she spent a few minutes checking that she didn’t look like a femme fatale.
Actually, her appearance would be considered very conservative in advertising circles. But she’d never been a flashy dresser, even when she could afford to be.
Finally, she gave in to her pounding heart and rode the lift up to the third floor. It had been some months since she’d been for a job interview and she felt sick with nerves and tension. Not because she didn’t think she could do the job. Jessie had never been lacking in confidence in her own abilities. But after being knocked back as often as she had, she’d begun to wonder if anyone would ever see what she had to offer.
Still, this chance was the best she’d had so far. An even-money chance.
As Jessie exited the lift on the third floor, she wondered if the other applicant was in there now, being interviewed, impressing the boss so much that he wouldn’t even bother to see her. Maybe the receptionist would say ‘Thank you very much but the job’s already taken’.
Jessie took a deep breath and told herself not to be so silly. Or so negative. Harry Wilde had obviously liked her résumé. Surely, he’d have the decency to give her an interview.
The reception area of Wild Ideas fitted its image. Modern and colourful, with crisp, clean lines and furniture. Red-painted walls, covered in advertising posters. Black tiled floor. Very shiny. The sofas were in cream leather, the desk and coffee-tables made of blond wood.
The receptionist was blond as well, but not overly glamorous or overly beautiful. Possibly thirty, she wore a neat black suit and a nice smile—not the sort of smile used before delivering bad news.
‘Hello,’ she said brightly when Jessie walked in. ‘You’ll be Jessie Denton.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jessie replied, her palms still distinctly sweaty. ‘I’m a bit early.’
‘Better than being late. Or not turning up at all,’ the blonde added ruefully. ‘I’ll just give Karen a ring to let her know you’ve arrived. Karen’s Mr Wilde’s PA,’ she explained. ‘Just take a seat over there for a sec.’ And she motioned towards one of the seats that lined the waiting-room walls.
‘Jessie Denton’s here, Karen,’ she heard the receptionist say quietly into the phone. ‘OK… Yes, I’ll tell her.’
By the time she looked up, Jessie had sat down, leant back and crossed her legs, doing her best to appear cool and confident. Inside, she was a bundle of nerves.
‘Mr Marshall hasn’t finished with the other applicant yet,’ the receptionist informed her. ‘But he won’t be long.’
‘Mr Marshall?’ Jessie choked out, her legs un-crossing as she jerked forward on the seat. ‘But…but…’
‘Mr Wilde is overseas at the moment,’ the receptionist cut into Jessie’s stammering, and before she could recover from her shock. ‘Mr Marshall is in charge while he’s away.’
‘Oh. I see. Right.’ Jessie took a deep breath and leant back again, exhaling slowly. Crazy to think that this Mr Marshall was her Mr Marshall from Friday night. Marshall wasn’t such an unusual name. On top of that, her Mr Marshall was an accountant. What would an accountant be doing running an advertising agency, even temporarily?
‘My name’s Margaret, by the way,’ the receptionist went on breezily. ‘We might as well get to know each other. I probably shouldn’t be saying this but I think you’re more Mr Marshall’s cup of tea than the girl who’s in there now.’
‘Why’s that?’ Jessie asked.
Somewhere on the floor a door banged.
‘Judge for yourself,’ Margaret murmured.
Just then this amazing creature swept down a corridor into the reception area.
The first thing that struck Jessie was her bright orange hair, which looked as if it had been cut with a chainsaw. A rusty chainsaw.
The second was the myriad gold studs and rings that adorned her starkly white face. Ears. Nose. Lips. Eyebrows. Chin.
Lord knew what other parts of her body had been pierced. Possibly a great many.
Thankfully, the girl was clothed from head to foot so Jessie could only speculate. Her style, however, was a combination of grunge and gothic and the garments she sported looked as if they’d been rescued from a charity bin. The kind they used for recycled rags.
‘Tell Harry Wilde to contact me when he gets back, if he’s still interested,’ the escapee from the Addams Family tossed over her shoulder as she marched across the floor in her ex-army boots. ‘I wouldn’t work for him down there if he was the last man on earth. He knows absolutely nothing about the creative soul. Nothing!’
The moment she was gone Margaret looked over at a wide-eyed Jessie and grinned.
‘See what I mean? I think you’re a shoo-in.’
Jessie could not believe that fate had been so kind to her. ‘I sure hope so. I really want this job.’ She simply couldn’t go the rest of her life being a waitress.
The reception phone buzzed and Margaret picked it up. ‘Yes, Karen, I’ll send her down straight away. And don’t worry, he’ll like this one. Your turn,’ she said with an encouraging smile to Jessie as she hung up. ‘Down to the end of that corridor. Go straight in.’
Jessie gulped, then stood up. ‘Er—just one thing before I go. Do you happen to know Mr Marshall’s first name?’
‘Sure. It’s Kane. Why?’
Jessie could not believe how relieved she felt. For a moment there…
She shrugged. ‘I knew a guy named Marshall once and I was a bit worried this might be the same man. Thankfully, it isn’t,’ she muttered, and Margaret laughed.
‘We all have one of those somewhere in our past.’
True. But the trouble was this one wasn’t far enough in Jessie’s past. He was only a couple of nights ago, and could still make her tremble at the thought of him.
Her nerves eased a lot with the surety that the Mr Marshall about to interview her wasn’t Curtis Marshall, married man and sexily irresistible hunk. She also couldn’t deny she felt good that her competition had turned out so poorly. Clearly, Nicholas from Adstaff hadn’t given carrot-top the same conservative-dressing advice he’d given her. Or if he had, she’d ignored him.
The door at the end of the corridor led into the PA’s office. It wasn’t quite as colourful as Reception, but still very nice and spacious and modern. Karen herself was nothing like Jessie had expected Harry Wilde’s PA to be. She was forty-ish. A redhead. Pleasantly plump. And sweet.
‘Oh, thank you, God!’ she exclaimed on seeing Jessie. ‘Did you see the other one?’
‘Yes. Um. I did,’ Jessie admitted. ‘But to be honest, people like that are not unusual in the advertising world. She probably sees herself as an artiste with a certain avant-garde image to uphold.’
‘We don’t hire avant-garde artistes here,’
