CHAPTER 4

The next morning, we arrive at the cafe, and Hailey focuses on taking orders and learning how to make the coffees, while I wash the dishes, and wipe down the tables.

Mark and Grace arrive just after eight o’clock, and sit down at the table they were sitting at the day before.

Hailey takes their orders and makes their coffees. It’s getting quite busy, so I tell Hailey to keep taking orders while I serve people their coffees.

‘Good morning. Your latte and your cappuccino,’ I say, as I place each down in front of them carefully.

‘Good morning, Zurielle. How are you this morning?’ Mark asks, sipping his cappuccino. I freeze for a moment. Did this handsome man just ask me how my morning is? No man has ever asked me how my day is. I’ve been standing here gawking at him in admiration. I blush a little, and look away at Hailey who is taking orders.

‘My morning has been very good,’ I reply, happily. Mark nods and smiles.

‘Good to hear,’ he says.

‘Enjoy your coffees. Call me if you need anything,’ I say, going over to a few customers on another table to take their order.

At the end of my shift, Mark and Grace leave, and wave goodbye. My shift went so quick! I untie the string on my apron and Mr Fulton approaches me.

‘I just had a unique request over the phone, but told him I would run it by you first,’ he says.

‘Oh, what kind of request?’ I ask.

‘Mark from Pure Fashion wants some coffees, and wants to know if you can deliver them personally. He needs help with some paperwork. It would prevent an argument at work, he said. He said he won’t be able meet his deadline without you. He offered to pay you for a couple of hours, as well,’ Mr Fulton explains.

‘Sure, I can do that,’ I reply, smiling. Mr. Fulton hands me a cardboard take-away tray holding three coffees. I take it, wind my way through the tables, and cross the street.

Pure Fashion Industries is abuzz with excitement. Tall, leggy supermodels run around in stilettos and fancy dresses, and everywhere I look people are speaking on their phones. Telephones ring constantly. Make up artists push large makeup trolleys from one corridor to the next, and the foyer I am in smells intensely of different perfumes.

Hung on most walls are large, framed, four-foot-long front covers of Pure Fashion Magazine. From a room on my left, I can see camera flashes, through a door that has been left ajar; it must be a photoshoot.

I approach the main desk where a few older, well-dressed, made-up women sit, constantly answering phone calls.

‘Pure Fashion Industries. How can I direct your call?’ Someone asks. ‘Pure Fashion. Can you please hold?’ Another woman says. It’s mostly these two lines repeated on an incessant loop. I put my right palm on the desk, and tap my fingernails against the desk’s surface, noisily.

Getting their attention, the women scowl at me.

I hum along to the song playing in the foyer, aggravating them even more.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman closest to me asks, annoyed.

‘Yes, actually you can. Where can I find Mark?’ I ask, and they laugh at me.

‘Sorry. You’ll need to book an appointment to see him. You can’t just turn up and see him,’ the woman closest to me explains.

‘He has requested I be here,’ I explain, and their faces change.

‘What’s your name?’ The woman closest to me asks. ‘Zurielle Summers,’ I answer. She raises a brow, picks up her phone, and presses a button for Mark.

‘Mark. There is a Zurielle Summers here, who says you have requested her. Oh. Yes, Sir. I’ll send her right up,’ she says, putting the phone down. She gives the other ladies a weird look.

‘Take the elevator over there and go to the tenth floor. His office is on the right, when you exit the lift,’ she says, sternly.

I step into the elevator, and I am joined by a few other people. The elevator stops at every floor, letting more people in and less off, becoming cramped.

We stop on the eighth floor and I decide it would be quicker to take the stairs. So, I get out of the lift, and walk towards the stairwell sign on the wall.

Staff and models rush around in a hurry, and I hear yelling coming from one of the rooms on my left. Passing this room, the door suddenly swings open, and a man storms out and knocks into me, spilling the coffees I am holding all over his shirt.

Everyone who has just seen what has happened freezes and gasps.

‘What the hell? You’ve spilt coffee all over my shirt! How could you be so careless? I’m just about to go into another meeting,’ he shouts, and is surprisingly startled for a moment when he makes eye contact.

He is super handsome; he has gorgeous blue eyes, dark brown hair, a strong jaw line, and an olive complexion which is clean-shaven. He is well-built, quite fit, and must be around six foot tall. I feel like a little mouse in his presence.

‘Excuse me! Perhaps, next time you decide to have a tantrum, the whole entire city can hear, you watch where you’re going instead of just storming out of a room! You almost knocked me unconscious with your carelessness!’ I retort. I swear, you can hear a pin drop after that. No one dares to move. He tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms, only emphasising the angry look still plastered on his face. He steps closer to me, towering over me.

