Breathe.
And again.
Get a grip, she told herself. You’re a grown woman, you can do this, you don’t need David’s approval, he’s not even here. You have to look after yourself from now on.
The man up on the ground floor would no doubt be as kind as the man at the boom gate, and she could ask him what the time was. If it was still way too early, Helen was sure she could wait in the foyer for a while, or even call up to Gemma and see what she suggested.
Now that she had a plan, Helen stepped out of the car and straightened the dress, feeling the fabric lift away from the wet patch on her back. She reached in to get the jacket from where it was hanging behind the front seat, slipped it on and then reached back in to pick up her handbag and the folder with her résumé. She locked the door of the car and started to walk carefully across the concrete floor towards the lift bay, just as she heard a ping and saw the lift doors glide open, coming to a stop with a clunk. A man stepped out. Without really thinking it through, Helen decided for some reason that it was imperative she catch that very lift, and so she began an awkward, hurried skitter across the carpark. The shoes seemed bigger today, probably because she was wearing stockings, so her foot lifted in and out of the sling-back, causing the heel of the shoe to make a sharp clacking sound against the polished concrete.
The man near the lift saw her approaching and he held back the door, raising his hand to signal there was no need to rush, just as Helen’s foot went over on its side and she lurched forward, watching the folder and her handbag fly out in front of her in slow motion.
Somehow, she didn’t fall. She was still upright, barely, her arms flailing about in front of her like she was a blind person in unfamiliar surroundings. The man was suddenly at her side, taking a firm grasp of her arm.
‘Are you okay?’ he was asking.
She couldn’t find her voice, it must have fallen on the floor along with her handbag and . . . oh no. Oh shit. Her bag had flung open and all its contents were lying scattered across the floor. A lone coin was rolling along on its edge, picking up speed as it headed for freedom. It hit a seam in the concrete and bounced once before falling flat on its side, all its tiny hopes dashed. Helen wanted to cry. She also wanted to move, but she couldn’t seem to manage it. She seemed to be stuck somehow.
‘Hey, hey, you’re trembling,’ the man was saying. His voice was soothing, and very close to her ear, and then she realised the rest of him was very close as well. He had one arm already around her waist, and he was closing his other arm across in front of her, holding her firmly. ‘It’s okay, just breathe,’ he said gently.
She did as he said; there didn’t seem to be much else she could do right now. He was taking deep, steady breaths, and she found herself matching his rhythm, slowly calming down, leaning into him, breathing in unison.
‘Feeling better?’ the voice said, still close to her ear.
Helen turned her head to look at him. She wasn’t trembling any more, but she felt a little giddy. He had a kind face, such a kind face. Was everyone here so kind? It would be nice to work here if they were.
‘Oh, what’s the time?’ she said suddenly.
‘Just after twelve-thirty,’ he said, releasing her, but still leaving one hand at her elbow. ‘Do you think you’re okay now?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
Helen looked down. ‘I seem to be stuck.’
The man was crouched on the floor before Helen could stop him.
‘Ah, here’s the problem,’ he announced. She felt his hands around her ankle, sending an unexpected shiver up her stockinged leg. ‘The heel of your shoe is caught in the grate.’
‘Oh no, is it ruined?’ she asked. ‘They’re not my shoes.’
‘Try to lift your left foot out of the shoe,’ he suggested. ‘It might hurt, lean on my shoulder for support.’
Helen winced as she released her foot from the shoe, and though she hadn’t planned to, she did lean one hand on his shoulder.
‘Well, the shoe seems okay,’ he said. ‘Give them a wipe-over and you’ll never know.’ He was still crouched at her feet. ‘Let me just check this ankle while I’m here.’
She felt his hands again, his fingers prodding gently but with an assured touch. ‘Are you a doctor or something?’ she asked.
‘Once upon a time I nearly was. Didn’t quite get there.’
‘Oh . . . Ow!’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘You’ve probably strained your peroneus tertius,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you should be walking on it if you can help it.’
‘Well, I can’t help it,’ Helen sighed. ‘I have an interview for a job.’
He jerked his head back to look at her. ‘You do?’
‘Yeah, what’s the time now?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty-five to one. You’ve got time,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better take the other shoe off, I wouldn’t try walking just yet in those heels.’
Helen slipped her foot out of the other shoe as he stood up. ‘Come and rest against the wall and catch your breath. I’ll get your things.’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘I’ve taken too much of your time already.’
He smiled at her, firmly taking her arm in his. ‘How about we see if you can manage to walk first before you go dismissing me so lightly.’
Helen smiled weakly back at him as they started off towards the lift bay. So much for her great leap towards independence – she couldn’t even make it across the carpark without needing assistance. She felt so hopeless. The pain was localised, but quite intense right at the spot where her ankle met her foot. She had no choice but to limp. She was going to look ridiculous walking into this interview.
