Chapter 4
Four
My chest heaves and beads of perspiration pool under my arms as I jog up the service-vehicle path behind Buckingham Palace. On a normal day, I love to take my time and soak in the beauty of the grounds and where I am.
There are flowers of every shape, size, and color, a picturesque pond, and the most perfectly manicured green lawn bordered by towering trees. It’s easy to forget I’m in the middle of a large city. Working here over the last two years has been a dream.
I mean, it’s a royal palace, who wouldn’t be mesmerized? Yet you learn pretty quickly that it’s a lot like an amusement park. There is the grandeur of what the public sees, and there’s the reality of what it takes to keep everything running seamlessly behind the scenes.
I won’t go into too much detail, but let’s just say it took me roughly ten weeks of protocol and security training just to get past the orientation stage and be issued a badge to the grounds. I don’t even work inside the palace itself.
Soon, a large steel-and-glass building appears in front of me—the World of Curiosities Museum. While it resembles a Victorian glass greenhouse from the outside, inside, everything is sleek and ultra-modern.
It was constructed about five years ago on the site of a dilapidated greenhouse on the palace grounds and has become one of the most popular museums for families visiting London. We host rotating STEM exhibits that are submitted by individuals who live in Commonwealth countries.
The glass doors open with a whoosh as I race inside and turn right.
The gift shop is modeled after the workshop where visiting schools spend their time learning.
It’s a large open-concept space with wall-to-wall shelving.
We have books, games, gadgets, and items for tinkering around the house with.
There’s also a section with your typical London and palace souvenirs.
The Christmas ornament of Prince Edmund’s dog was the most popular item last season.
Who can resist the face of an English Springer Spaniel?
The shop is usually slow after lunch. There are a few families mulling over the London T-shirts and hoodies, and my co-worker Steve is entertaining himself with a Slinky at the register. I slowly release my breath. My boss isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Dashing into the back room, I place my bag down and smooth out my hair. Unsurprisingly, my fingers are met by a mass of tangles. Opening my bag, I dig around for my brush and a hair tie. The smell of coffee greets me.
“Oh no!” I cry.
My hands pulled out my precious sketchbook. The rim is stained brown and edges soggy. “No. No. No.”
I carefully open it and do my best to unpeel the pages. Some only have a few coffee stains around the edges, while others, including three of the five I’d hoped to submit for the internship, are completely ruined. My throat constricts.
Salvaging what I can, I lay out a few pages to dry along the back wall near the glass window. This will have to do for now. I don’t have time to deal with this. Mr. G, my boss, is going to be upon me any second.
Forgoing the brush, I run to the sink, use some water to slick back my dark brown hair, and shove it into a makeshift ballerina bun. One of the few skills I’ve haven’t lost is the ability to make my hair look presentable with few supplies.
Checking myself in the mirror one more time, I slip my lanyard over my neck and walk out the door.
“Minerva, you’re two hours late,” my boss says, standing with his arms crossed.
Mr. G’s real name is Mr. Gronendyke, but he’ll be the first to instruct anyone who meets him to call him Mr. G. He stands about five foot ten and can best be described as a fit, no-nonsense silver fox in his early fifties.
“I’m sorry, Mr. G. It won’t happen again.”
“My office. Now.” He nods curtly.
“Yes, sir.”
Memories of the night Artem asked me to come into his office haunt me.
I can still picture the greasy smile on his face and recall the scent of the cheap cologne he used to wear.
I gulp and bite back a few tears. We ascend the spiral staircase leading to the observation deck above the shop.
Mr. G unlocks the glass door and holds it open for me.
“Are you . . . crying?”
I stare at the ground and bob my head up and down. There is no hiding it as a few tears escape my cheeks. I use the back of my hand to wipe the corners of my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. G. It’s been a crappy morning.”
He hands me a box of tissues. We both sit down. “Er, I’m not very good with emotional things, but do you want to tell me what happened?” His voice softens. “Does this have something to do with why you were late today?”
I nod again. “I understand if you are going to have to let me go because of it.”
“Why would I do that?”
I yank a tissue out of the box and rub my eyes. These are not the cheap kind of tissues. They’re the ones that are soft and have lotion in them, so your skin won’t dry out.
“Because Theo and Brittany were both also let go for being late.”
Theo and Brittany were on the gift shop’s staff when I was first hired, but I never had the chance to work with either of them for very long.
