Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
But the second I lay my hand on my mobile, light floods the pit of darkness. My hands instinctively come up to shield my eyes from the sudden glare.
‘There you are, dear.’ It’s that voice again, except this time there’s no trace of irritation, only warmth.
I blink repeatedly, trying to find my focus, and when the black blobs finally dissolve from my vision, I see a face that matches the voice perfectly. The voice belongs to a small and round woman, aged at least seventy, and the short curls sprayed into position on her head are violet. Once I can bring myself to rip my eyes away from her wild-coloured hair, I let my gaze drop to find her dressed just how I would have guessed. A mid-length skirt, a two-piece matching blouse and cardigan, and to round the look off perfectly, a string of pearls draped around her neck.
‘Hello,’ I say cautiously. She defies the unnerving circumstances and environment that I’ve found myself in. She’s all cute and cuddly. This place is anything but.
‘You made it halfway, dear,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll escort you the remaining distance.’ She gives me a little jiggle of her head, an indication for me to follow, before she turns and leads the way. I rush to catch up with her, watching my feet on the uneven cobbles as I go. ‘The name’s Mrs Potts, dear.’ She marches on, and I smile to myself at the fitting name. ‘We’ll have a chat over a cuppa.’
‘A chat?’
‘Oh.’ She laughs, waving a hand indifferently. ‘I’m sorry. We’re supposed to call it an interview, aren’t we? A bit formal for my liking.’
‘Formal?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Forty-three years, dear.’
My eyes widen and my heart plummets. Everything so far suggests I’m walking into an interview for a job that’ll be no more beneficial to my dream career than running my dead father’s dead business. I wince at my stray thoughts. ‘That’s some service,’ I murmur.
‘I’m part of the furniture, me.’ She takes a sharp right, and I follow, glancing around, regardless of there still being nothing but brick walls closing me in. ‘He’ll need a wrench to turf me out.’
‘He?’ I ask.
‘Yes, dear. The boss.’
My eyebrows rise, my face contorting into something I can only imagine looks like bewilderment. If she’s seventy-odd and has worked here for forty-three years, how old is the boss? ‘What’s the name of the company, if you don’t mind me asking?’
She halts abruptly and swings around, regarding me with interest. It makes me back up slightly. Her head tilts to the side. It makes me nervous for reasons I can’t fathom. She’s an old lady. She seems perfectly harmless. ‘That will be disclosed to the winning candidate.’
My lips press together as I frantically search my brain for an appropriate response. I can’t find one. ‘Oh.’ What is this, the magic circle? Every second longer I spend in this cold, damp alley with this unexpected old lady is increasing my anxiety, and, I’ve got to admit, my curiosity too.
She turns and trots off, and I glance over my shoulder, wondering whether I should leave. ‘Do you have a nervous disposition, dear?’
I turn back to find she’s stopped again and is watching me closely. ‘Why?’
‘You look ready to bolt.’
‘Not at all,’ I lie through my teeth.
‘That’s good.’ Off she goes again, and I follow. ‘Because, you see, the boss, he’s a little . . .’ She pauses. I can’t see her face, but I can tell by the slight cock of her head that she’s thinking how best to word it. ‘Difficult,’ she finishes, leaving me even more worried. Difficult? ‘Here we are.’ She swipes a card through a metal keypad on the wall. Security? Okay, so that’s a step up from my father’s store. Putting some weight behind her, she pushes the door open.
And I nearly fall over. ‘Bloody hell,’ I splutter, looking around me in shock.
‘Now then, dear.’ She looks at me disapprovingly. ‘Is there really any need for such language?’
‘I’m sorry. Just a bit of a surprise, that’s all.’ I’ve stepped into another dimension. Left behind me are the damp brick walls and stale smell. Now, I could be standing in the Garden of Eden. We’re in a cobbled courtyard, with a horseshoe-shaped brick building surrounding us and a stone fountain positioned centrally, trickling a peaceful sound of water over the edges. Iron railings form balconies on the first level of each of the three walls, and luscious greenery climbs the brickwork. It’s beautiful and so very unexpected. It doesn’t look like any type of business is run from here. I want to live here. I want to swing open those balcony doors in the morning and drink in the fresh air, let the voile curtains billow around me while I stretch and let the sun warm my vitamin D-deprived face. You would never know that the madness of London existed beyond the walls of this idyllic place.