Page 96 of The Rebound
We reach the office quicker than I expect to, a five-story glass-fronted building that would look minuscule in New York but in Dublin has that impressive new-build gleam.stewartsshines in neat, clear lettering above the main entrance, where a security guard with a practiced blank look tries not to look bored as he watches people walk in and out. Block out the rest of the street and it could be anywhere in the world.
“How much time do you have left?” Luke asks as we stand to the side.
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
It’s the truth. I remember my last interview for MacFarlane, the one that didn’t exactly get me a job as it did let me keep the one I had while others were cut, shown the door without so much as a thank you. It was only a few months after Tyler and I started dating and he’d made a big deal out of it, prepping patiently with me the evening before. In the morning, I went for a run while he made me breakfast (egg-white omelette with spinach, grapefruit juice) and then we walked the short distance to the office.
“You’ve got this,” he’d said to me, and he’d looked so sure and so proud and I remember how relieved I’d been to have found someone who understood me so thoroughly, who matched my ambition, my desires.
I’d worn more or less the same outfit I’m wearing now. I realize it with a start as I catch a glimpse of myself in the lobby window. Same clothes. Same hairstyle. Same me.
Three years later and both the man and the city have changed. But the girl? She looks the same. For the first time since I came home, I recognize the woman in my reflection.
“Good luck,” Luke says as I drag my gaze from her.
I suddenly want to know what he sees when he looks at me now. Because standing there in dirty jeans and the same T-shirt he was wearing this morning, he looks like he belongs to a different world. To a different me.
“You alright?”
I nod, smiling at him. “I’ll text you when I’m out.”
“Grand.” He gives the building one more uncertain glance and then heads off toward the city center, leaving me alone. And though I know a lot of things are still left unsaid between us, I force him from my mind for now and head through the doors.
At three p.m. the lobby is busy with guests going to and coming from meetings. I’m directed by the receptionist to a comfortable leather chair, where I pop a mint into my mouth and check my reflection properly on my phone. My makeup is subtle, my skin behaving. My curls are a little frizzy but there’s nothing I can do about that so I leave them be, crossing my ankles as I wait.
I try to meet the eye of every person who comes through the doors without seeming too obvious. I spot my contact immediately, the one I’d been emailing the past few days to arrange this because, of course, I’d looked her up. Caroline Mahoney. Twenty-six. Master’s degree in international relations. Executive assistant.
“Ms. Reynolds?” She strides toward me, her heels clacking against the floor as she swipes her way through the turnstiles. The little panel on the glass blinks from red to green and then her hand is out, her nails short and painted a non-offensive burgundy. She wears no jewelry.
We exchange pleasantries. She asks if I want to go to the bathroom and would I like a coffee, and tells me there’s water in the room. All the while we’re walking. Back through the turnstiles, where we skip the elevator for a carpeted staircase and up to the first floor. There, we go through a set of thick wooden doors and into a busy office with its hum of conversation and sleek overhead lighting and people with jobs and goals and purpose. A small conference room is next, its glass walls frosted for privacy.
On the table is the promised water. Only one glass because there is no person on the other side of the table to meet me, only a large television screen, which in a few minutes will beam the faces of my interviewers.
“I’m going to be just over here,” Caroline says, pointing to a chair out of my eyeline. “Just in case the screen goes.” She crosses her fingers. “Hasn’t happened yet.”
I sit, pressing my fingers to the arms of the chair and to the table, trying to orientate myself. The air inside the room is cool, the blinds drawn to keep out the sunshine. Caroline takes her seat and I pour myself a glass of water as the screen flashes.
Three men in dark blue suits appear before me.
I take a breath and smile.
“Have a good evening!” Caroline calls as she sees me out of the building. I wait until she vanishes back inside before I check the time on my phone.
I was in there for just over an hour.
It went okay, I think. My Ireland excuse was perfect on why I wasn’t picked up somewhere else. I needed a break. Needed time to see my family and catch my breath so I’d be raring to go. I joked about it and, thank God, they were the joking kind of interviewers, less grilling more conversation. They laughed. They understood. We went through my experience, through my work and then the questions came.
Would I be open to travel? Yes, I could make it work. No, I have no family obligations, no big commitments outside of work. That’s not to say work is all there is. Oh no. That would be unhealthy. I like to run and I’m thinking about getting into cooking. Really into cooking. A life outside work is important to me, so long as that life doesn’t interferewithmy work.
Adrenaline has my hands shaking with a fine tremor, a smile pulling at my lips.
I nailed it.
I know I did. I…
