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Alexandra

To new beginnings

H ow did things get to this point? I would cry if I wasn’t looking so amazing in my new Dior makeup, but this false smile is making my face ache.

“So, Miss Alexandra Turner. Looking at your resume, it appears your highest level of education is a high school diploma. Is that correct?” The bald, overweight man, whose name might be Jose... or John, asks with a grating hint of disapproval.

It galls me that these two interviewers, dressed in their cheap Bullseye store suits, look down their noses at me.

“Excuse me, could you close those curtains? The light is hurting my eyes.” I wave a dismissive hand at the female interviewer, whose sour expression gives the impression she’s just sucked on a sharp lemon.

“Thank you,” I say as she moves slowly to obey.

It’s good to remind them who’s in charge.

“Actually, Jose, I attended Miss Cutter’s School.

You might have heard of it?” I inquire with pride, mentioning the most prestigious girls’ boarding school money can buy.

It doesn’t matter that mother dearest only sent me there to be rid of me—the fucking bitch.

But Lemon Face and Jose don’t need to know those details.

“It’s Juan,” the male interviewer corrects, a flicker of annoyance creasing his sweaty face. It is too hot in here; I wonder if I should ask them to open a window?

“Oh, my apologies Juan!” I exclaim with fake contrition, not feeling the slightest tinge of embarrassment, only annoyance at being interrupted.

“Juan, Juan, Juan. Yes, of course. It must be this heat getting to me.” I smile.

“Say, Juan, could you open that window? Thank you.” I point to the one directly behind him.

“Terribly hot, isn’t it?” I lean towards Lemon Face.

Juan awkwardly rises from his chair with a pained sigh, while I carefully set my Birkin handbag onto the cheap plastic table, after wiping the table first of course.

I enjoy the flicker of awe on Lemon Face’s expression.

I leave my precious bag there, making sure the label is facing her.

Probably the closest she’ll ever get to such high fashion—a kindness, really.

Juan strains to reach the window handle. “Perhaps the other window would be better,” I suggest, pointing to the other wall in the cramped, stuffy room. “Better circulation.”

“This one’s fine!” Juan snaps back, prompting me to recoil. No need to be rude about it! I share an anxious smile with Lemon Face, hoping for some female solidarity but finding nothing. How disappointing. I remove my beige Birkin handbag from the table as punishment.

A refreshing gust enters the cluttered, dinky office room, brushing through my long, wavy blonde hair. Shame the curtains are blocking the pleasant breeze. I’m on the verge of asking Juan to open the curtains, but I remember the blinding light and stop myself.

Juan sinks into the flimsy, uncomfortable chair with a heavy sigh. He glances towards Lemon Face with a grimace. “Where were we?”

Lemon Face begins, “Um, Alexandra, tell—”

“Please call me Lexie. That’s how my friends address me.” I interrupt with a smile. Alexandra contains too many syllables for simple people, not to mention mother gave me that name, and it’s her fault I’m in this mess in the first place!

“Alexandra,” Lemon Face continues, giving a cruel smirk I’d love to slap off her face.

“You’re twenty-four with no university or college education, and no work experience?

” She says it as if in question—a dumb question, considering she’s waving my resume in her hands like a magic wand about to cast a spell.

“Why don’t you tell us what qualifies you for the role of regional manager for Chick’n Lick’n? ”

Their expectant eyes shift to me, a sudden flood of anxiety clenching my fingers. I’m not used to this, not used to having to prove myself.

“Well, you see, during my time at Miss Cutter’s School, I was chosen as Head Girl.

A very prestigious role, demonstrating leadership, team-building, diligence, good work ethic—the list goes on.

” That was until that bitch Stacy told the teachers I was cheating on my exams. I got her back by stealing her boyfriend.

Kissing that toad Todd was worth every painful second.

Lemon Face and Juan don’t seem impressed. They should be. The boarding school was horrific, a constant battle for social status and struggling to meet the impossible standards put upon me. I couldn’t wait to leave, never wanting to see another school ever again.

“So, you left school at, what, eighteen?” Juan asks, to which I nod in agreement. “That makes six years. How do you account for this long gap?”

Does partying and traveling count?

