SLAVEDRIVER

Chapter 2

TRICE

I woke up early to get ready. By 8AM I had showered and by 9AM my coils were straighten and I’d applied light make-up that looked both natural and professional. Eyeliner, mascara, BB cream, and a nude lip did wonders for me. I thought my hair would have been the bane of my preparations but no, it was what I would wear.

My bed was littered with clothes, from dresses to pants and skirts. I honestly couldn’t make my mind up. Maybe I’d had one too many margaritas last night which is why my thinking was a little fuzzy. I’d added cotton candy and orange liqueur along with crème soda to the tequilla and my taste buds went nuts. I had a dull throb going at the back of my head but nothing I couldn’t get through.

I needed help. I needed a second opinion. And despite not wanting to impose on Lauren who was doing me a huge favour by putting me on the shortlist of today’s interviews, I sent her a text with 3 of the best fits I’d tried on – a white wrap dress, a black pant suit, and a navy blue skirt suit. I knew she wouldn’t lie to me if I looked shabby.

LAUREN: Skirt suit.

ME: Why?

LAUREN: Europeans wear blue suits for business. Black is for formal occasions. Lessons from Fashion Week.

That settled it. The navy blue suit it was.

I had done some research on Cerberus. The company was founded in Italy and had been around since the 18th century. They specialised in private wealth. Other than a generic homepage talking about the various services on offer and locations around the world, there wasn’t much information on there unless you counted than the 'Contact Us' and 'About Us' pages.

I had trawled the internet trying to find out about their owners and nothing.

This CEO was elusive.

I did see a few philanthropic causes the company was tied to, but not much else not even from Forbes. I still couldn’t get over the fact that their website didn’t have a career portal yet I was going to an interview I heard about through a friend.

Welcome to the real world where it isn’t about what you know but who.

I was taking Lauren’s word as bond because they were European and I was going in blind.

I ordered an Uber which would arrive in 5 minutes time. I gave myself a quick once over. I had paired the blue suit with a nude top, nude shoes, and a nude bag. I thought black might be too harsh and the nude accentuated the honey brown tone of my skin. Looking good and feeling confident, I made my way downstairs. It was now 9:20AM and the address was 20 minutes out. I would make it on time.

When we pulled up to the address, I was impressed. The architectural style of the building was neo-classical. The façade boasted Corinthian colonnades that I estimated to be about 60 feet. The upper building was done in Moderne fashion. The black windows were a stunning contrast to the off-white paint of the exterior. The building screamed money is an understated manner.

Stepping into the lobby, my eyes feasted on the high ceilings and explosion of art all around. There were murals, paintings and sculptures strategically placed. No expense was spared in bringing this architectural marvel to life. I had my neck cranked back from the minute I stepped out of the car and slowly made my way to the front desk in wonder.

“Sorry, may I help you?” a femine voice asked bringing me back to the here and now.

“Ah, yes. I’m here to interview with Mr Rex Marcello.”

“You’re here for an interview?” the receptionist asked looking sceptical.

“Yes.”

I squared my shoulders back and stood straighter.

“Name?”

“Patricia Paulson.”

Clickety clack, her fingers flew across the keyboard. She looked at me, looked at the screen, then reached into one of her drawers to hand me a pass.

“20th floor. You’ll find the other candidates waiting at reception.”

I thanked her and made my way to the elevator bank. I turned back and saw that she was staring back at me. We both looked away caught in the act. That was weird.

When I got to the 20th floor, I could hear a quiet murmur in the adjacent room. There was a reception desk opposite the elevator and next to it stood glass doors that led to an expansive sitting area filled with women. Tall women, beautiful women, slim women, pale women, all dressed in pastel-coloured dresses and skirts. And here I was wearing a dark suit, rocking these curves and brown skin. No wonder the receptionist downstairs thought I was lost.

This looked like a model casting more than an interview.

I took the last free seat and waited my turn running through various scenarios, the possible questions that would be posed, and my well thought out answers that would highlight my strengths. I needed this job and just being in here felt right. I would love to know who designed this place. I had a feeling that the networks this company could open up to me would have me back in architectural design and not playing fetch for some megalomaniac exec.

“Patricia Paulson? Patricia Paulson?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

I stood up and approached the lady with the clip board that had been co-ordinating women in and out of the dark, wooden double doors for the past hour.

“You’re Patricia Paulson?” she asked looking between myself and the list with a raised brow.

“Yes… is something wrong?”

“No no. It’s just… you’re… right this way ma’am.”

What was going on here?

I clearly didn’t have the right “look” but Lauren never specified that one needed to look like a model. Then again that was illegal. Abercrombie and Fitch got into hot water for trying that yet they still managed to get away with the practice, somewhat.

“Good luck!” she whispered with a small, encouraging smile as she opened the door and let me in.

“Thank you!” I smiled back.

I walked into a room with muted lighting that was twice the size of my apartment. There was a large oak desk with two white chairs in front of it as the focal point, a board room table with seating for 30 to the left, and a lounge area to the right against a backdrop of floor to ceiling windows that gave an unobstructed view of the city. Why would one man need so much space?

I walked way too many steps to the desk and took a seat in front of the man who hadn’t looked up from the papers he was furiously working over on his desk. I waited patiently as I observed him. Dark hair, thick dark brows, a straight edged nose, and much paler skin than I expected for an Italian. But we were in the city and he was handsome all the same – well from what I could see given the angle.

“Patricia Paulson,” he stated as he gathered his papers in a pile before moving them aside and focusing on a couple of pages that I assumed was my resume.

“Yes!” I said a little to enthusiastically with a wide smile on my face.

He looked up and although he was more subtle that the reception I had received twice before, I saw the double take in his eyes as they flitted between myself and the pages in front of him.

He looked at the first page then looked at me.

He flipped the page, read, then looked at me again. Got to the last page and after a quick perusal, set the papers down before giving me his full attention. He had striking brown eyes, the shade of whiskey.

“You have an MSc in Architecture and you’re interviewing to be a personal assistant. Why is that?”

“The job market is not open to hiring architects this season and I’m in need of a job that can give me experience. Unlike an MA where the focus would have been solely on design, I chose to focus more on technology and research.”

“I see that.”

He regarded me coolly never breaking eye contact and I held his stare not wanting to come across as meek. I only had one shot and I refused to mess it up with my low self-esteem. I did well in school and I would do well here if they’d just gave me a chance.

“And where did you learn that we were hiring?”

I didn’t expect that question, hadn’t even prepared for it.

“Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter or are you simply hard of hearing?”

Damn Rex Marcello was rude, but was I going to tell him the truth? I could be honest and tell him that my friend hooked me up because she has connections. Or was I going to lie lie lie my way out of this one?