Chapter 4
1285 Words
Chapter 4
The call that changed everything.
Cold water gave a slap on the face of Clara Whitfield and pulled her out of sleep so quickly that she thought she was drowning. Her arms jerked up to cover her eyes with a gasp and wild blinking, breath tearing through her chest.
Wait. Where am I? Kidnapped? Did someone drag me out of bed?
She felt the cloth, the couch. Familiar cushions. She stepped into her living room. She let out a shaky breath.
Home.
But how?
The night passed, glimpsed. She experienced music, sounds, the burning of alcohol, and then his lips. The kiss they shared still ached in her mouth like a shock of electricity.
Then nothing.
“Clara!”
The voice awoke her as she was dozing.
“Clara, wake up! Do you even hear me?”
Clara turned her head, her chin dripping with water. Amelia Carter was there, crisp at work, and her eyebrows were like arrows.
“You?!” Clara’s voice cracked. “You poured water on me?”
I had no choice left, I huff, Amelia. “It’s nine in the morning. Do you intend to sleep until next week? We’re late.”
Nine. Clara’s stomach dropped. She was to be in by nine-thirty. Rent. Bills. Her brother’s school fees. Her mother is currently taking medication. Panic flared.
I--no--no--no --no--no--no--no--no--no--no--no--no--no--no--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono--ono-- The floor appeared to shake, and she fell back into the couch, groaning.
Amelia fluttered her eyes but urged a glass of water and a bit of a tablet on her. “Here. "Prepare this, as you may feel faint again."
Clara took the drink with trembling fingers, swallowed it, and leant back. The throbbing in her skull intensified with each beat of her heart. She drew her lips.
That kiss. It’s still there. I can sense it as it’s sculpted in me. But after? Did I—?
“No, you didn’t.”
Clara jerked her head up. “What?”
You want to know whether you did something dumb last night, don’t you, Amelia? Cross your arms. “The answer is no. I carried your drunk home. You passed out. End of story.”
Pain was relieved in the breast of Clara but was terminated by the sweetening of the voice of Amelia. Clara, perhaps you would like to take the day off.
“I can’t.” Clara’s voice broke. Amelia I have already taken two days this month. I just can’t spare another deduction. I need every penny.”
“Look at you,” Amelia shot back. You are pale, you are waving, and when you enter Harrington and Co. in this manner, they will believe a ghost has just reported to work.
Clara lowered her eyes down to the ground. She wasn’t wrong. All the muscles in her body ached, and her head throbbed as if someone were pounding on the door.
Amelia bent down, kissed Clara in a hurry and said, 'I made breakfast.' Eat, eat, before you pass out again. Then she got up and took her bag and ran away.
And the apartment door slammed, and Clara was left with her mouth open.
Her knees huddled together, her arms holding the knees. A lump formed in her throat.
I do not deserve a friend like her.
Her mind drifted. When she was a child, Dad had passed away. Mum did it all by pure force until the disease took hold. Clara was out of school to keep the house going, and she relocated to work in Manchester three years ago. Every paycheck she earned above ground supported her family.
Oliver’s text tone pinged. She picked up her phone, and her heart rose when she saw the name of her younger brother.
He’d sent a photo. Oliver in the apron of Mum, a floppy hat of a chef on his head moving off sideways, stirring a pan. She laughed out loud. The boy was unable to cook a breakfast, not to mention instant noodles.
Another ping. This one is an email notification. Clara read the subject line, her brow furrowing in concentration:
Your Offer Harrington and Co.
Her heart stopped.
Offer? From them?
She tapped the message open, trembling with her hands. She felt overwhelmed by the confusing information: there was an interview scheduled for today, a resume due by tomorrow, and a possibility of doubling her salary – yes.
Wait. What? I didn’t even apply.
Her head moved down to the bottom of the email. The email included a phone number for HR. Without thinking, she dialled.
“Hello?”
“Hi, this is Clara Whitfield. I received an interview email today, but I do not remember applying for any positions.
The female in the line laughed. One of our job sites found your resume appealing. Looks like a strong fit. The interview is real. We’ll see you today?”
Clara's jaw fell. She said thank you and hung up and stared at the phone.
It’s real. This is real.
Her heart pounded. Rent. School fees. Mum’s medicine. The electricity could fix everything.
She placed her phone on the charger, gathered her papers, and prepared herself.
I can’t blow this. Not today.
The structure rose up from the top of the glass and steel that were sewn together, and it appeared perfect and shiny. She held her folder close to her chest, took a quavering breath, and walked in.
The receptionist sent her up the stairs.
The room was empty.
There were no other candidates present. No waiting crowd? Just her?
Her palms grew damp.
Are you Clara Whitfield? the girl at the desk asked.
Clara nodded.
“They’re ready. Go in.”
Her throat went dry. Her pulse thundered. She gasped in one last breath and stepped open the door of the chamber.
There were three individuals who were waiting in front of a smooth table. Calm and businesslike.
“Please, sit.”
She sat down in the chair with her folder. She passed her resume across.
“Tell us about yourself.”
It shook her voice at the beginning but became stable when she was describing her past, her job, and her duties. The questions came – easy to answer, not so hard as she thought. Too easy.
Why are they scarcely trying me? Maybe they already know. Maybe they’ve already chosen.
Hope flared. She forced herself to answer steadily, even when her knees bounced beneath the table.
The panel exchanged looks and whispered among themselves. Silence pressed against Clara’s chest. She twisted the hem of her skirt to keep her hands busy.
Then one of them smiled.
“Congratulations, Clara Whitfield. You’re hired.”
Her breath caught. “I—wait—really?”
“Yes. You start Monday. Please finish the paperwork before you leave.”
Clara’s heart raced. She nodded, thanked them over and over, and stumbled out into the hall, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt.
At the desk, the girl handed her an envelope and a set of papers.
“Please review and sign.”
Clara flipped through the contract. Her smile faltered.
A two-year bond. Breaking it meant paying a huge penalty.
Her chest tightened.
“What if—what if I can’t commit that long?” Clara asked.
“Then we can’t offer you the role,” the girl replied smoothly. “It’s company policy. Everyone signs.”
Her pen hovered.
Two years. Stuck. But Oliver. Mum. The bills. The medicine.
She signed.
“Welcome to Harrington & Co.,” the girl said with a polite smile.
Clara opened her mouth to reply, but the girl suddenly straightened, body stiff, eyes flicking past Clara.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Clara turned.
And froze.
- Writer
