The Billion Dollar Love Affair

If life were a Cinderella story, I wouldn’t be spending my Tuesday evening bent over a small-town pub sink, wringing warm Heineken out of my hair while Ariana Grande whistles through the speakers. There’s justice in the world - I’m just not too sure where it is. The underage girl with the fake ID didn’t mean to trip and launch herself onwards towards me, but she did, and now I’m desperately trying to dry the second ruined shirt of this week. I’ve already made the colossally stupid decision of spending one-third of this month’s rent on an admittedly gorgeous dress for my sister’s wedding, and I’m not even entirely sure she wants me there. Genevieve is a perfectly polite lady, if you’re not me. “Nina,” Delilah hisses, her masses of ashen hair bouncing around her shoulders, “Are you good? I’m getting trampled out there.” “I don’t think I’ve been good since the nineties,” I mutter irritatedly, wincing as someone yells that they want a drink before they die of old age. Delilah grins, blowing me a kiss. “You’re still hot. C’mon, the bald guy with the snake tattoo keeps looking down my shirt and he’ll ogle you instead if you come out.” The bald guy in the snake tattoo does eye my n*****s poking through my drenched shirt as I emerge from the back, but my mind is elsewhere. When I bought the one-hundred-and-twelve pound dress for Genevieve’s nuptials, I thought my end-of-month bonus would cover it. Unfortunately, my bonus turned out to be a half-smile from my boss as she squeezed my shoulder and told me what a grand job I’d done. I could return the dress in all its glory, but the wedding is in two weeks and the stress of finding another slinky number might put me in an early grave. “Why do people want to get drunk on a Tuesday night?” Delilah grumbles, and I want to tell her that I’d quite like to get drunk every night recently. I’m only a few years older than her at twenty-three, but I’m sure those years have chipped away at me, just a little. She’s sprightly and wide-eyed, lips chapped from all the times she’s likely bitten them down in anticipation of something greater than what she got. She might be young, but I’m the stupid one. I may well be kicked out of my flat this month because I thought it was more important to look like I have my life together in a silken dress than turn up in trousers and actually scrape by this month. I could blame Genevieve and her judgemental eyes, but I’m the one plunging myself further into debt for a champagne-coloured dress that crams my breasts too violently back into my chest anyway. “The football isn’t on and there’s no live band, so I’m guessing everybody is having a bad day,” I murmur, gesturing towards a couple fighting angrily in one of the booths, “Especially them.” “What do you think happened?” Delilah nudges me expectantly because it’s her favourite way to pass the time. I grin. “Alright. See the woman? She was having an affair with the man who cleans their pool. Passionate. They would make frenzied, filthy love in the deep end until her husband came home in the evening.” “And he caught them?” Delilah presses, staring at the man wide-eyed. “Nope,” I pull open a packet of crisps, crunching down on a cheese-and-onion bite, “Blissfully unaware. She comes home from getting her hair permed the next day and would you believe it - hubby is going at it on the kitchen counter with the pool boy and the gardener. Scandalous.” “Scandalous,” Delilah cackles, pushing a drink towards a woman and sinking into the bar dramatically, head in hands, “I’m so bored of this. How do you cope? You’ve worked here forever and you never even complain. You’re like iron man.” “I am, aren’t I?” I throw my waterfalls of dark hair over my shoulder, trying to hold the smile which is fixed unsteadily on my face, “I wonder when they’re gonna make the Marvel movie about the girl who scrapes rent and can’t even pour a proper pint.” Delilah smiles, but she’s distracted as her fingers tap rhythmically on the bar. “My friend has applied for this world-beater job, you know. In London. Pay is probably insane, very hush-hush because it’s so high profile but I think they’re interviewing anyone with a decent CV. Lucy - my friend - has only worked as a waitress before. You should apply.” “Oh?” I continue eating my crisps, eyebrow raised, “What sort of job? How high profile?” Delilah leans into me dramatically, eyes wide. “Calvin Westfield high profile. The company reached out to hire for a personal assistant role, but there are whispers that it’s a personal assistant to the man himself.” “Oh,” I stop chewing for a moment, interest piqued. This town is a stone’s throw from London, and we’ve all heard the name Calvin Westfield thrown around before. His company, Trident, stormed the world like a plague and raked in oceans of money the way sss did for Jeff Bezos, setting the business world alight. I can’t pretend to know exactly what Trident do - something techy - but I know they’re Forbes level of rich and personal assistant to one of the most powerful men in London would look incredibly alluring on my CV. “Yeah, pretty insane,” Delilah grabs the crisps from my hand and plucks one free, “I’d apply, but working with Calvin Westfield every day would give me mad anxiety. Did you see that Buzzfeed article? They said he takes an ice shower every day and like, yells at walls to keep himself focused. That said, they also tweeted that he hooked up with Meryl Streep so I’d take it with a pinch of salt.” “Yeah,” I mutter distractedly, trying to work it out in my head. A train to and from London would cost the earth, but a company like Trident would pay me handsomely. The smell of stale beer wouldn’t follow me home each night and perhaps I could actually climb some sort of ladder. “I think I might, you know. Thanks, Delilah.” “No worries,” she sighs dramatically, binning the empty crisp packet, “Just remember me when you’re off having your lunch break at Buckingham Palace and falling in love on The Gherkin.” “If I fall in love, push me off it,” I chuckle, because life is too hectic for something as fickle as love. I work, I pay rent so I’m not homeless and I get by. Any other variables are too much for a woman who still drives the same car she had when she was eighteen. “Well, good luck, sister,” Delilah chuckles, clapping me on the back, “I hear that man is colder than winter in Brixton. Don’t get eaten alive.” And even though I don’t plan to be eaten alive, a heavy feeling sinks into my skin and leaves me nervous, all the way up to the moment I close my eyes to sleep the day away.