Chapter 2: Reeling
946 Words
Charlotte Hayes was twenty-four years old. She worked as a Recruitment Specialist at Tinsley Fashions. The company was British-owned, London-based, and currently trying to poach a chief designer from Milan. Which meant Charlotte was spending her afternoon at The Hive, a business club tucked behind Canary Wharf.
The building was all sharp angles and dark glass—a mini-Shard, someone had once joked. Inside, it was warm leather, soft lighting, and the kind of quiet that made you feel important just for sitting there. Most of the local firms had claimed it as their second office. Interviews, contract negotiations, team catch-ups—all happened here now.
Charlotte's candidate was a tall, serious man in a bespoke suit. She liked him already.
“Five words,” she said. “Black. Whatever comes to mind.”
He smiled. “Calm. Tension. Brightness.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it—office number—and hit silence.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“I was saying—black also makes me think of obsidian. And those deep, heavy colours in Turner's paintings.”
Charlotte nodded, making a note. Turner. Good answer.
Her phone buzzed again. Then again. She looked down—three missed calls, all from Alan. And a text message that made her stomach drop.
Call me now. Urgent.
She forced her smile to stay in place. “I'm sorry—I need to take this. Excuse me for one moment.”
She stepped outside, pressed Alan's number, and waited.
“Alan? What's going on?”
“The whole thing's off.”
“What?”
“All recruitment. Terminated. Effective immediately.”
Charlotte's mouth went dry. “Even the ones we've already confirmed?”
“Especially them.” Alan's voice was flat, hurried. “Charlotte, listen—the company's moving. Dublin. Full relocation.”
“Dublin?”
“You need to come back. Now.”
“But I'm in the middle of an interview—”
“I don't care. Come back.”
The line went dead.
Charlotte stood there, phone pressed to her ear, the dial tone buzzing in her skull. Five minutes passed. Maybe six. She'd lost track. Her mind was a blank wall—no thoughts, no plans, just Alan's voice looping: Dublin. Dublin. Dublin.
She sucked in a breath so deep it hurt her ribs. Then she jogged back inside, heels clicking too fast.
“Sorry to keep you,” she said, sliding into her seat. “Let's continue.”
She didn't continue. She just stared at his file, scribbling nonsense, nodding at intervals, until he finally stood up to leave. She walked him to the corridor, dropped the smile the moment he turned, and shoved everything into her bag. Then she ran.
She didn't see the man coming. Didn't hear him. Just felt the impact—her shoulder against someone's chest—and stumbled back.
“Oops—sorry! Sorry—”
She didn't look up. Just threw the second sorry over her shoulder and kept running.
George steadied Oliver, who'd been knocked back a step. “What the hell? Off to join a picket line? No manners at all.”
Oliver straightened his jacket. “She's the Tinsley HR rep.”
“Tinsley?” George looked inside at the candidate still waiting. “I haven't heard anything. And you said fashion was safe.”
“I didn't say safe. I said slower.”
“Same thing, with you.”
Oliver didn't answer. He was watching Charlotte's retreating figure, phone pressed to her ear, hands shaking.
“She's twenty-four,” George said. “Maybe it's her boyfriend.”
“A Tinsley HR rep doesn't take a boyfriend's call during an interview.” George nodded at the table by the window—laptop, folders, a file box. “She was screening someone. And she walked out in the middle of it.”
“So?”
“So that's a red flag. You know who walks out of a screening interview?”
Oliver turned to him. “Who?”
“Someone whose company just told her to stop everything.”
They stood there, watching the empty doorway.
“The exodus is real,” Oliver said slowly. “And it's hit fashion.”
George let out a breath. “You think it's that bad?”
“I think it's worse.”
Back at the office, Charlotte was already dialling.
“Alan—what does this mean for us? For the staff? For me?”
“Everyone. You, me, the whole team. We're all out.”
“But—I just started a lease. I signed a contract. I can't—”
“You'll get severance.” Alan's voice softened—just a fraction. “And don't worry. I've made sure it's good.”
Charlotte hung up. Her head was buzzing. Alan's words came out of her mouth like a recording: Dublin. Termination. Everyone. All out. But none of it made sense.
She sat down. Or tried to. Her legs gave out.
A relocation. In the middle of a recruitment drive. She'd been in HR long enough to know the pattern—the freeze, the cancellation, the cuts. First recruitment, then operations, then everyone else. She'd read about it in industry reports. She'd heard it from peers. But she'd never imagined—never, not once—that it would be her company. Her job. Her life.
She stared at the wall.
I was just in an interview. I was just asking him about Turner.
She laughed—a short, hollow sound.
And then she stopped laughing.
She had a lease. She had a gym membership. She had a credit card bill. And now she had nothing.
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