Page 2 of Van Cort
RIVER
Ibrush my hands down the front of my skirt for the seventh time since leaving the house. Force of habit.
A bad one.
The elevator bings, indicating my arrival at the twenty-seventh floor, and I step out into a polished entryway with the company logo emblazoned behind the curved desk.
My heels tap a satisfying rhythm as I walk towards the woman behind the strategically artistic flower arrangement on the desk.
“Hello, I’m here to interview at four with Mr Pierson.”
She barely acknowledges me.
“Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? If you hold, I’ll transfer you. Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? Pleasehold. Pierson, Walter, Smith, you’ll need to call that department directly. Thank you.” I listen to the woman’s stream of words and wonder if she’s paid by the call or the word. She still hasn’t looked up from her screen.
First impressions are important, and she’s ignoring me. It sets my annoyance running.
“Pierson, Walter, Smith, can I help you? Of course, one moment. Pierson, Walter, Smith—”
I hold up my hand, trying to get her attention. “If you could just take a moment, I’m here for a four o’clock with Mr Pierson.” I have a couple of minutes, but I’d hate to be late because the woman can’t look up from her screen.
There isn’t anything wrong with the job I have at the moment. Except I’ve been there for two years, and there are zero career prospects. At least, not for me, it feels. I’m a finance analyst in a big city firm. I have a great degree from a prestigious university, I’ve completed my CPA, and have the experience, but I’ve been overlooked for the last two promotions I went for. So, what’s the harm in looking outside?
Pierson, Walter, Smith is a bigger accountancy firm, and this position would certainly be a step up.
I smooth my skirt down. Again. And then smile at the receptionist. Again.
“Excuse me. I have an appointment, and I really don’t want to be late.” I put a little bite behind my words.
It finally works, and the lady looks up at me, a glare in her eye that I’m happy to hold.
“Mr Pierson is still in a meeting. I suggest you go and wait. He may be some time.”
“Thank you.” I smile and take a seat on one of the plain but chic chairs just down from the desk.
And wait.
And wait.
Until it’s past five.
“River-Spring Anderson?” I can see the slight smirk on his lips as he calls my name.
I stand and hold my hand out to him. “Please, call me Andie.”
I keep my face neutral and hold his gaze, but he seems less than bothered about running his over me from head to foot.Great.
He shakes my hand. “Shall we?” He leads the way to his office and holds the door open for me. Nothing about keeping me waiting for over an hour.
As I step into his office, it’s clear he’s got an ego or is overcompensating for something. The big glass windows, the bar in the corner, the desk that looks hand-carved and completely out of keeping with the rest of the room. And nobody else is in here.
He settles on the leather sectional to the side and indicates for me to take a seat. I smile, of course I do, and perch with my knees and ankles closed.
Mr Pierson must be in his mid-to-late fifties, wearing a well-fitting suit; the leather of his shoes shines as he crosses his ankle to his knee.
And I wait for the interview to begin.
“That’s an interesting name there,” he says. It’s not an original start, but one I’m well practised in handling.
