Lifted Between Floors

1. Georgie

CHAPTER ONE

GEORGIE

There is really something to be said about a woman in a well-tailored suit.

At least that’s what my mom has always told me. When I was younger, she’d put chunky, seven-year-old me up on the counter in her seamstress shop, and she’d let me watch as she measured once, twice, thrice around a waistline, an inseam, the works. She’d meticulously pin and place it just so.

Her eyes would glance up at me from behind the cat-eye glasses she always hated but relied on, and she would give me a smile and say, “Georgie, if you’re going to make a good first impression, always do it with kind eyes, a bold lip, and a well-tailored suit.”

It’s something I have always strived to live by; the fundamentals of the saying, that is.

Have kindness, live boldly, and always try to make a good first impression.

The suit advice, well… I only live by that on special occasions.

Like today. Today is a perfect day to live by the ‘Mama mantra’ of kindness, boldness, and a well-tailored suit to make that perfect first impression.

“Oh, come on! Are you kidding me?”

I curse again in the back seat of the cab I ordered, groaning as we hit yet another red light. I swear this man is intentionally taking every wrong road to hit every light he can to rack up the taxi fare. I rub my temple and sigh.

“Sorry ma’am, big construction going on in the city,” he says while his eyes find mine in the mirror, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’ He glances away when he’s met with a glare.

“What’s new?” I scoff, eyes moving down to my phone again to check the time, as if staring will somehow turn back the tick, tick, tick of my cracked cell screen and make me un-late.

I wish I could say this doesn’t happen often—but if I’m honest—it seems my internal clock always runs about an hour later than anyone else’s.

If I’m ever right on time, it’s a genuine miracle.

Normally I just wouldn’t worry about it; I’d blame it on traffic, the weather, some sort of witty attempt to get me out of the looks of disapproval that I know almost too well.

But today, it is entirely my fault. Today, I overslept my six alarms, haphazardly showered in a bathroom with no working light bulb, possibly brushed my hair with a toothbrush, and forgot to reload my city bus pass the night before.

Hence the taxi. We’re only a few blocks away from my pinned destination, but the traffic is almost gridlocked at this point.

I know that downtown always has construction going on, it wouldn’t be Kingston if they weren’t working on some sort of pothole patchwork that will no doubt be screwed by the time fall gets here.

But this is getting ridiculous. It makes me wonder if the causeway is up for a passing boat, that would explain why all the cars are rerouting back into the city.

If only downtown were not a mess of one-way streets that lead nowhere quickly.

“Screw it.” I pull the five-dollar bill out of my wallet, throw it into the front seat for the driver's troubles, and I slide out of the car before I can think better of it. I’d rather be sweaty and almost on time than the alternative.

“Come on, you got me stuck in this shit just to get out before we get there?” The driver waves his arm out his window as he yells at me, but my ass is hauling down the street before I can even think to turn back and flip him off.

This is not my day. The streets are full of foot traffic, and why the hell are there so many people outside at this ungodly hour before 10 am on a Tuesday?

I speed walk so quickly down Princess St that the chub rub on my thighs is unreal, and I know it will come back to haunt me and I’ll regret it later.

Scratch that; I regret it now. Dear past self: what the fuck were you thinking when you decided to wear a shorts and blazer suit combo?

I am so focused on getting there on time that I nearly pass my destination, an old and slightly deteriorating building in the heart of downtown and I look up at the sign.

Glitz&Glam is scrawled across in obnoxious lettering, the kind you’d think a makeup brand would use for ads with big flowing letters you can barely read.

I want to roll my eyes, but this is it. This is the last shot I have before I am royally screwed.

I can’t mess this up. Before I can psych myself out, I grab the handle of the door and walk inside.

“Welcome to Glitz&Glam, your one-stop shop for all occasions!” the very bubbly cashier says from behind the counter, smiling at me with a pinched expression she’s trying to hide.

“Hi, yes, um…” I swallow, pulling a resume out of my purse and wiggling it in her direction. “My name’s Georgie? Georgia. Georgia Wright,” I clarify. Legal names. Bleh.

“Sorry, I think I am a few minutes late. Traffic was terrible. I was supposed to have an interview with Tracey? At 9:30.”

I get the once over from this girl. You know the one. That very typical glance up, glance down, scrunch of the nose like she’s decided she doesn’t like what she sees, then glance away so as to not make eye contact. Normally, this wouldn’t phase me, but I try to brush it off.

I outgrew the insecurities of being fat by the tail end of my high school career.

I don’t really know what it was that changed my mind, maybe it was the fact that there were only a few months left before I would never see anyone from high school again.

Maybe it was the fact that I was tired of shopping for clothes that were boring as shit because that’s all the plus size section at the department stores offered.

Maybe it was because I realized that I deserved to be happy, regardless of my size or appearance, which started with letting myself be happy and not giving a fuck what anyone else thought.

I was going to wear whatever the hell I wanted, whatever made me feel good.

I respected the school dress code Monday to Friday, no shorts above the third fingertip, no tank tops with straps that were thinner than three fingers.

Heaven forbid I wear spaghetti straps that shockingly showed off the boobs that I did indeed have, or the shoulders that schools deemed ‘too sexual’ to be seen by pubescent boy eyes.

But the weekends were mine, and mine alone to wear what I wanted.

And damn it, if I wanted to wear the crop top that had my stomach on full display, I wore the damn thing. Case closed.

The teenage girl comes into view from the back of the store, then meets my eyes before pointing behind herself. “Tracey’s just on the phone right now. Wait over there and she’ll come get you when she’s ready.”

I settle into the plastic chairs at the back of the hallway, black chairs with cracks in the front of the seat much like the ones of high school nightmares.

These were the seats that pinched you the wrong way if you sat even remotely comfortably.

So, I perch on the edge, then roll and unroll the sleeves of my white blazer up to my elbows.

I check my phone to make sure the sound is off.

I fidget until I hear the telltale sign that the person in the closed office across from me—presumably Tracey—has finished their phone conversation.

I hear the click of her heels cross the floor at a pace that sounds like ‘I mean business’, and then the frosted glass office door swings open.

Tracey is a tall, thin woman with brunette hair down past her shoulders.

She’s greying just at the roots, and only enough that I can tell the rest of her hair is coloured regularly.

She’s all angular lines, from her pantsuit that I can appreciate—and must cost a fortune—to the shape of her jaw, to the perfect contour of her nose.

I sit up, back straight, try to silently clear my throat as I wipe my clammy hands on my white shorts, once again wishing I had decided against them this morning.

She smiles at me, but her lips are curved just at the corners as she reaches out to shake my hand. “You must be Georgina. I am Tracey Bellecamp.”

“It’s Georgia, actually. Georgie, if you’d prefer. But it’s great to meet you. I truly apologize for being late. Kingston traffic is crazy lately, am I right?” I say as I shake her hand, watching as she pulls away and presses her lips in a firm line.

This is off to a great start, clearly. Tracey glances at her watch, then back up to me with a curt expression.

“Right. If you’ll follow me.” She begins to walk away without even waiting to see that I have indeed followed her. This can’t be good. I should just turn around and head home while I’m ahead.

I suck in a large gulp of air, holding it in until my lungs scream for air. Twisting and tangling my fingers until the tips go white with pressure.

“Georgia, are you coming?” My eyes snap up to where Tracey has turned around in her doorway, hand on hip and the other on the door handle. I clear my throat and nod, then nod again nervously before plastering a smile on my face. Dread fills me.

“Yes. Coming.”

Despite every warning in my mind telling me to turn around, I trek forward. No turning back now.