Chapter 7 #2
"There are definitely some who take advantage," I admit, "but your father doesn't want to punish those who genuinely need it. There's a lot of trust here, and it pays off. Sick days are far below expectations." I open the stairwell door and let him go through first.
"He mentioned you’ve never missed a day."
"I haven’t been sick in three years."
"Never?" He smiles.
"Never. Just the occasional cough, a little sniffle, sometimes a headache. Manageable."
"You’re very loyal to my father. How much does he pay you?"
"Eight thousand pounds a month," I answer. "Very generous."
"Any other benefits?" We descend the stairs, signs pointing to the underground garage.
"Fourteen monthly salaries, plus allowances for trips abroad."
In the basement, I show him the storage rooms where we stash both old computers and new equipment, the technical room, heating and cooling systems, and other storages with items important for the company: from towels to medical products, office chairs to planters in case new plants are bought or someone knocks one over and it breaks.
"Okay, I've seen enough. Organize meetings with each department head. Individual sessions starting tomorrow at 10, ending at 4. Thirty minutes each, no breaks except lunch—1:30 to 2:30."
"There are eighteen department heads," I point out.
"I’ll be here all week."
"Friday we finish at one. At six, everyone is going to meet at a Country Inn in Mickleham for the summer party. We hold it there every year."
"A country inn?" He walks to the elevator that comes all the way to the basement and presses the button.
"Yes. All four hundred and six colleagues from the London HQ are invited, though only three hundred and forty-four accepted. The rest are on sick leave, vacation, or parental leave."
Alexander looks amazed.
"There’s a buffet in the hall, with tables, and the kitchen.
In the garden outside, there are festival tents, barbecue spots, and several lounge areas fully equipped with garden furniture and recliners,” I explain.
“It rained last year here and there, which is when we use the hall, but if the weather’s good, most of it is outside.
There's a live band and a screen that will be used in the evening before your father gives his farewell speech. "
The elevator doors open. To my surprise, he politely lets me go first. I press the top button, the doors close, and it begins to rise.
"Today I’ll retreat to a side office and familiarize myself. I’ll make calls, and don’t want to be disturbed. Tomorrow I start with the department heads." He takes out his phone. "Your number?"
I pause, caught off guard because I wasn’t expecting it. But I give him my number, and he saves it.
"Would you like to move into the lounge now or another office first?"
"Temporary office today. Tomorrow I’ll move into the lounge. I’ll be here at eight. I take my coffee—"
"With a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of milk," I cut him off.
His brows rise in surprise, then he nods.
Upstairs, I settle him in an empty office and bring him a company laptop and a cup of coffee.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?" I ask nervously, standing at the door while he's already working on the laptop.
"Not for now. I’ll let you know."
"Okay. I’ll be at my desk."
I leave and arrange for someone from the tech team to have the lounge refitted.
A large wooden desk, full with a computer system is brought in, along with a leather chair, and several items to properly setup the office.
In the meantime, I tackle scheduling the eighteen meetings with the department heads.
They’re all very busy and their schedules sometimes overlap, so I need to juggle about, but this is my bread and butter.
It takes nearly two hours to set up a schedule that fits everyone’s calendars, but finally the invitation emails are sent. One task down.
After lunch I’ll continue planning. It's taking up most of my day at the moment, but I'm also really looking forward to it.
Now I stretch, log off, and send Mr. Arthur Blackthorn a quick message that I’m going on break. I copy it and paste it into Alexander’s chat. My first message to him—crazy that he has my number now.
Just as I’m about to go, he texts back.
Curiously, I look at my phone while slinging my bag over my shoulder.
“Can you recommend a restaurant?”
“There’s a café across the street. I picked up the canapés and sandwiches from there this morning. Big selection,” I text back and heat out.
Most employees eat in the cafeteria or at food stalls around the building, but I prefer the juice bar across the street. They have fresh salads, smoothies, wraps, and fruit bowls.
His next text comes in as I reach the elevator. “Are you going there?”
“No, somewhere else.”
“Address?”
Damn it. I just want my peace and quiet during my break.
“To The Fruit Bar, one street over,” I type.
