C10 10

It’s raining by the time I head home, and I’m soaked walking the few blocks from the station to my apartment. Sarah’s out when I get into our third-floor apartment; I take in the coziness of the small rental and instantly relax. I’m glad to be home surrounded by our familiar comforts and bright rooms, our feminine haven. I’m tired; it’s been a long day and I want to take a bath and go to bed.

I screw up Sarah’s note on the counter informing me she has made mac ‘n’ cheese and left it in the refrigerator for me, and I throw the paper in the garbage. The perks of living with a chef.

She works late most nights, and I can’t remember the last time we spent more than five minutes in each other’s company. Our lives are comprised of occasional, brief conversations in passing and notes on the refrigerator, which suit me more than when I had to keep her company every evening.

Sarah has been my best friend since forever; we came to New York together five years ago and were lucky to get this place. She’d been accepted to an elite cooking school, and I had a temporary admin role in the Carrero corporation as a receptionist, even though I had zero experience and hardly any qualifications. I had been nothing more than a tea and coffee maker back then, eager to do anything to keep me here in this crazy city. My fresh start. My escape from who I didn’t want to be anymore and any reminders of it. Sarah was thrilled that I had wanted to come with her and that I was un-phased at leaving Chicago to go into the world on our own, but our relationship has changed since then. We’ve drifted apart in so many ways. I guess we don’t need each other like we used to. The apartment is the only thing holding us together.

I kick off my shoes and head to my bedroom to get changed, hauling on workout leggings and a sports bralette and towel drying my rain-soaked hair, before my short after-work exercise regime. I find it helps me unwind from the day’s stress and gets me in the mood for sleep.

There’s a flashing light on the answering machine and I press it, a surge of anxiety in my stomach as I hazard a guess at who it will be.

It’s Marcus.

He’s Sarah’s on-off boyfriend; it’s who I expected it to be. They have been off again lately, much to my delight, but this call means he’s back on the scrounge for hooking up again. I delete the message. She will never know he called. Marcus is as sleazy as they come, but Sarah can’t see it; he’s slimy, over-friendly, and makes lewd comments and sexual innuendos whenever he’s around. He makes my skin crawl, and I think she can do better, but she tries to tell me that my experiences with men are the reason I can’t warm to him. I know deep down that’s partly the reason I’m this way, but he’s still a creep. I try not to linger on it and switch on my iPad for some workout music.

* * *

I’m tired after my workout, meal, and hot bath, yet I know I won’t be able to sleep. I’ve never been a good sleeper, not since childhood, as far as I can remember anyway. I have vivid dreams that make no sense, full of darkness and anxiety that leave me ravaged upon awakening. Working out before bed helps but doesn’t eradicate them, and I’ve learned to live on the erratic, fretful sleep I do get. I still wish I could sleep like a normal person, but I know that I may never lose the night terrors; my mind just can’t let go of the past no matter how hard I try to move on.

My cell vibrates and I jump with a small surprise, noting it’s a text from Margo. I’ve been waiting for my job to infringe on my life outside of regular working hours; I know they’ve been going easy on me so early into the promotion. I wonder if this is the start of full-on PA mode.

“Emma. I need you in an hour early tomorrow, you’ll be paid overtime. There will be a car for you, so you won’t be late. You’re meeting Donna Moore. X”

I reply instantly, uneasily, “That’s fine, Margo. Thank you.”

This side of the job is new to me, working early/late and the need for specific outfits; the executives I handled on the lower floors weren’t as important, I suppose. I’m aware that working directly for a Carrero is a whole different ball game, and in a way I’m eager to start properly. I had needed a new challenge as things on the tenth floor had become stale and predictable.

* * *

The car arrives bright and early next morning, a black four by four, a typical Carrero choice, and the driver is dressed in a black suit similar to the security man who had been in Jake’s office. Their appearance makes me roll my eyes; the guy just loves all things black. I have since learned the guard that day was Arrick Carrero’s personal bodyguard; Jake doesn’t seem to require such things apparently.

I’m dressed in cream slacks and a dusky pink, silk blouse, presents from my mother for my birthday next week; she mailed them early to be sure I got them. I don’t celebrate my birthday, and Sarah knows not to even mention it when it comes around, so I was surprised by my mother’s gifts as she doesn’t normally bother, but for some reason, she did this time. I felt too guilty not to wear them.

They’re not as crisp and tailored as my usual attire but still passable, and I feel obliged to put them on at least once as I know how expensive they must have been. I hate that she felt the need to buy me things like this. Motherly guilt of some sort, no doubt. It’s her style, not mine, but she has tried.

My mother is an eternal hippy; romantic frivolity is more her forte and part of her appeal to men. Even in her forties, she’s still attractive and men find her desirable, although the less I think about my mother’s taste in men the better. I shake away that memory, pushing down the revulsion in my stomach.

The car drops me at the now familiar office building. The day is gray and wet this morning, and there’s a cold nippiness to the air. New York is coming up for a season change.

I run through the necessary security passes before I’m on the sixty-fifth floor; the building is eerily quiet due to the early hour. Shivering, I pull my wool coat further around my shoulders to try to warm up even though the building has state-of-the-art temperature control.

Margo greets me at the office door along with a blonde woman clad in expensive clothes and an air of seductiveness. Tall, graceful, and dressed all in red, Margo introduces her as Donna Moore, the personal shopper, and informs me I’m to be measured. Mr. Carrero insists that his closest staff receive this perk as his public image often sees him on red carpets and at the center of media interest. He expects anyone who might accompany him to be appropriately dressed, always.

His father cashed in on his son’s natural sex appeal from an early age using him as the front man for their range of high-end grooming products and aftershaves, which means a never-ending media interest. The boy is basically a super model for his own company. Still New York’s poster boy even now, he can’t seem to move without a camera flash or adoring fan appearing from nowhere.