6. The Interview
6
The Interview
Bridget
O h wow. When Omar’s eyes find me, I forget to breathe for a second. He looks a bit like Haaz Sleiman. Okay. Put the brakes on and send your hormones on a hike, because what he looks like is neither here nor there.
I drop my gaze back to the CV just as a loud male voice echoes through the coffee shop.
“AWOL!” Omar flinches as a man in his early forties slaps him on the back. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m—”
“Hi, I’m Bri,” I hold out my hand to the stranger.
“Russell. I’m AWOL’s friend.” He gives me a friendly smile.
“AWOL?” How many names does this man have?
“Yes, it’s a nickname,” Omar says through clenched teeth.
“But your name is Walter Omar Brown. Shouldn’t it be WOB?” Russell lets out a deep belly laugh and slaps Omar, who looks like he’d like to murder his friend, on the shoulder again.
“I like her,” Russell gives me his seal of approval. “We call him AWOL because when we were younger he had a habit of slipping out of the ladies’ bedrooms in the middle of the night.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m pretty sure Omar didn’t expect his interview to go like this.
“But I don’t think he does that anymore and he would be silly to do it to you,” Russel grins at me.
“Russ—”
“Thank you, I guess,” I interrupt Omar, “but we’re not on a date. This is an interview. A job interview,” I clarify. That wipes the smirk of Russell’s face.
“Oh... shit. I’m sorry, AWOL… Omar… mate, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you. Oh, and he’s a very responsible guy.” He gives me an embarrassed wave.
“Except when it comes to the ladies?” I can’t stop myself from smirking at both of them. Russell gives me one last awkward grin before heading to the counter to pick up two coffees to go.
“I apologise for my friend,” Omar mumbles. God, does he always talk like he’s the Prime Minister’s butler?
“Don’t worry, AWOL.” I just can’t help myself. His sheepish look is just too cute. Purely in an eye-candy kind of way, of course. Thinking about it, I should keep my distance because with those dimples, dark eyes and general yumminess he might scare away potential holiday flings if they think I am with him. Not even this thirst trap of a man can keep me away from my mission of getting some dick aka Operation Mount the Italian Stallion
“So, tell me about yourself?” Omar seems to relax a little when I make it clear that this whole interlude with his friend hasn’t ruled him out of the job. He rattles off his credentials just as listed on his CV and then looks at me expectantly.
“Thanks for repeating your CV.” I can’t help but giggle. “But if you come with me on that road trip, we’ll be spending a lot of time together. It would be good to know what kind of person you are.”
“I am professional, hardworking, discreet—”
“Do you drive well?”
“I... I follow road traffic rules and I don’t have any points on my license.”
“No, are you a stop and speed driver?” He stares at me unsure what to say. “You know, someone who drives and breaks, drives and breaks.” My words don’t seem to have cleared anything up, going by the look on his face.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
I blow out in frustration. “Well, there are the drivers that look ahead for obstacles and slowly reduce speed as they approach and then there are those that keep the speed and then break quite hard and abruptly.” I mime the motion.
“Oh, I'm definitely not a… stop and speed driver,” he grins. Flippin’ heck, his whole face transforms when he doesn’t frown. It makes his eyes sparkle. Maybe my mission should be to make him smile more?
“Oh good. It makes me feel queasy and we don’t want me to vomit all the way to Italy,” I giggle. When I see the horrified look on his face I quickly add, “But don’t worry, I don’t tend to get travel sick.” He just nods. “What music do you like?”
“What music do I like?” he asks. I’m not sure why he’s baffled by every question I ask him.
“Yes. Music. I want to make sure we’re compatible.”
“It’s not really a concern what music I like. I will listen to anything you want.” He gives me another look making it clear he thinks I’m a bit nuts.
“You might regret saying that,” I laugh. I’m taking his words as a challenge to see if I can find music that will get him to drop his weird subservient demeaner.
“Do you like cats?” This is a key question.
“Is a cat coming on the trip with us?” He eyes me suspiciously.
“No. It will just tell me a lot about your character.” Aka if you’re one of these militant dog people who think that all cats are evil, I don’t want you in my car.
“I don’t have a cat.” We are eying each other like two Cowboys at a high noon duel.
“That’s not answering my question.”
“I don’t have strong feelings about them either way,” Omar replies diplomatically. So not a cat person but not a cat hater either. I guess I can live with that.
“Okay. Well—” I’ve run out of questions to ask. I already knew that he’s probably not a psycho killer, so I should just offer him the job.
“Can I ask you a question?” He fiddles with his coffee cup.
“Sure.”
“Why do you want to take a road trip in winter to Italy? Most people go there for the sunshine and a trip to the beach.”
“I don’t like heat. I sweat like a snowman in a sauna.” That makes Omar laugh out loud. Yes, laughing definitely suits him better than his serious demeanour. “No, but seriously. I’m not much of a beach person. I want to soak up the culture, visit museums. Who wants to do that in thirty degree heat? And at the end of the trip, we’ll drive through some places that are supposed to have lovely Christmas markets. That’s way more up my alley,” I shrug.
“Which kind of brings me to the next question.... what’s the plan? Ben just said one month road trip through Italy.” He takes a sip from his coffee.
