“Did you tweet that, Nadya?”
“I’m on it.” My fingers glide over the iPhone screen.
@archguru: Just cruised #corniche in Sheikh’s canary #Lambo #LifeIsBeautiful
I snap a picture of my boss, beaming in the driver’s seat of the bright yellow convertible, the Sheikh his passenger. I send the email and do the maths: eleven here means Elliot is at his desk in the London office, probably about to eat his signature egg and watercress sandwich, a.k.a. dinner. He should have this posted to the web any second.
“Tweet is up and photo is about to go live on the site.”
“Fine, Nadya.”
Trailing the all-male entourage into the Four Seasons lobby, I flick through my photo gallery from the past twenty-four hours. Aside from the obligatory site visit this morning, our architectural consultation had been little more than a sustained joyride. What would come of my boss’ escapade? A spectacular design for a world-class Centre for Gulf Heritage, that’s what!
I take my place, hovering in the corner of the Sheikh’s private lounge. Within minutes the smoke begins to irritate my contact lenses badly. I rub the back of hand across my eye and immediately flinch. Shit. I’ve just smeared the thick line of black liquid eyeliner I applied so carefully after lunch. It’s stinging my right eye like mad. I must look like a crazy one-eyed Cleopatra.
With my good eye, I scan the room for a reflective surface. I spot a gaudy mirror just a few feet to my left and slink stealthily around the back of a massive gilded horse sculpture, towards the column. I’m impressed by my ability to remain completely invisible, despite being the only woman within a hundred-metre radius of the Sheikh. I’m also the only person in the room wearing a hemline cut above the shin.
Just as I catch sight of my eyeliner-streaked face, my boss raises his voice.
“The sketches, Nadya.” I see his outstretched hand and my heart races. I sidle awkwardly past the horse, pushing the limits of my pencil skirt. The bottom of my heel catches and suddenly, I’m sprawled face up on the carpet.
The back of my head throbs. Did I bump it on the way down? I’m not sure. I open my eye to a blinding wave of light. I cover my face with my hands to block the crystal chandelier from sight, but everything feels heavy and gooey, like I’m stuck in a tub of molasses.
I turn my head to the left. Brown loafers. I recognize that leather. I’m at my boss’ feet. I shift my gaze and catch his eyes, bulging at me. His stare screams: “Get. Up. Nadya.”
I squeeze my left eyelid shut and slide my fingers over the carpet. It’s soft as silk.
My phone vibrates on my desk. The screen lights up, revealing my father’s photo. Will have to call him back when I’m ready to break. I turn the volume up on my iPod. Adele’s voice floods my ears. My hands move swiftly in precise strokes. I set down the x-acto knife and push the ruler to the side. The model is coming together.
I smile. This is my happy place.
Around midnight, my stomach growls. I reach into my pocket to feel for change as I make my way to the vending machine. I drop my coins in and retrieve a Snickers bar. Swallowing the first bite, I call my father.
“Still working?,” his voice is gruff, but warm.
“Into the homestretch. Final crit is tomorrow! You?”
“Just got back from dinner with a client who says he knows of a position that would interest my soon-to-be-architect daughter.”
“As an architect?”
“Yes. Well, I mean, working for an architect. Someone you’ve surely heard of, he said.”
“Huh. What’s the position, exactly? Like a drafter? Or a model-builder? It makes a difference, Dad. To be honest, I’d really prefer not to be a CAD monkey after I graduate.”
“I’m not exactly sure, dear. But he did say something about international travel and working very closely with a world-class architect. Apparently highly sough- after. I’ll text you his contact details. Don’t be silly, please. This is a good contact. Write to him immediately.”
“Uh huh. Thanks, Dad.”
“Nadya?”
“Uh huh?”
“Immediately.”
“Uh huh. Love you.”
Hands grip the backs of my arms and cologne floods my nostrils. I gasp for air and the back of my head begins to throb again. My feet touch the ground and I realise I only have one shoe on. I stand at a tilt, propped against the armchair. My boss is no longer sitting. I feel like a wounded, one-eyed animal. My hair smells like feet.
This is not my happy place.
“The sketches. Um, sketches…” My voice trails off as I scan the room with my good eye. I can’t see my boss anywhere. I gesture towards the leather portfolio that is now wedged beneath the horse’s golden hoof. I can’t find my shoe. I don’t see the Sheikh. The room is empty, except for the nice fellow who just picked me up off the floor. Now, he’s standing in the doorway. My cue to exit.
I always imagined that I would quit this job before I could be fired. I locate my iPhone and script a final tweet.
@archguru: Seeking new exec asst. Intl travl & lack of dignity required. Clumsy candidates need not apply!