‘How does it feel?’ he asked.
She winced. ‘It hurts, but I think I can put my weight on it. Just.’
‘You really should get some ice on it as soon as possible.’
‘Can’t –’
‘Interview,’ he nodded.
They made it to the wall near the lift and Helen leaned back against it while the man placed her shoes on the ground nearby.
‘Now while you’re standing there, very gently rotate your ankle, just to keep some movement in it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get your things.’
She went to protest again but he was already walking away, waving an arm to dismiss her protestations. She watched as he picked up her scattered belongings, trying to remember if there had been any loose tampons rattling around in her bag, or anything else potentially embarrassing. He walked back over towards her, handing her the folder and her bag.
‘You know what they say about women’s handbags,’ said Helen ruefully. ‘Now you know all my secrets.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to have to kill me?’
She smiled. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said sincerely. ‘You’ve gone way beyond the call of duty.’
‘That sounds like dismissal.’
‘I just don’t want to keep you from whatever it was you were on your way to doing.’
‘Well, I was only sneaking off for a cigarette,’ he said, taking a packet from his pocket and offering it to her. ‘Might calm your nerves.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Neither do I,’ he said, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.
She laughed. ‘Well, you’re doing a pretty good impression of it.’
‘I mean I have the odd cigarette, obviously,’ he admitted, exhaling away from her. ‘But I don’t smoke every day.’
‘But when you do, you stand in front of the airconditioning duct so your smoke gets recycled around the building.’
He looked at her sideways. ‘You think the air is drawn in from the basement carpark, exhaust fumes and all?’
She blinked at him.
‘I’m afraid this, in fact, is where the used air is expelled. I leave the comfort of my office for the sake of my co-work
ers to stand in a draughty, smelly garage, and have their second-hand carbon dioxide blown out at me. Please don’t give me a hard time while I’m at it.’
‘Sorry,’ said Helen, duly chastened. ‘So, you work here, for Bailey’s?’
He nodded. ‘I do.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s all right. Depends where you work, I guess. Like anything.’ He glanced down at her foot. ‘Keep it moving,’ he reminded her.
She gingerly rotated her ankle again. ‘I don’t know why I wore those stupid shoes in the first place.’
‘Why did you?’
‘Because I didn’t have anything that would go with this dress, which is not technically mine either.’
‘Are you wearing a stolen outfit?’
She smiled. ‘No, the dress was my mother’s. They tell me it’s “vintage”, but I feel a little silly, like I’m playing dress-ups in my mother’s cast-offs.’
‘Well, you don’t look silly at all,’ he said seriously, gazing at her. ‘You look, um . . . well, you look great, for an interview, you know.’
She felt herself blushing. ‘What’s the time, please?’
‘A few minutes after the last time you asked, which makes it almost twenty to.’
She shook her head. ‘I left too early. Though I guess it was just as well: I needed time to injure myself and still make it limping to the interview.’
He grinned. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being early for an interview. Better than being late. Shows you’re keen.’
‘Or nervous, inexperienced, clueless,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘Oh?’
‘I was talked into this. Along with the dress, and the shoes.’
‘You don’t want the job?’
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. I need the money, and the hours are ideal . . .’
‘I hear a “but” coming.’
She looked at him. ‘Never mind.’
‘What? What is it?’
‘You work here; I’d rather not say.’
‘Oh, come on, get it off your chest,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better in the interview.’ He leaned his hand on the wall beside her head, smiling down at her.
Helen wasn’t in the habit of sharing secrets with people she knew, let alone complete strangers. But there was something about his face . . . He would have made a good doctor, at least on appearances. He wasn’t strikingly handsome, but he was certainly agreeable enough. People were wary of doctors who were too good-looking: men mistrusted them, and women felt self-conscious around them. It was all very well to have pin-up Dr McDreamys on your TV shows, but not in real life. His face was just right; you would feel comfortable telling him the most intimate details, you could trust him with your kidney stones or your broken limb or your undiagnosed pain, and he would make it all better.
She suddenly realised he was waving his hand in front of her.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t know your name, and you drifted away for a second then.’
She blushed again. ‘Sorry, it’s Helen.’
‘Well, Helen, you were saying . . .’
She smiled. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘Aah, the girl can’t be fooled that easily,’ he said. ‘Seriously, if you have any doubts about working here, maybe I can clear some of them up for you.’
She considered him, that face. She only had Gemma’s take on the MD – it might be good to get another opinion before she fronted him in an interview. It couldn’t hurt . . .
‘Okay,’ said Helen. ‘But this is off the record, all right?’
‘It doesn’t leave this garage,’ he said, holding a hand to his heart.
She took a breath. ‘What do you think of the MD? That’s who I’ll be working for,’ she explained. ‘I’m going to start job-sharing with Gemma, his assistant. Do you know her?’
He nodded. ‘A little.’
