6. Chapter 6 #2
I take back what I said. I’m not a pro at part-time job interviews; I was the opposite. A nervous wreck who was seconds away from sweating through her fancy blouse I’d brought from a thrift store.
The same reason I’d worn a tank top underneath, hoping it would do the job of collecting my boob and body sweat so it wouldn’t pass on to the flower-print pink blouse I’d tucked into my pantsuit.
My blazer did not look as flattering as it should, because it was old and a little too small.
Just barely containing the girls and restricting my ability to breathe.
I don’t usually button it up for this reason, but this building is too fancy not to.
It wasn’t custom-designed to my body type, like others the women in this lift were wearing.
And in no way was it big-chest-friendly.
I just hope a button doesn’t pop loose and accidentally take someone’s eye out.
I feel sick and uncomfortable, god. I can’t wait for this to be over and get back into comfortable clothing.
By the time I reached the fortieth floor, I was all alone in the lift, which you’d think would ease my nerves about being surrounded by too many people, trying not to have a nervous breakdown, but it just made it worse.
When the lift dinged and the doors opened, I did my best to walk as normally as possible in my only pair of black heels, which I’m not so great at walking in, but I count it as a win that I only stacked a little before reaching the reception desk.
“Hi, I’m here to see Nigel? Nigel Miller.
I have an interview with him at eleven?” I kindly recite to the young girl sitting at the reception desk, thanking Buddha that my voice didn’t sound as nervous as I feel, but I don’t know for sure because I can’t read her expression.
She stays silent at first, typing on her computer, then looks up at me with a smile.
“Ah, yes, Miss Jackson?” I politely nod. “He’s ready for you. Please make your way down the hall; his office is the second door on the right,” she explains, gesturing towards the hallway.
I offer her a smile and thank her, then quickly make my way down the long hallway when I forget what she said, at first. Double-checking I have the right door three times because, for some stupid reason, there are no name plates on any of these doors, and knock.
Praying, I got the right room.
“Come in,” he calls. I take a deep breath and open the door. Inside was a modern office, with ceiling-to-floor glass windows overlooking the city of London.
Followed by a bookcase reaching from one end of the wall to the other and a modern desk with the much-needed essentials: a computer and a laptop, which the person inside was currently using to speed-type something as he glances up at me, gesturing with his hand for me to take a seat and resume typing.
I quietly close the door and take my seat, setting my tote bag on the floor and find myself silently thanking Nigel for giving me a few minutes to adjust to my environment, intentional or not.
Nigel Miller, much like his boss, was a force to be reckoned with here at K anything that was connected to my passions, I could talk about easily with no nerves in sight.
Nigel nods in response and continues to read through my CV resting on his desk.
“Graduated with first-class honours, tons of volunteer work and-” he pauses, and I know exactly why. “It says here you’ve had several jobs after graduating; why is that?” he asks, placing the piece of paper down and facing me.
And the nerves are back.
“W-well, I have an end goal I’m saving up for, but haven’t found a long-term job that pays well enough and due to family obligations here and there, part-time work is all I’m able to manage right now,” I decide to answer honestly.
Nigel gives no verbal kind of response, just a small ‘Hmph.’ Which I’m hoping was a ‘I appreciate your honesty, hmph’ and not a ‘Get a stable job, loser, hmph.’
“And it says here you have previous experience working with children. Do you have a reliable reference?” he raises his eyebrows; finally, a question I had an easy answer to.
“Yes, I do.” I nod politely, rummaging through my bag and pulling out one of Tracy’s handmade, yet neatly crafted business cards.
Nigel kindly accepts it, taking a minute to skim over it before putting it on top of my CV and turning his attention back onto me.
“Okay, well, now that we’ve got the basics out of the way, I’m going to give you some fake scenarios and want you to respond with how you would react then and there, in that moment. Sound good?” he suggests, entangling his fingers, sitting back in his desk chair.
“Yup, sounds good,” I nod with a smile, though I scold myself for not saying ‘yes’ instead of ‘yup’ like I was about to split the bill with a friend.
“Okay. Let’s begin, let’s say as a hypothetical that-” Nigel starts but gets interrupted by the sound of a door that I hadn’t realised was on the left side of the wall suddenly opening.
At first, I keep my eyes on Nigel, his shoulders now stiff, panic in his eyes, looking as if he hopes the door will just close again, but instead, a little boy steps into the room.
Oh my god!
He has to be the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen, no older than five?
Maybe six? With chestnut brown hair in the form of curly locks, think baby Harry Styles but with much curlier hair, slightly greener eyes and the cutest button nose.
Was he the one I’d be babysitting? After seeing him, I definitely want the job now, just so I can pinch his cute, chubby cheeks all day.
He stood there in the doorway, dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a Super Mario Bros shirt and a red zip hoodie, still holding onto the doorknob with one hand and a Nintendo Switch repeatedly playing the Mario Kart intro sound on loop in the other.
His obvious obsession with the Nintendo character somehow made him cuter. I stared at him for a few more seconds when I remembered where I was and turned back towards Nigel, who still had his attention on the little boy.
Judging by the deep frown he was making, something tells me I wasn’t supposed to know the boy was here, and the little boy wasn’t supposed to be in here either.
“Theo, don’t you remember what Oliver said? You have to stay in there until he gets back and not come in unless it’s an emergency. Is it an emergency?” Nigel reminds him, raising his nose at the little boy.
“Yes. But it is an emergency.” The little boy, whom I now know is called Theo, says sweetly.
Ugh, could this little guy get any cuter??
“Fine, what is it?” Nigel sighs, closing his eyes to take a deep breath. Judging by his tone and body language alone, I could tell he wasn’t very fond of children; however, little Theo here seemed to be the exception.
“I’m bored. I want you to play with me.” Theo responds, seeing boredom as a serious emergency in his young mind. Had he been in there all alone playing games this whole time?
The poor baby.
What kind of arsehole brings a kid to work and shoves him with a console all day? Definitely sounds like Surly Bastard’s handy work to me. But his cheeky response shot with temporary amnesia, forgetting where I was, and I can’t hold back the snigger that slips out, turning into a light snort.