He frowns a little, moving back. ‘I believe this might be foreplay.’
Fucking hell.
My lips part to allow some air into my burning lungs. What the hell do I say to that? ‘Or it could be considered assault,’ I counter, tossing my own cup in the bin, too. ‘Depends on how you look at it.’ Assault? What a laugh. I’m aching everywhere, but I’m not about to admit it to this cocky arsehole. I bet women fall at his feet daily. I’m not going to be one of them.
I pad my feet into the concrete, just to check I’m still standing, as he holds my eyes, his forehead a map of lines. He slowly inches nearer again, his mouth coming closer to mine, his breath tickling my skin. I can feel myself falling under his spell, but before I give in to the pull of the lips he’s brandishing, I come to my senses and slam my hands into his chest, pushing him away. ‘Excuse me, but I have no time for holier-than-thou twats,’ I retort indignantly.
‘Ouch.’ He laughs a little, pulling the lapels of his jacket in, but that frown is still there. ‘Then how about you stop following me?’
‘I’m not bloody following you,’ I breathe, exasperated.
‘Sure you’re not.’ He turns on his expensive brogues and walks off. ‘See you around, princess.’
‘I hope not,’ I yell to his back. That arse. It brings tears to my eyes. Bastard.
I feel bemused, hot, lustful, embarrassed, mystified . . . annoyed. ‘Such a twat,’ I say to myself, quickly checking the time. ‘Shit.’
My thoughts realign in a heartbeat. If he’s made me late for this interview, too, I will most definitely be stalking him . . . so I can wring his fucking neck.
I dash off in the opposite direction, waving my arm frantically for a cab. At least I know Mr I believe this might be foreplay won’t be taking this cab.
I’ve never met such a conceited wanker.Chapter 4First impressions. They really do count, and what I’m staring at right now doesn’t bode well for my interview. An alleyway. There’s an iron door guarding the entrance with an old metal sign with ‘The Haven’ above it.
The Haven? ‘Hardly,’ I say quietly. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I ring the buzzer on the keypad next to the door and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I ring it again, this time holding it down for a few seconds so the irritating shrill stretches out, making me wince. There are a few crackles then a huff of displeasure. ‘Patience is a virtue,’ a woman’s voice snaps, making me step back. ‘How can I help?’
I inch forwards, putting my mouth closer to the intercom. ‘Hi, I’m looking for The Haven.’
‘You’ve found it.’
‘I have an interview today. Arranged through the agency.’
‘Your name?’
‘Eleanor Cole.’
‘Push the door.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The door, dear. Push it.’
I stare at the intercom. Never have I heard the word dear said with such snark. I can almost hear her eyes rolling. A shift of metal snaps my attention from the intercom to the door, and I gingerly reach out and give it a little push. It opens, revealing an alleyway that doesn’t seem to have an end. Or a light. Despite being slightly wary, I cross the threshold, trying to adjust to the dark. There’s a smell of damp brick walls, making my nose wrinkle in distaste. It reminds me of my father’s workshop – old and neglected. The familiar smell dashes my enthusiasm further as I slowly edge forwards. I don’t know where I’m heading or what I’ll find once I make it there. If I make it there. I’ve moved five paces and still can’t see any signs of life at the end. It’s eerily silent.
Bang!
‘Shit.’ I fly around, startled, my heart rate rocketing, the sound of the door crashing closed echoing around me, trapping me within the confines of the brick tunnel. My hands start grappling at the wall, feeling their way across the bricks in an attempt to get me back to the door. The ground beneath my heels is rocky, my shoes not coping with the uneven surface, making me trip and stumble.
It’s a few frantic moments, but I finally make it back to the door, and it takes just two solid tugs on the handle for me to conclude I’m going nowhere except further into the black hole. ‘Fabulous.’ I have two options. I can stand here in the dark and rot, because it doesn’t seem like anyone is rushing to greet me. Or I can risk breaking an ankle while attempting to make it to the end of this black hole to nowhere, because it seems the only way I’m getting out of here is by finding someone who can let me out.
I feel my way down the alleyway again, tentatively putting down each foot before settling my whole weight on it. This is ridiculous. Has every interview candidate endured these conditions? ‘Some light would be handy,’ I grumble, hearing a repeat of my words when the echo travels into the black distance ahead of me. ‘Phone!’ I blurt out, blindly feeling in my bag for it. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?