Page 54 of Eleanor & Grey

I picked up the envelope and opened it to see two twenty-dollar bills sitting inside.

Forty dollars.

She’d given me forty dollars after firing me without any notice.

It really was the least she could do.

I pulled out the forty bucks and placed it on the table to cover my half of the bill, feeling annoyed that, on top of everything, she hadn’t even bought my lunch.

I waved the waitress over and tapped my champagne glass. “We’re gonna need another round of mimosas, stat.”

22

Eleanor

I wasn’t good at being interviewed. I never had been. When I was a teenager and had gotten my first babysitting job for Molly, I’d cried my way through it, actually sobbed in front of Mrs. Lane. She’d patted me on the back, given me a tissue, told me it wasn’t as serious as I was making it out to be, and then said I did a good job. I was fairly sure she’d given me the job only because she’d felt bad for me, mother’s guilt or something.

My interview process for Susan hadn’t been much different, but she’d been only a few months postpartum and a bit delusional, so that had worked in my favor.

Maybe I can cry my way through this one, I thought to myself as I tugged on the bottom of my black skirt.

My thighs were sweaty and rubbing against the folding chair as I sat in the living room of the employer’s home. I didn’t realize the skirt was too short until I’d actually sat down in the chair, and if it had been an inch shorter, I was certain parts that shouldn’t be seen during an interview would’ve been exposed.

I wanted the job, but not that badly.

I kept wondering about the crying option, even though I knew that was ridiculous. A grown woman crying to get her way seemed a bit dramatic. I supposed I would have to suck it up and power through.

There were a few other women sitting around me, interviewing for the same position. They seemed much more confident in themselves than I was, which was alarming. Why weren’t they puddles of sweat? And why had I worn a light blue blouse?

The sweat stains beneath my armpits were disgusting. If I had raised my hand, the whole room would be able to tell exactly how unprepared I was that afternoon.

Thank God for extra-strength deodorant.

I pulled out my cell phone and sent Shay a quick text.

Me: I’m sweating like I stole something. I’m so not prepared for this interview.

Shay: Fake it till you make it! You got this!

Me: There’s not enough faking it in the world to help me make it through this.

Shay: $65k for a nannying position, Ellie. You can fake it that much. Promise.

Sigh. She wasn’t wrong.

When I had applied for the position, I’d received more details on the job, and needless to say, it would be the highest-paying nannying job I’d ever had. Susan had paid me thirty thousand dollars; this was more than doubled that.

I’d already daydreamed about how I’d spend that money, how I could send some to help out my father, the trips I’d take, the credit cards I’d pay off.

Now if only I could get through the next half-an-hour without running out the door.

I shut off my phone and went back to tapping my fingers against my much-too-exposed thigh. Gosh, is this room stuffy, or is it just me? No, the room was stuffy. None of the windows in the living room were open, which wasn’t shocking seeing how it was the beginning of January. Still, they could’ve turned down the heat a bit. How was anyone able to breathe in that space without any fresh air coming in? We were just inhaling and exhaling the same dirty air nonstop.

The waiting was the worst part. It felt like we were all just sitting in limbo. I couldn’t wait to be moved from the waiting room to the dining room for round one of the interview.

Round one.

Seriously, who had more than one round of interviews for a nannying position? We’d already had background checks done through the nanny agency. Why did I have to meet with one family member first, and then another after that?

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