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were Ms. Cresswell.”

  Sophia shook her head. “No. She’s waiting in the interview room, just making a few notes on the last applicant. We’ll both be interviewing you.”

  “I see. Okay, great. Sorry. It’s lovely to meet you, too. I’m sorry, I’m a little nervous.” Bloody hell, Fiona, stop saying sorry!