‘How dare you speak to me like that! Do you know who I am?’ He asks, sternly.

‘I’m speaking to you how you deserve to be spoken to! I don’t care who you are. You’re an asshole. That’s who you are!’ I say, storming off and up the staircase.

He stands there with his mouth open like I have just kicked him in the balls. He turns to look at his gobsmacked colleagues who stand there with their mouths open.

‘Get back to work! All of you! And someone find out who that girl is and what department she works in!’ He yells.

I can’t help but laugh as I make my way upstairs, hearing every word. You won’t find me. I don’t work here.

I pause and lean against the wall for a minute before leaving the stairwell on the tenth floor. What has gotten into me? I’ve never called anyone an asshole before. I’ve never yelled at anyone like that either. I’m always sweet and even-tempered, but the moment I laid eyes on him, his presence zapped me and did something to my mind and my body, giving me a strange, foreign feeling, I’ve never felt before. But then again, I’ve never had someone yell at me like that, and be so rude to me for something they did.

I take a deep breath, plaster a fake smile on my face, and immediately see Grace and Mark, on the tenth floor.

They wave me over to them, with the coffee tray, with their coffees in it.

‘Hey. Where’s yours?’ Grace asks, taking her coffee from the tray on the desk, and handing Mark his.

‘Hey. One of your colleagues was in need of a caffeine-fix, so I let him have mine. Sorry I took so long,’ I say. Grace and Mark nod.

‘Thanks for coming to help. You’re super sweet and super kind,’ Grace says, taking her latte, and sipping from the wax-coated, paper cup.

‘Thank you, Grace. That’s kind of you to say. So, what do you guys do here?’ I ask, wondering.

‘I’m an editor, and in charge of Pure Fashion’s monthly magazine,’ Mark says.

‘I’m an editor too. Well, half the time. I’m an inhouse-model here. When I’m not modelling, I’m in charge of collecting content for the mag,’ Grace explains.

‘Cool. That’s so interesting. You have the best job!’ I gush, and follow Mark over to a computer, where he plonks down a large pile of paperwork on the desk in front of me. I scan through it, and he watches me nod, while I’m reading.

‘I can do this. Leave it with me, and I’ll let you know when it’s all done,’ I say. Mark exhales with relief; he must have thought the paperwork would be too much for me.

‘Thank you! You’re a life saver!’ He says, leaving the room.

A couple of hours later, all of Mark’s paperwork is finalised and stapled in sections, ready for his meeting tonight. I stand, and hand it to him, smiling. He flicks through it, and skims some of the notes.

‘You’ve exceeded all expectations! This is better than I had hoped,’ he says, proudly. I blush a little at his compliment.

‘Thank you. If that’s all, I’ll see you in the morning when you come in for your coffee,’ I say.

‘I won’t miss it,’ he says, winking, clearly admiring me.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I say, smiling and leaving.

I press the down elevator button and a couple women inside, go wide-eyed when I enter.

‘That’s her! The one who yelled at him,’ one of them whispers loudly to other. Everyone in the elevator eyes me, curiously. I feel a little awkward, but feign assuredness, by crossing my arms and leaning back against the elevator wall, giving a yep-that-was-me-and yep-I’d-do-it-again-tough-exterior vibe.

On the ground floor, I leave the building, walk to the bus stop, and head back to the shelter, where I tell Hailey what happened at Pure Fashion. She can’t stop laughing and wishes she was there to have seen it.

Even though he was rude and arrogant, it’s nice to have a good laugh, and to not have to think about my parents and my dog. I hope Mark needs my help again. I give myself a mental pat on the back, remembering how pleased he was with my work.

‘What are you thinking?’ Hailey asks.

‘Nothing, why?’ I ask.

‘You’re blushing over something, or is it someone?’ She asks, winking three times at me, playfully.

‘Oh, am I? Sorry. I think I’m just flustered from the extra work I did today,’ I explain. She stares at me intently for a moment, laughing.

‘Sure,’ she says, coyly.

‘Let’s make dinner,’ I say, standing, and she follows me to the kitchen, where we make a simple pasta bolognaise. We make enough for everyone, and leave a big tub of it in the fridge so they can all help themselves.

‘How are you finding the job so far?’ I ask her.

‘It’s a really nice environment. It’s a bonus when all the hot guys from across the street come in for coffee,’ she giggles.

‘I know exactly what you mean! Have you got your eye on anyone?’ I ask her, twirling my hair around my finger.

‘Most of them seem pretty charming, but then again, so was my ex, until he made me his personal boxing bag,’ she explains.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, patting her hand with mine.

‘I’m sorry for whatever your ex did to you too,’ she says, with a sad smile, and we return to our bedroom.