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Bonus

MADELINE TURNER

Three months after Zoe and Christos’s wedding

LONDON

As the elevator ascends, I vow not to check my reflection for the fifth time, but my resolve crumbles.

What if I have lipstick on my teeth?

I’m really here. I couldn’t believe it when Zoe told me that this man, Sheikh Kamal, was going to interview me in person. Unless I have unrealistic expectations, I think his wanting to see me is a good thing, right?

I take another look in the mirror.

Jesus, it’s like a compulsion. But it’s just that I’m feeling so beautiful.

I’m the very image of an executive, with a dark gray, knee-length pencil skirt and the white silk shirt Zoe chose for me.

Elegant and professional. Mildly sexy, she told me.

I blow a lock of hair out of my eyes. This Chanel haircut that Mom always insisted I wear is pissing me off, and I decide I’m going to let it grow out.

The elevator arrives at its destination, but I don’t move. My insecurity is coming back in full force.

The door opens, and a woman, whom I believe is one of the secretaries, waits for me to leave. As I’m still catatonic, she looks at me like I’m crazy. “Good morning, Miss Turner.”

“Good morning,” I say carefully. I’ve been honest about my very mild dyslexia, but speaking slowly is a habit I picked up to escape my mother’s criticism. “I’m here for the interview with Mr. Kamal.”

“ Sheikh Kamal,” she corrects me.

Ouch!

She looks me up and down, and I dislike the woman straight away. Then I remember what Zoe told me.

Don’t let them intimidate you.

Okay, come on, world , I tell myself. I’m ready.

Nervously, I step out of the elevator, not paying attention to what I’m doing, and apparently turn the wrong way because I bump into someone.

I let out a high-pitched squeal, and it has nothing to do with the fright but everything to do with the hot coffee splattered down the front of my shirt.

With my skin burning, I don’t think and rip off my shirt. My breasts ache from the boiling liquid, and it’s only when I hear laughter that I realize they’ve all stopped to pay attention to my involuntary striptease.

There is someone, however, who looks at me angrily.

I know who he is.

Kamal Hafeez.

My employer. Or ex-employer now, it would be better to say.