He doesn’t respond further. Hopefully he won’t get any ideas to follow me. I like this sweet little juice bar. It's unassuming and cozy. The perfect place to relax.
By the time I reach the ground floor, reception improves, and another text comes through: “Sounds good.”
Yes, it does. That’s why I eat there—alone. But I don’t want to say that.
I quicken my pace toward the exit, but Raul from security steps in my way.
"Ah, Miss Waverley. About Mr. Alexander Blackthorn."
"Yes?" I adjust my handbag.
"I had to let him through. You understand, right?"
"Of course. I didn’t recognize him at first. Everything’s fine," I promise him.
"Oh, good. So, I won't get in trouble?" This big guy, shoulders as wide as a bus, mid-twenties and looking dangerous, but with a heart of gold, is actually worried?
"No, of course not. You were just following my instructions. Everything's fine, Raul," I assure him.
"Oh, That’s a relief."
He steps back and gives me a polite nod. I smile, then walk through the security gate, finally heading out for my well-deserved break.
As soon as I leave the building, a message from Vanessa pops up: Are you on break? Wanna chat on the phone?
“Yes, soon,” I text back. “Will call you. Eating.”
Typing while walking isn’t that easy.
I roll my eyes while I wait at the crosswalk because of course Alexander is texting me too: “Can you send me photos of their selection?”
So, he wants me to pick something up. Technically, this is my break—the only sixty minutes I get to myself during the workday without my boss breathing down my neck. But fine. I’ll be nice.
“Sure,” I reply, hurrying across the street. Even walking fast, I reach the other side just as the light flips red again. Who sets these timers, seriously? I sigh and head toward the juice bar. It’s less than a minute away, even in heels on the uneven sidewalk.
At the Fruit Bar, only a few people are in line. A shame, really. People line up for greasy pizza, fries, and burgers, but a place serving fresh, healthy food barely gets noticed. While that means there’s more for me, I can’t help worrying they won’t stay in business for much longer.
I snap a few photos of the sandwiches, bagels, salads, wraps, smoothies, and the delicious bowls, then send them to Alexander. Then I step in the line. The staff, of course, know me by now and we nod to each other politely. I keep checking my phone, but Alexander doesn't respond.
"I'm up next," I text him, but he sends nothing. Should I just order something random, or has he lost his appetite?
"That looks really good." His voice suddenly comes from right behind me. I inhale sharply, spinning around. How did he get here so fast?
"Let me treat you," he says.
"Really?" I ask, stepping closer to the display case.
"Yes." He watches me as I turn to the saleswoman.
"Hi, uhm, I’ll take the chicken wrap, the large watermelon bowl, and a salad."
"Large or small?" she asks.
"Large. Oh—and a mango smoothie too, please." If he’s paying, I might as well go all out.
"I’ll have the same," Alexander says, pulling out two crisp fifty-pound notes from his black wallet. "Keep the change as your tip." He throws in a charming smile and a wink, which pretty surely sets the young server's heart racing. She's completely taken with him.
"Would you like to eat here?" she asks him, no longer paying any attention to me.
"To go, please," I say firmly. That gets her attention back on me.
"Where do you eat?" Alexander asks.
"At a super-secret location," I answer cryptically.
"Which you’re definitely going to tell me about, right?" He asks as he tucks his wallet away.
"I like to spend my break alone," I tell him.
"I thought you wanted to apologize to Marc. He'll be available on the phone soon." Alexander raises his eyebrows provocatively.
I hesitate. Damn. That would indeed be a good opportunity.
"Just this once," I say, then look at the server who—if I didn't know better—has heart eyes. Maybe she can work for him. Coincidentally, a position will be opening up in four weeks.
I stand silently beside Alexander while our order is packed. When I reach for it, he takes most of the bags like a true gentleman.
"So, you eat healthy?" he asks.
"Usually." I really don't want to talk to him. "I eat on the company roof," I explain. "Only a few people have keys. When I started working here, there was this project called Green Roof."
"I remember. My father told me about it," he says, then casually shifts to the outer edge of the sidewalk, closer to the street. At first, I wonder what he’s doing, until I remember an article I read—apparently, men who care always walk street-side to shield women from danger.
Okay. That earns him a very small point in his favor. A tiny one.