Читать книгу It Started With... Collection - Miranda Lee - Страница 30

THE offices of Wild Ideas were in north Sydney, on the third floor of an office block not far from North Sydney Station. A bonus for Jessie, who didn’t own a car.

She arrived in the foyer of the building early, dressed in her best stone-washed jeans and a freshly starched white shirt, turned up at the collar. She carried a lightweight black jacket—in case the air-conditioning inside was brutal—as well as a black briefcase. Her shoes were sensible black pumps, well-worn but polished that morning till they shone.

Her hair was pulled back tightly and secured at the nape of her neck with a black and white printed scarf she’d borrowed from Dora. Her make-up was on the neutral side, especially around her eyes and on her mouth. The only jewelry she wore were small silver cross earrings. Plus her watch. She’d be lost without her watch.

She glanced at it now. Still only twenty-five minutes to ten. She wasn’t going up to Wild Ideas yet. Only desperates arrived that early. Instead she headed for the powder room, where she spent a few minutes checking that she didn’t look like a femme fatale.

Actually, her appearance would be considered very conservative in advertising circles. But she’d never been a flashy dresser, even when she could afford to be.

Finally, she gave in to her pounding heart and rode the lift up to the third floor. It had been some months since she’d been for a job interview and she felt sick with nerves and tension. Not because she didn’t think she could do the job. Jessie had never been lacking in confidence in her own abilities. But after being knocked back as often as she had, she’d begun to wonder if anyone would ever see what she had to offer.

Still, this chance was the best she’d had so far. An even-money chance.

As Jessie exited the lift on the third floor, she wondered if the other applicant was in there now, being interviewed, impressing the boss so much that he wouldn’t even bother to see her. Maybe the receptionist would say ‘Thank you very much but the job’s already taken’.

Jessie took a deep breath and told herself not to be so silly. Or so negative. Harry Wilde had obviously liked her résumé. Surely, he’d have the decency to give her an interview.

The reception area of Wild Ideas fitted its image. Modern and colourful, with crisp, clean lines and furniture. Red-painted walls, covered in advertising posters. Black tiled floor. Very shiny. The sofas were in cream leather, the desk and coffee-tables made of blond wood.

The receptionist was blond as well, but not overly glamorous or overly beautiful. Possibly thirty, she wore a neat black suit and a nice smile—not the sort of smile used before delivering bad news.

‘Hello,’ she said brightly when Jessie walked in. ‘You’ll be Jessie Denton.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jessie replied, her palms still distinctly sweaty. ‘I’m a bit early.’

‘Better than being late. Or not turning up at all,’ the blonde added ruefully. ‘I’ll just give Karen a ring to let her know you’ve arrived. Karen’s Mr Wilde’s PA,’ she explained. ‘Just take a seat over there for a sec.’ And she motioned towards one of the seats that lined the waiting-room walls.

‘Jessie Denton’s here, Karen,’ she heard the receptionist say quietly into the phone. ‘OK… Yes, I’ll tell her.’

By the time she looked up, Jessie had sat down, leant back and crossed her legs, doing her best to appear cool and confident. Inside, she was a bundle of nerves.

‘Mr Marshall hasn’t finished with the other applicant yet,’ the receptionist informed her. ‘But he won’t be long.’

‘Mr Marshall?’ Jessie choked out, her legs un-crossing as she jerked forward on the seat. ‘But…but…’

‘Mr Wilde is overseas at the moment,’ the receptionist cut into Jessie’s stammering, and before she could recover from her shock. ‘Mr Marshall is in charge while he’s away.’

‘Oh. I see. Right.’ Jessie took a deep breath and leant back again, exhaling slowly. Crazy to think that this Mr Marshall was her Mr Marshall from Friday night. Marshall wasn’t such an unusual name. On top of that, her Mr Marshall was an accountant. What would an accountant be doing running an advertising agency, even temporarily?

‘My name’s Margaret, by the way,’ the receptionist went on breezily. ‘We might as well get to know each other. I probably shouldn’t be saying this but I think you’re more Mr Marshall’s cup of tea than the girl who’s in there now.’

‘Why’s that?’ Jessie asked.

Somewhere on the floor a door banged.

‘Judge for yourself,’ Margaret murmured.

Just then this amazing creature swept down a corridor into the reception area.

The first thing that struck Jessie was her bright orange hair, which looked as if it had been cut with a chainsaw. A rusty chainsaw.

