Eyes Wide Open

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Fiona spent the next few days in a blur of working, doing her share of chores in the flat—which this week included shopping and cooking—and catching some sleep when she could. She also spent an inordinate amount of time checking her emails, hoping for a reply from The Portmannow Hotel.

When it came, just three days after sending the application—which to her felt like three weeks—she was too scared to open it. She was so sure it was going to be a very polite thanks, but no thanks that she let out a squeak and quickly shut her laptop lid.

One of her flatmates, Gary, glanced at her from the other easy chair in their shared living room and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “What are you squeaking at, Fi? It sounded like you just squashed a mouse in your laptop.”

As heat bloomed in her cheeks, she shook her head and tried to adopt a nonchalant tone. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

Now both of Gary’s eyebrows inched towards his hairline. “Really? I’m not convinced, ’cause usually you’re as cool as a cucumber. Come on. What’s got you all het up?”

She sighed. This was the exact reason she hadn’t told anyone—except Bob—about the job application. Her flatmates would undoubtedly have been 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 the problem.”

“Well, they’ve emailed me.” 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 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 Portmannow Hotel. 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, The Portmannow Hotel

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 they liked, because despite you missing the deadline, they still want to see you.”

“Th-they want to see me.” She blinked dazedly. Then it suddenly hit her. “Holy f**k, 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.

As she playfully nudged him back, she was aware 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 incredibly desirable. She’d have a ton of competition—and tough competition, at that. But it was all good interview experience and, there was that sentiment again—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 moment 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.” After reading the email through one more time, just to make sure she hadn’t made a silly mistake or a typo, she 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 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 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 car 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 Portmannow Hotel sweaty, stressed and flustered.

After 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 memorised 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 they were in England, not Ecuador. But then again, maybe it was a heated swimming pool.

Smiling, she stood in the shade of a large tree with an artistic-looking fountain built around it, and watched as a sleek, gunmetal-grey 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 and opened that door, too.

Fiona shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, but her mouth dropped open as she realised just who was getting out of the car. After 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 steps up to the entrance, 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 realised, 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.

Fiona shook her head, glad she’d allowed herself this extra time in order to simply observe. Only now had it really sunk in precisely 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 who didn’t have regular contact with the clientele. She’d have to tread carefully, do her very best to impress, show she was keen to learn, determined to get it perfect. Let them know she was a good choice for the role.

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