Chapter 1
This cannot be happening. It simply cannot. I mean, how is it even possible for a person to travel three thousand miles and end up right back where they started? But it must be possible, because that’s precisely what I’ve done.
Not that I actually think I’m still in Mum’s cozy kitchen back home in Pontypridd. I know I can be a little delusional sometimes, but the one thing I’m keenly aware of is that I’m sitting on a sofa in Manhattan and it’s been three hours since I was escorted out a side door at Bardus Investments, feeling like some sort of criminal in high heels and a pencil skirt. I flip open a section of The New York Times and try to distract myself with anything besides the fact that I’ve just been made redundant. Or laid off, as they say here in America.
I’m staring at the paper so hard my eyes are starting to water and I finally realize the page is open to an article about college football. Oh bloody hell. There, that’s better. Arts. I pretend to read about the opening of some extravagant new play but I’m actually still picturing the slightly moonish, faintly sweaty face of my boss, Peter Peterson. It’s an unfortunate name, I know. But right now the lunacy of his parents is the last thing on my mind.
What I’m really thinking about is how completely and utterly steamrolled I’d been in the meeting this morning. I’d just sat there staring while Mr. Peterson banged on about “corporate restructuring” and the need to “adjust fiscal strategies for the long term.” The entire time, I’d been getting little prickles up the back of my neck. That’s because the eerily efficient Personnel Lady had been perched silently behind me. I’m sure she can’t help her grim expression but to be honest she’s a bit . . . well, terrifying. Like a ghoul that happens to own a lovely Burberry jacket. I could hear her making skittery little notes in my file while Mr. Peterson droned on.
But why didn’t you tell me things were chancy before I packed up my life in Pontypridd and moved an entire bloody continent away to take this job? I’d wanted to shout. Instead, I’d listened numbly until Mr. Peterson had got to the end of his speech and Personnel Lady had magically produced my purse and coat and escorted me discreetly out a side door.
Now I’m staring at a review of Guys and Dolls and wondering how it is that, once again, I’ve ended up paddling around in the murky end of the pool and have no idea how to get out.
Suddenly, a key turns in the lock and my roommate Isabella breezes in. She drops a pile of medical texts on a chair and throws her brand new Paul Smith jacket on top of them. As usual, she looks positively stunning.
Copyright © 2010 by S.D. Livingston. All rights reserved.