The second was the myriad gold studs and rings that adorned her starkly white face. Ears. Nose. Lips. Eyebrows. Chin.

Lord knew what other parts of her body had been pierced. Possibly a great many.

Thankfully, the girl was clothed from head to foot so Jessie could only speculate. Her style, however, was a combination of grunge and gothic and the garments she sported looked as if they’d been rescued from a charity bin. The kind they used for recycled rags.

‘Tell Harry Wilde to contact me when he gets back, if he’s still interested,’ the escapee from the Addams Family tossed over her shoulder as she marched across the floor in her ex-army boots. ‘I wouldn’t work for him down there if he was the last man on earth. He knows absolutely nothing about the creative soul. Nothing!’

The moment she was gone Margaret looked over at a wide-eyed Jessie and grinned.

‘See what I mean? I think you’re a shoo-in.’

Jessie could not believe that fate had been so kind to her. ‘I sure hope so. I really want this job.’ She simply couldn’t go the rest of her life being a waitress.

The reception phone buzzed and Margaret picked it up. ‘Yes, Karen, I’ll send her down straight away. And don’t worry, he’ll like this one. Your turn,’ she said with an encouraging smile to Jessie as she hung up. ‘Down to the end of that corridor. Go straight in.’

Jessie gulped, then stood up. ‘Er—just one thing before I go. Do you happen to know Mr Marshall’s first name?’

‘Sure. It’s Kane. Why?’

Jessie could not believe how relieved she felt. For a moment there…

She shrugged. ‘I knew a guy named Marshall once and I was a bit worried this might be the same man. Thankfully, it isn’t,’ she muttered, and Margaret laughed.

‘We all have one of those somewhere in our past.’

True. But the trouble was this one wasn’t far enough in Jessie’s past. He was only a couple of nights ago, and could still make her tremble at the thought of him.

Her nerves eased a lot with the surety that the Mr Marshall about to interview her wasn’t Curtis Marshall, married man and sexily irresistible hunk. She also couldn’t deny she felt good that her competition had turned out so poorly. Clearly, Nicholas from Adstaff hadn’t given carrot-top the same conservative-dressing advice he’d given her. Or if he had, she’d ignored him.

The door at the end of the corridor led into the PA’s office. It wasn’t quite as colourful as Reception, but still very nice and spacious and modern. Karen herself was nothing like Jessie had expected Harry Wilde’s PA to be. She was forty-ish. A redhead. Pleasantly plump. And sweet.

‘Oh, thank you, God!’ she exclaimed on seeing Jessie. ‘Did you see the other one?’

‘Yes. Um. I did,’ Jessie admitted. ‘But to be honest, people like that are not unusual in the advertising world. She probably sees herself as an artiste with a certain avant-garde image to uphold.’

‘We don’t hire avant-garde artistes here,’ Karen said wryly. ‘We hire people with lots of innovative ideas who know how to work. And work hard. Now, did Margaret happen to mention that Mr Wilde’s away right now?’

‘Yes, she did.’

‘Good. Then you’ll understand why I’m doing part of your interview. Mr Marshall is an excellent manager and motivator, but he has no background in advertising. I’ve been with Mr Wilde a good few years and I know what he likes in an employee. I’ve already had a good look at your résumé, and I was impressed. Now that I can see you in person, I’m even more impressed. If you could just show me your portfolio, please?’

Jessie pulled out her portfolio and handed it over. She’d included samples of the best work she’d done over the years, plus mock-ups of ads she would like to do, if ever given the chance.

‘Mmm. This is excellent. Michele is going to be pleased with you. Michele will be your boss. She’s one of our top executives. Her assistant quit last week after they had an altercation over his lack of motivation. He’s been having a lot of time off. A drug problem, we think. Anyway, she needs a good graphic artist to step into his shoes straight away. She has several things that need to be finished before the Christmas break. On top of that, she’ll be going off on maternity leave in the middle of next year. She’s having another baby. When that happens, we’re hoping you’ll be able to fill in for her. I gather from Adstaff that you do have ambitions to become a creative designer yourself, is that right?’

‘It’s my dearest wish. The sample ads at the back of my portfolio are my own original ideas. They’re not actual campaigns I worked on.’

‘Really. I hadn’t quite got that far.’ She flipped over some more pages of the portfolio, stopping to stare hard at one of the pages. ‘Is this one of yours? This white-goods magazine ad,’ Karen said, holding up a page.

