Part One

Before

One

Johnson-Pearse Bank, Canary Wharf, London, 2009.

I was nervous.

I was also procrastinating as I sat on a bench and watched men and women scurry by, an endless parade of people with “stuff to do.” I had ten more minutes before heading inside for my interview, and I was draining every last one of those bad boys the same way I was draining every last dreg of my coffee.

Despite having lived in London my entire life, I’d never actually been to Canary Wharf. There’d never really been a reason – until now. It was a strange place, so professional, the smell of money in the air, and yet, just a couple of feet away from me, the guy running the newsstand was very obviously dealing. Growing up where I grew up, it was the kind of thing I noticed. A suit would walk up to him, buy a paper, and he’d slip a little something extra inside. Then the suit would mosey on into his office building to start his day, casual as you please.

It was sort of depressing to know that even in a place like this, drugs were still prevalent. The only difference was that the people here could actually afford them.

Okay, time to face the music. Getting up from the bench, I smoothed my hands down my dress, inhaled a deep breath, and put on my game face. I was determined to bravado my way through the interview, and faking confidence was one of my true talents. Today I was competing for a job as an executive assistant at one of the top investment banks in the country, with only a diploma in administration and too many years’ experience as a barmaid.

I was still a little flabbergasted as to how I’d even managed to score the interview. Address profiling was alive and kicking, and I had a feeling that Johnson-Pearse Bank employed a grand total of zero peeps from my neck of the woods.

I arrived at the reception area and smiled at the lady manning the desk. “Hi, I’m here to interview for the executive assistant position with Mr King.”

She raised a speculative eyebrow, her gaze giving me a quick sweep up and down. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was thinking. She heard my East End accent and immediately wondered what the hell I was doing there. She wasn’t the only one, because despite my calm exterior, I was suffering from a distinct case of impostor syndrome.

Pursing her lips, she finally nodded and directed me to a large office down the hall, telling me to sit and wait outside until I was called. Several other people sat waiting quietly. Some of them looked just as nervous as I felt, while others seemed cool, calm, and collected. Maybe they were faking it, too.

Minutes ticked by. A couple of the other candidates were called into the office, some leaving with smug smiles, and others looking like they wanted to go home and have a cry. I could see myself in the same boat in the not too distant future.

The door opened, and an older man emerged.

“Alexis Clark?” he called, scanning those of us left waiting.

I stood immediately, again wiping my sweaty hands on my dress and stepping forward. I felt like everything outside my body was in slow motion, while inside my heart hammered a mile a minute. Having recently split with my boyfriend, Stu, and subsequently quitting my job at the pub he frequented on a daily basis, I needed employment.

Stepping inside the room, I found I was being interviewed not only by the elderly gent who’d called me in, but by a panel including two others, one male, one female. My eyes briefly scanned the woman, who appeared to be in her sixties and who was appraising me shrewdly. My attention then wandered to the blond guy sitting at the end of the desk nearest the window. He held his phone to his ear and wore a lazy smile as he stared out at the view beyond. He was fit with a capital “F,” too handsome for a banker, if I was being honest. He didn’t have the sleaze-ball look of the young City Boys, nor did he have the cold, money-hungry eyes of the older bankers. No, he had the carefree beauty of a male model, or a Hollywood heartthrob.

His eyes came to me for a brief second, looked away, then came back again in what seemed to be a double take. As he made a slow perusal of my body, a mix of amusement and intrigue passed over his features before his attention returned to his phone call. Okay, so that didn’t make me a tad weak at the knees, no siree, Bob.

“Yeah, okay, Greg, I’ll believe your trash and cash bullshit as soon as I start taking up belly dancing classes and piercing both my ears.” He chuckled cynically, and I got a few goose bumps at the sound of his deep laughter. “I distinctly remember you pulling a stunt like this in ’06. All of a sudden everybody’s steering clear of The Phillips Group, and a week later you’re swanning around in a brand-new BMW.”

The other two sat and waited quietly as he wrapped up his phone call, which led me to believe that despite being younger, Blondie was the one in charge. Huh. After just a minute he ended his call, sliding his mobile onto the desk and clasping his hands together. Then he shot the older guy a glance that said he could begin the interview.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexis. My name is Daniel James, senior managing director here at Johnson-Pearse,” he began, and I shook his hand. “This is Eleanor Price, Mr King’s current assistant, who’ll be retiring soon and whose position we’re looking to fill.”

I shook Eleanor’s hand next. She seemed strict but nice, in a head-mistress sort of way. I could now surmise that Blondie was Mr King, and I guessed he needed someone like Eleanor to keep him in check. If I got this job, I imagined keeping up with Mr Sexy Smile would have me well on my toes.

When Mr James was finally introducing me to Oliver King, head managing director, I felt my trusty bravado kicking in. I wasn’t going to wilt and blush at his attention. No, I was going to hold my head high and be like Eleanor, tough as nails, no nonsense.