I suppress a sigh. These questions feel more like cruel accusations. Why does everyone always give me a hard time? It must be jealousy—that I have nice clothes, hair and grew up wealthy. Well, that’s not my fault and I will not apologize for it!

“I was working for my father.” The lie tumbles from my lips as easily as stealing Todd was.

In truth, my father abandoned my mother and me when I was just three years old.

He’s fabulously wealthy, a big-time Wall Street banker.

Mother got a massive divorce settlement and generous child support for me.

But that’s long dried up now, and mother dearest seems to have forgotten I’m her only child ever since she met another man—James, a terrible bore of a man.

I think my mother sees dollar signs rather than fluttering stars of love.

“Oh, what field is your father in?” Juan asks, with a sly grin toward his colleague.

“Investment banking. Howard Turner, you might have heard of him?” I reply, my voice tight.

Juan and Lemon Face exchange a look, clearly unimpressed.

My fingers clench under the table, nails digging into my palms. Of course, they don’t recognize the name.

They’re only interested in their precious Chick’n Fuck’n Lick’n.

“Six years’ experience as an investment banker. That’s very impressive, Alexandra. ” Lemon Face lingers on my name with a smile that doesn’t reach her brown eyes. “You are aware this position’s remuneration package is near minimum wage?” she inquires, interlocking her fingers.

My heart pounds in my chest at the talk of money—the desperate reason I’m here. I’ve no idea what the minimum wage is, but it sounds terribly poor.

“Yes, I’m sure when you offer me the position formally, we can discuss such details later,” I answer with a wave of my hand.

Their hands dart to their papers, both scribbling with pens. I frown, leaning forward as Juan appears to be drawing large circles for some reason. He notices me observing him with a nervous smile before shifting his gaze and paper.

“Right, you’ll be glad to know this is the last question, Alexandra,” Juan declares with a deep breath. “What would you say is your greatest strength and greatest weakness?”

I nod, knowing this question is a trick one. The true answer—that I have no weakness—is somehow the wrong answer, as I learned from searching the internet.

“My greatest strength is my passion. When I become focused on a task, I make sure it gets done, and gets done right.” Often, it also gets me into trouble. “My greatest weakness... God, there are so many!” I jest, laughing at the irony. An awkward silence greets me, forcing me to stop.

These two are so dull.

“My greatest weakness is I care too much. If something’s bothering me, I’ll get stuck on it until I can fix it.” I smile with satisfaction, recalling the advice I’d read.

The two interviewers scribble more notes, and I feel a sense of relief that this interview—my first one—is ending.

“Do you have questions for us, Alexandra ?” Lemon Face mocks again, and if not for this formal setting and my desperation, I’d give her a piece of my mind.

I exhale deeply, taking the higher ground. “So, how does this work? You call me later, offering me the position?”

“Not quite,” Juan titters, sounding like an injured bird. “We have a lot of interviews remaining, but we’ll let you know as soon as possible.” He offers a greasy hand, which I’m loath to take, the moistness making me squirm internally. “Okay? Thanks very much for your attendance, Miss Turner.”

“Thank you for your time, Juan.” I offer a hand towards the woman, “And thank you, Lemon...” my words trail off, struggling to remember her actual name.

“Cathy,” she mutters darkly, offering a look of disdain.

“Of course it is! Silly me, it’s that damn heat again!” I give her the weakest and briefest of handshakes. I straighten my gorgeous Chanel suit, colored in light beige and trimmed in black. If I get this job, I’ll make it my mission to have her fired.

Ah, what a lovely thought.

Ten minutes later, I’m buoyed by a good mood, relief the stressful interview is over.

I notice a branch of Goldman Sachs in the bustling high street.

Stopping, I decide to take a selfie, posing with pouting lips and my head over a shoulder near the signpost. Gorgeous and stunning, as always.

But the light isn’t quite right. I take more, many more, until I find the perfect one.

This I post to my social media with the intriguing tagline “To new beginnings!”

This is a new beginning of sorts. I can sense it.

A new job, my own money. No more begging from an increasingly stingy and ungrateful mother.

I would never tell my many adoring fans on social media I’m working for Chick’n Lick’n!

That’s ridiculous. Better to let them think I’m following in my father’s footsteps—a big-time investment banker.

If only he cared enough... loved me enough, to want to meet me.