I took a deep breath and tried not to think about that.
After I sent James the message, I got rid of my phone--removing and destroying the SIM card and resetting it to the factory defaults. Then to the business center, where I put my bank and credit card through the shredder.
And it was done. My ties with the old world were cut. My journey to a new life begun.
Chapter Ten
I watched the floor numbers flit past. Of the five people in the elevator with me, three were staring. All three were male and over forty, and any other time, I'd have chalked it up to the fact that I'm young and female. But today, my heart raced and I struggled to keep breathing.
Had my picture been in the paper? I'd grabbed only the classified section at the hotel. I hadn't checked the rest. I was afraid to check.
Even if my photo was there, I didn't look like it. Not anymore. Before leaving the hotel, I'd chopped my hair off at my shoulders, blow-dried it straight, and pulled the sides back in a severe style I'd never worn before. Also, I was wearing glasses. I've worn contacts since I was twelve, but always carried a pair of glasses in my purse, just in case. Between those, the impromptu haircut, and the Sears-special suit, I was no longer Olivia Taylor-Jones. I was--as my business-center-printed resumes proclaimed--Liv Jones.
So the men in the elevator shouldn't recognize me. But I could feel them staring. It seemed to take forever to reach the twentieth floor.
----
"H-How long?" I asked the man behind the reception desk.
He was young, thin, and impeccably dressed, perched on the edge of his chair, narrow-eyed gaze flicking past me to the others in the waiting area, as if he expected to catch them stuffing the year-old magazines into their briefcases.
I repeated the question. From his look, he'd heard me the first time--he just wasn't rushing to answer. At least not until he'd ensured that the waiting room was safe from larceny.
"At least a month before we have our short list," he said. "Likely six to eight weeks before the position is filled."
I must have looked stunned, because his thin lips pursed.
"The advertisement only went in the Sun-Times today," he said. "It takes time to receive and process the resumes. I'm sure you're not finding anything different elsewhere in your job search."
"Um, no. Of course not. A month is fine. Thank you."
I now needed a prepaid cell phone, so I could receive callbacks for interviews. That took 5 percent of my stash. I'd had to buy the outfit and shoes, too, though both were a tenth what I normally paid for clothes. I'd picked up a cheap briefcase, which doubled as a clothing bag, to hold my jeans and shirt from yesterday and a backup dress shirt. It didn't seem like much, but I was down three hundred dollars, and it wasn't even lunchtime.
"You look familiar," said the receptionist.
Receptionist number six of the day. Five minutes later I couldn't have told anyone what she looked like. They'd all blended into a homogeneous mush of dour gatekeepers.
I couldn't have said anything about the reception area, either, except that I was sure it had at least one green plant in the early stages of slow death and a picture of a healthy, flower-bearing one. A desk calendar with a 50 percent chance of displaying the correct month. A bowl of candy. And sporadic voices, maybe even a laugh, from the depths of the offices beyond, teasing me with hints of actual people who could give me an actual job. People I'd never see.
Six receptionists. Six resumes. Six variations on "I'll pass this along" with six expressions that suggested it wouldn't get past the nearest shredder.
And yet, in those first five, not one with the reaction I'd feared. Until now.
"Do you live in Evanston? I grew up there," I lied.
"No, I've seen your picture someplace. Recently. Weren't you in the paper--?" Her mouth formed a perfect O, eyes widening to match. She snatched up my resume. "Jones? As in Mills & Jones? You're--"
"Sorry to have wasted your time." I retreated as fast as I could.
Six stops. Six rejections. I was not getting a job today. Or this week. At least, not the kind of position I'd envisioned. Like the women I'd helped at the shelter, I didn't have experience. Like them, if I wanted to work, I had to take what I could get.
I'd redo my resume to highlight my transferable skills, and start a new search tomorrow. In the meantime, I'd find a place to stay.
I stared at the apartment. Two rooms--a bath and a combined kitchen/living/sleeping area. Carpet a half century old, patchy, as if something had been snacking on it. Sofa held up at one corner by a stack of newspapers. The overwhelming stink of cat piss. The smell made me rub my arms, goose bumps rising, anxiety bubbling in my gut.
"I think this is the wrong place," I said to the woman. "I'm looking for the one advertised--"
"In today's paper. This is it. Four hundred a month. Take it or leave it."