‘She rents a room in my house, and she’s a little nutty, but she grows on you. Anyway, she was always complaining about him, said he was a pig to work for, but of course now that she wants me to share her job, suddenly she talks as though he’s a great guy. I don’t know what to believe.’
‘Maybe you should split the difference?’ he suggested. ‘The reality is most likely somewhere in between.’
She nodded, thinking. ‘You’re probably right . . .’
‘So is that all that was bothering you about working here?’
Helen glanced up at him. ‘To be honest, you might take offence if I told you what else.’
‘Nah, I’m pretty thick-skinned,’ he assured her. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, the thing is . . .’ She screwed up her face. ‘I don’t exactly approve of advertising. I don’t like it, I try to avoid it as much as I can. I think it’s intrusive, and misleading, and a symbol of everything that’s wrong with our society.’
‘Oh.’
‘See, I knew you’d be offended.’
‘I’m not offended,’ he told her. ‘I’m not at the coalface, I don’t design or write or make the ads.’
‘What do you do?’ she frowned, realising she hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t said.
‘Oh, admin mostly, general office . . . stuff,’ he dismissed. ‘That’s more or less what you’d be doing too, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have anything to do with making the ads or putting them out there.’
‘That’s what Gemma said. But isn’t it wrong for me to work in an industry I feel morally opposed to? Kind of like a right-to-lifer working in an abortion clinic.’
He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you think that’s drawing a bit of a long bow?’
‘You’re right, I’m sorry. That was extreme. It’s not the same thing at all.’
‘If you’re so against advertising, maybe you can have a little influence, working for the MD?’
Helen shook her head. ‘I doubt it. The way Gemma tells it, he barely notices her: she just files and answers his mail.’
‘Then in that case your morals are unlikely to be compromised.’
She leaned her head back against the wall, smiling at him. ‘You’re right. I’m making a fuss about nothing.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying your morals are nothing to fuss about. If Bailey’s was dealing in weapons, or drugs, you’d be right to be morally outraged. But maybe you should take advertising for what it is.’
‘But there is evidence that advertising can be harmful. They’re saying that junk food advertising is at least partly responsible for the obesity epidemic, especially when it’s aimed at kids. And the credit blow-out is all because people keep wanting more and more of what is thrust in their faces every day through advertising.’
‘Advertising doesn’t make people fat, or broke, or greedy, Helen,’ he returned. ‘Aren’t you getting a little sick of this culture of blame we hide behind these days? Don’t you think people need to take responsibility for their own choices, and stop passing the buck? Or in this case, stop shooting the messenger?’
Helen had to admit he had a point. Maybe it was not entirely convincing, but then again, perhaps it was enough for her to at least consider working here.
‘Or maybe I should get off your case and let you make up your own mind?’ he said, watching her.
She turned to look at him directly. ‘No, not at all, you’ve actually given me some food for thought.’
‘Then my work here is done.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And you should probably start making your way up.’ Before she realised what he was doing, he’d crouched down in front of her and she could feel his hands on her feet again, and the accompanying tingle.
‘It’s okay, you don’t have to . . .’
But he was already gently slipping the shoe onto her injured foot. ‘It’s swollen up a little,’ he said.
‘Oh well, maybe the shoe will fit better,’ she said wryly, taking the weight onto that foot as he went to help her with the other shoe. It was a little painful, and she had
to lean on him again for support. When he stood up straight again he was right in front of her, their faces close.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘My pleasure,’ he replied, stepping back. ‘Come on, I’m assuming you have to sign in at the ground floor?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll be right from here, you’ve done enough.’
‘I’m going up anyway. Let me at least help you into the lift.’ He held his arm out to her, and she took it gladly for the few steps into the elevator. He pressed G, the doors closed and the lift began its ascent.
‘Good luck,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ said Helen. ‘I might see you around, if I get the job.’
‘More than likely.’
The lift had come to a stop again and the doors were opening. Helen stepped forward gingerly.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’ he said.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said bravely. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You know, Helen, whatever happens . . .’ He hesitated, he seemed to be searching for words. ‘It’ll be okay.’
Helen nodded faintly. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But the doors were closing again, and then he was gone. She turned and limped across the floor. Her ankle was beginning to throb. This was a disaster. She was going to look like an idiot hobbling into the interview.
At the reception desk she gave her name to another jovial security man, and he issued her with a visitor pass to wear on a lanyard around her neck. He walked with her back to the lifts to show her how the card worked.
She stepped into the waiting lift, and the man slipped a card in and out of a slot on the panel just below the buttons. ‘That’s all there is to it, then you can access nearly all the floors.’ He pressed number fifteen. ‘I’ll call up to Ms Atkinson and let her know you’re on your way.’
‘Thank you.’
When the lift doors opened on the fifteenth floor, Gemma was there waiting for her. Helen walked out, trying not to limp too obviously, but Gemma frowned at her.
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