‘Yes, that’s one I made up myself.’

The page had a vibrant blue background to highlight the white goods. In the middle was a dishwasher, washing machine and dryer, surrounded by other smaller kitchen appliances, all in stainless steel. Draped across the three taller items was a very glamorous Mae-West style blonde, her evening gown white with a very low neckline, her scarlet-tipped fingers caressing the appliances. Above her were the words, ‘It’s not the appliances in your life but the life in your appliances,’ a parody of Mae West’s famous comment, ‘It’s not the men in your life but the life in your men.’

‘It’s brilliant!’ Karen exclaimed.

Jessie puffed up with pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘We have a new account for a kitchen-appliance company which this would be perfect for. I must show it to Peter. He’s handling that account. I can see Michele and Peter fighting over you. Of course, Mr Marshall will have to hire you first,’ she added with a grin. ‘But I’m sure that’s just a formality. Come on, let’s get you in there. Hopefully, he’s recovered from the last applicant by now. You should have seen his face when she walked in. My fault, of course. I was the one who picked her. Her résumé was impressive, but in reality she was not suitable at all.’

‘Do you mind if I ask why not? Looks can be deceiving. She might have been very talented.’

‘She was. A very talented graphic artist. But not suitable for promotion. Harry likes his front people to have a certain look, and style. After all, they have to deal with a wide range of clients, some of whom are very conservative. Harry believes first impressions are very important. Kane agrees with him. And you, Jessie Denton, make a very good first impression.’

‘But I’m only wearing jeans.’

‘Yes, but they’re clean and neat, and you wear them with panache. And I simply love what you’ve done with your hair. Very classy.’

Jessie could not have felt more confident as she was ushered into Harry Wilde’s office. Her self-esteem was sky-high, her heart beating with pleasurable anticipation, not nervous tension.

Fate had been good to her, for once.

But then the man seated behind Harry Wilde’s desk looked up, and Jessie’s heart literally stopped.

Oh, no, she groaned. How could this be? The receptionist had said his name was Kane, not Curtis!

But it was him. No doubt about it. She wasn’t about to forget what he looked like, especially when he was even dressed the same, in a suit, shirt and tie.

His ice-blue eyes locked onto hers, his dark brows lifting in surprise. Or was it shock?

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Karen said to him with a small laugh. ‘A definite improvement on Ms Jaegers. This is Jessie Denton. Here’s her portfolio.’ She walked forward and placed the folder on the wide walnut desk. ‘I’ve had a good look at it and it’s simply fabulous. Now, can I get either of you some coffee? Or tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ Jessie croaked out.

‘Not at the moment, Karen,’ her boss said.

‘OK, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Relax,’ she mouthed to a shell-shocked Jessie as she walked past her.

And then she was gone, shutting the door behind her.

Jessie just stood there in the middle of the large, plushly furnished office, her shock slowly draining away, anxiety rushing back. Anxiety and dismay.

Fate hadn’t been kind to her at all. It had dangled the most wonderful opportunity in front of her nose like a carrot, only to snatch it away at the last moment. Because this Mr Marshall—regardless of what his first name turned out to be—wasn’t about to hire her, no matter what she did, or said.

There was no way out.

If she told him the truth about why she’d been at that bar last Friday night, he would feel both humiliated and threatened. If she didn’t tell him the truth, then she had to fall back on that other even more sordid reality. That she’d fancied him like mad and been tempted by him, despite knowing he was married.

No, that wasn’t right, she suddenly realised. If she kept her decoy work a secret, then she would not have known he was married. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. She’d noticed that the other night.

In that case, how could she explain her sudden disappearing act?

Saying simply that she’d changed her mind seemed rather lame. She would come across as a tease. She supposed she could say someone in the ladies’ room had warned her he was a married man and that was why she’d done a flit.

That might salvage her pride and reputation, but it wouldn’t do much for his.

The main problem here was that he’d known he was a married man all along, and he’d still asked her to go to a hotel room with him.

Recalling that highly charged moment brought back to Jessie the feelings she had shared with him that night. The mutual attraction. The rush of desire. The heat.

She stared at him as a new wave of heat flowed through her body, flooding her from her toes right up into her face.

There was no way out of this, except out the door.

‘I guess I might as well leave right now,’ she choked out. ‘Just give me my portfolio back, please, and I’ll get going.’