“Those two were sacked because they were chronically late. I don’t have room on the staff for employees who can’t follow the basic rules of being an adult, like showing up on time. You, however, are always early. This is the first time I can recall you being late.”
I slowly raise my chin. “That’s because it is, sir.”
Like other members of the military, Mr. G has been trained to keep his facial features stoic and unreadable. “I consider myself a reasonable man. Arriving at work late happens to everyone once in a while. So what’s your reason?”
I blink in surprise a few times. I didn’t think he’d give me a chance to fill him in. Mr. G is the type of man who acts first and asks questions later.
“My wallet was stolen when I was passing through Horse Guards. I would’ve been here sooner, but palace security gave me a hard time about my badge being stolen. My biometric permit card wasn’t enough. I had to wait until I could find a guard who knew me.”
“Minerva, why didn’t you say anything, or have them ring me to come down to the guard shack?”
“My phone is broken.” My shoulders slump. “I don’t have anyone’s numbers memorized. In hindsight, having you come and sort things out would’ve been the smart thing to do, but I was panicking.”
He stands and glances out the window overlooking the gardens. “If you had to be late, that’s one heck of a reason to be late. I assume you’ve filed a report with the Met police?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“They’ll call me if there are any updates.”
He sighs. “Let’s take a trip down to security and see about getting you a new badge.” Mr. G’s eyes flash with a determined glint. He means business.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly. “Just don’t let it get around I’m going soft.”
A ghost of a smile appears on my lips. “I won’t.”
Thankfully, the first two hours of my shift pass uneventfully.
Around two thirty, however, Mr. G stalks down to the cash wrap with the shop’s phone in his hand. “It’s for you,” he says.
My cheeks burn. Who would dare be calling at work? My eyes stare at the device in his hands. “Um . . .”
“Shall I tell the woman you’re not available?”
“Don’t tell me Min is not available because I just heard her voice. Just for the record, the phone isn’t muted. I can hear every word you two are saying loud and clear.”
“Ugh, Liz.” I face-palm. “It’s my best friend, sir. I’d better take the call.”
Mr. G frowns, sticks his hand over the mouthpiece, and mutters, “She sounds bossy.”
“She can be like a raging dragon, but it’s because she cares. She’s probably calling to remind me about the deadline at three today.”
“Deadline?”
I rub the back of my neck. “It was for an internship, but I don’t think I’m going to bother applying.”
“And why not?” He shoots me a sharp look.
“The sketches I was going to submit for it were ruined when I spilled coffee on them. This internship is for one of the most highly regarded companies in the UK. I don’t want to submit anything that’s shoddy.”
“Are those the papers I saw spread out over the table in the break room?”
I nod.
“Min, what’s taking you so long?” I hear Liz shout. “I know you can hear me. Stop second-guessing yourself. This is your voice of reason.”
Mr. G strokes his chin. “And what company was this for?”
“The Clarissa Lee Atelier.”
“I see.” He glances at me, then back to the phone as if he’s considering something important. There’s an off chance he’s heard of Clarissa Lee, but I doubt it. Mr. G isn’t exactly fashion forward. His wardrobe never strays from his uniform of an olive-green or black jumper and black trousers.
“Minerva . . .” Liz’s voice is growing frantic.
“What you do is up to you, but your friend is right. Don’t second-guess yourself. Those drawings are brimming with talent.” He places the phone in my hand. “I’ll watch the till until Steve returns from lunch. Go speak to your friend.”
I feel like a fish gasping for air above water as Mr. G gently pushes me toward the break room. Just when I didn’t think he could surprise me again, he compliments me. I never thought I’d see so many different sides of him in one day.
“Hi, Liz,” I say, holding the phone about a foot from my ear.
“Don’t ‘hi’ me, Minerva Hana! Do you know what time it is?”
“Two forty-five?”
“Yes!” She sounds exasperated. “Have you done it yet?”
“No.”
“Then hurry up and crack on with it. You don’t have much time left!”
“I’m not doing it.” My eyes flutter. “There was an accident this morning with my sketchbook. I refuse to send in work that looks as if I threw stuff together at the last minute. I have a reputation to maintain, even if they don’t know who I am.
You only get one shot at a first impression.
” I fill my voice with false cheer. “They’ll open internships again in six months. I’ll apply then.”