“Right, so this is what I’m thinking...” I pull out my folder and show him my rough plan:
31 Oct: Little Hadlow to France
01 Nov: France to Milan
Milan
Pisa
Florence
Grosseto
Rome
Perugia
San Marino
Verona
Padua
Salzburg
Return to UK on 30 Nov
“We should stop somewhere in France on the way to Milan, but I’m not sure where and I didn’t allocate days to any place because I want the flexibility to decide how long we stay in each place. But I need to be back in the UK on the first of December. My son is getting married.”
Christopher called me yesterday with the news that he’d married his Japanese girlfriend. They eloped with just their best friends as witnesses. And now they are planning small celebrations in the UK and Japan for their family and friends in each country. Sadly, the only time they could get off to come all the way to the UK was at the beginning of December so that has kind of put a firm return date onto my trip.
“I’ve a cousin in Vendeuvre-sur-Barse. I know the village quite well and that would be a good stop-over point.” Omar types something on his phone and then turns it around to show me the location on a map.
“That sounds great! Have you been to any of these other places before?” Amelia mentioned that Omar travelled when he was younger.
“Yes, I worked in Italy for a year or so. Rome, Florence, and I worked in Rimini, which is not far from San Marino. I also worked in ski resorts in Tyrol in Austria for a while. So I speak fairly decent Italian and German and I’m fluent in French and Arabic.”
If we were in a cartoon my jaw would drop.
“You speak four languages?”
“Well, five,” he laughs, “if you count English. My mum is originally from Lebanon so I lived there for a few years. That’s where I picked up my Arabic and French. And then, as I said, I worked in Italy and Austria. I’ve an ear for languages and always found it easy,” he shrugs like it’s not a big deal.
As a person who, in typical English fashion, reverts to shouting when abroad, in the assumption that makes it easier for people to understand me, I’m mighty impressed. Could he be any more perfect for this job?
“Okay, last question, and this is the clincher,” I wink at him, “are you planning to wear that for the whole trip.” He looks down at his perfect dark suite and purple tie.
“This? That’s my uniform,” he replies with affront in his voice like I asked him to strip here and now.
“I know but I’d feel like I’m the star in Driving Miss Daisy. And I’m not that old,” I giggle.
He locks eyes with me and I forget to breathe for a second. Jeez, maybe I shouldn’t hire him. I might run the risk of suffocating.
“What would you like me to wear?” It’s a simple question but somehow it feels loaded. All sorts of images pop into my head. Images that have absolutely no business to be in my head. Like him in tight black boxer briefs. Holy cannoli woman, get a grip. I’m randier than a teenage boy seeing a Playboy magazine for the first time. Do they still print them? Argh, focus.
“Something more casual,” I say and take a sip from my water. My throat is dry, must be the warm air in here.
“You’re the boss.” He smirks at me and I’m wondering if my horniness is written all over my face. To distract myself, I hand him another piece of paper with all the terms. Day rate, per diems, anything else I’m paying for. He scans over it and just nods.
“Great. So do you want to think about the offer? As far as I’m concerned, the job’s yours if you want it.” I’m going to Italy, I’m going to Italy.
“No, this all sounds good to me.” He pulls a pen from his inside jacket pocket and signs underneath my signature on the sheet of paper with the terms before pushing it back to me.
“Okay, great. I’ll email you a copy. Wait until you meet the Beast.”
“The Beast?” Omar looks puzzled again.
“The Mercedes I bought for the trip. It’s a GLA or something but it has a lot of boot space.” I was delighted when I got a good deal at the local dealer.
“You bought a car?”
“Yes?”
“Alone?”
“Yes?”
“You bought a car with nobody advising you?”
“Why? You think I need a strapping lad to make sure me little woman buys a decent car?”
“No. I think you need someone who understands cars, who can check it’s in a good condition. What’s the milage?” Oh, he looks grumpy again.
“I don’t know. It’s German,” I blurt out. I mean, everyone knows they make the best cars, right?
“So?”
“German cars are reliable, everyone knows that.” For a brief second there is an amused smirk on his face then he’s serious again.
“I suggest I pick up the car this week and give it a once over. And you should get a mechanic to look at it.”
“The car salesperson said the Beast is in good shape,” I protest again, but even I know that's not really a strong argument. The car dealer is hardly going to tell me that the car is shit, is he now?
“I’m sure he did.” Omar shakes his head and pulls the piece of paper he signed earlier back to his side of the table. For a second, I’m wondering if he’s withdrawing from the job but then he jots down his phone number on the top of the document.
“Text me when it’s a good day for you and I’ll come to your house and get the car.” At some point during the conversation he dropped his subservient demeanour and now he’s a right-bossy-boots. And I like it. No, I don’t like it, my vajayjay likes it.
“Yes, Sir,” I mock salute him and he squints at me again like he’s wondering what he's gotten himself into, but then lets it go. We agree that I’ll email him the agenda I have so far so he can research the route, and then we say goodbye for the day.
When I get back home Bella is already pacing like a caged tiger, desperate for her dinner and some belly rubs. I get this little pain in my stomach when I look at her. One month without my snugglebug will be tough… but it’s just a month.
As Bella’s loud smacking noises fill the silence I lean against the counter.
“I’m going on a road trip through Italy,” I whisper each word slowly just to allow myself to actually believe it. Thank you, Ruth!