Page 37 of Sincerely Yours, Anna Sherwood

It’s not that I’m not used to public speaking. But this isdifferentfrom anything I’ve done at school or university. This isimportant. The next hour could be the thing that makes or breaks my future at Arrowmile – my futureanywhere, depending on how well (or how horrendously) it goes.

And besides that, this is serious, grown-up, real-life stuff at stake. If I mess it up, it could set back projects massively. What was the worst thing that would happen if I flubbed my lines in the school play, or got my facts a bit muddled up in a school council meeting?

My brain immediately goes into a full-on spiral. I imagine having the wrong numbers in my presentation or having completely misinterpreted things, and the project being shut down when it shouldn’t be, and everybody blaming me, and having to hand back my laptop to Michaela in shame while everyone stands at their desks judging me. Or, God, what if I’ve misread the meeting invite somehow, and I’m not supposed to be presenting on the Vane engine at all? I’ll waste everybody’s time and they’ll be wondering how in the hell I got a place on this internship in the first place, and Illustrious Leader/CEO Topher Fletcher will be shaking his head in disappointment and that look will haunt me in every job interview I ever have after this …

And all of a sudden, they’re here.

The glass door is opening, people starting to file in, chattering away. I desperately try to put names to faces I’ve only seen once or twice, or only on their little profile picture attached to their email contact. Freya gives me an encouraging wave when she takes her seat, but it only makes me feel worse – a fellow intern here to bear witness for the rest, if I crash and burn.

Michaela is one of the last in, walking in with Dylan’s boss Fiona, and Topher.

She cuts herself off mid-sentence to say, ‘Hi, Anna! All ready to go?’

‘Yep.’ My voice comes out reedy and thin. I clear my throat as I plaster on a smile, hoping they can’t see through it. I also hope they can’t see the sweat beading around my hairline.

‘Great! Big responsibility, leading this one. Don’t let me down!’

Aw, Michaela, did you have to put it like that?

I want to melt through the floor. My throat is dry and my mouth full of sawdust and –crap, I left my water bottle at my desk. Is it too late to duck out and grab it? I don’t want to look unprepared or make a bad impression. That was the whole point of being here early, wasn’t it?

I try to wet my lips, pretending to fidget with my laptop as I do a quick head count. ‘It looks …’ My voice is so quiet only two people look up. I try again, and wince when it comes out too shouty. ‘It looks like everybody’s here, unless we’re expecting anyone else …?’

Heads swivel, then shake.

Michaela smiles at me. I think it’s supposed to be encouraging, but I could swear she’s just grown fangs, turned into some monstrous harpy sent here to torture me. ‘The floor’s all yours, Anna.’

I pull up my pre-prepared script in my mind, getting started. I launch into my ‘Thanks for making the timefor this’ spiel and run through the agenda for the meeting, but I don’t get much further before Michaela gently clears her throat.

‘Maybe before you go any further, you could give everybody a quick introduction, Anna?’

‘Oh, well – that’s my next slide, actually.’

Was she not listening to my agenda? Did I imagine saying it at all?

‘I meant introduceyourself,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure everybody’s had the chance to meet you.’

‘Great idea,’ booms Topher amiably, from a few seats down. He nods, as enthusiastic as the Churchill insurance dog. ‘Tell us a bit about you, Annie. We’re always keen to know how our interns are getting on!’

‘It’s …’It’s Anna, but is it also rude to correct him? Shit.Move on, Anna, move on. ‘Okay, great – well, I’ll keep it quick, I know we’ve only got an hour to get through everything …’

I know what Michaela’s doing – she’s making sure I ‘use my platform’, ‘get myself seen’. She’s trying to help me so that I have a better chance of securing a job here after I graduate.

But my quick, stilted list of Things You Should Know About Anna Sherwood (namely, my degree and where I’m studying) means that when I turn back to my presentation, I have no idea where I was. I try topick up the thread of my script, wishing I’d made some flashcards. I dive in head-first, hoping I’ll figure it out soon enough and they won’t notice, but I don’t think it works. I’m very aware of how fast I’m talking, how heavily I’m breathing, the way I stumble over some of the numbers and have to correct myself.

It’s not going well.

It gets worse when the door opens, and someone slips inside. I notice it in my periphery, trying so hard to focus that I’m doing a terrible job of making eye contact with my audience like I know you’re supposed to, and irritation curdles through me. I thought everybody was here? Who else canpossiblyneed to be witness to this car-crash of a presentation? And why are they showing up more than fifteen minutes into the meeting, late by anybody’s standards? Even the CEO got here on time.

I have to pause in the middle of a sentence about spending to gulp down a breath. I also need to stall to remember why it’s so far over the projected budget – because God, why is it way over budget? I knew this. Why don’t I know this? I let my eyes flicker to the end of the table, to the seat that was just pulled out by the interloper.

And …

It’s Lloyd. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

‘Sorry,’ he says, loud enough that he seems to be addressing everyone. ‘Sorry, don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were talking about the development budget – the coolant?’

The coolant!

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