Chapter 5
My first week at Wilkinson, Strauss & Co. flew by in a whirlwind of introductions and activities which left me so fatigued that at the end of each day, more often than not, I’d forgo dinner for some much-needed sleep and wake up early the next morning only to begin the cycle again.
Since she worked from home as a copywriter, I could tell that my nine-to-five lifestyle got on Paula’s nerves, but tactfully she remained silent and all for the best too. The work left me frustrated, and the way things with Kane ended didn’t much help matters, especially after upon returning home on that Sunday morning I stripped to find that the beast of a man had left a hickey on my neck, which meant that until it disappeared I was stuck wearing high-necked button ups and dresses in public.
The company I worked at before was a small startup consisting of five other workers besides me including our boss, Riley, a frat bro type who wore grease-stained tees and sweat pants to work. It was the exact opposite Wilkinson, where it appeared as if everyone came dressed in meticulously ironed slacks, button ups, and stilettoes.
But I was a fast learner, and my livelihood was literally on the line here so I worked myself ragged to ensure that by the end of the week I was used to the routine and sure of the role I’d been hired to play within the corporation, which didn’t mean I did not break into song as soon as the weekend rolled around, delving headfirst into my very own personal definition of debauchery i.e. sleeping in, pigging out on carbs as I religiously watched Netflix shows with storylines that looked like they’d been scripted by a fourteen-year-old on Wattpad, etc.
Within the blink of an eye, however, my two days of bliss flew by and all too soon I was up at six a.m. on the Monday of my second week glaring dubiously at my reflection in the mirror as the upbeat voice of a YouTube beauty influencer carried through the space of my shared flat with tips on how best to execute a winged eyeliner.
The end result on me came out looking like a smudged letter U—a far cry from the perfect wings she now boasted—and I let out a mini cry of exasperation, as every single fiber in me struggled with not giving into my urge to chuck away the eyeliner bottle.
Up until now my biggest foray into the world of makeup was a tube of lip gloss, but that was before my move to New York, where I hoped to give myself a whole makeover, personality transplant and all. I wanted people back home to stop if they saw me at a street corner and get into debates with themselves.
I wanted to be Aurora Martin 2.0, who I envisioned as a femme fatale type with a boyfriend who would never even think of cheating on her, because the breakup hadn’t been all that long ago, and I still struggled with my self-image. Sometimes I could feel myself curl up inside at the sight of utterly gorgeous women, comparing myself to them as I simultaneously wished I could disappear.
It was completely fucked up that I’d let David get away with taking so much from me, and while he may have played a part in my resolve to be an overall better version of myself, for the most part it was all pure female rage.
I’d woken up a little before five a.m. to make sure I had time to doll myself up, but my failed attempts at a face beat were starting to get on my nerves and I let out another frustrated mini scream just as a bleary-eyed Paula walked into the bathroom. She froze at the doorway.
“Is this what we are?” she asked with an arched brow. “Is this what we represent?”
Ouch. She wasn’t pulling any punches, apparently, and I winced, holding up the container of eyeliner in reply.
“Jesus, Rory.” Paula gave a longsuffering sigh, rubbing sleepily at her eye as she closed the distance between us in three long steps and snatched the eyeliner from me, gently setting it on the sink. “You’re hopeless, you know that, right?”
Mutely, I nodded as she wet a corner of a towel stained with the results of failed earlier attempts and started to wipe my face clean. When she finished, Paula gave me a tender pat on the cheek.
“Okay, other than Halloween I don’t know what look you were going for.” She pulled away. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not unsalvageable.”
“I love you,” I declared, clapping my palms together like she was the Virgin herself and I, a besotted admirer. “You know that, right?”
She gave a dismissive wave.
“I just woke up and I don’t care. Now get the fuck outta here. I need to pee.”
•
The popular saying went that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and I agreed, because it went without saying that in my flame red bodycon knee dress and patent leather nude heels I looked all kinds of fatal, and none of them painless.
As soon as I pulled it on Paula had let out a wolf whistle, which was how I knew I’d made the right choice, and as soon as she was finished styling my hair she whipped out her phone and ordered an Uber in spite of my protests stating I could leg it, magnanimously announcing that not only were my shoes not made for walking, but that I looked like a walking danger sign and would cause traffic wherever I went.
Of course I’d figured that she was exaggerating in true Paula fashion, but as soon as I stepped out of the Uber and onto the streets it became quite evident that I had the eyes of every person within walking distance of myself.
At first I’d assumed that I was just in the way, but when the stares persisted even after I stepped into the commercial building that housed the Wilkinson offices I was faced with the undeniable fact that for the first time in my life I was the center of attention, and for the life of me I did not know how I felt about this.
I worked on the third floor, and as I waited to be admitted into one of the elevators the weight of stares pressed onto every visible curve of my body made me dizzy with second hand embarrassment, which I was quick to shrug off as soon as I remembered that this was what I’d come looking for after all.
Smooth metal doors slid open, revealing an interior of polished wood cramped full of sleekly dressed men, and I was aware of the exact moment its occupant’s laid eyes on me as the easy flow of their conversation came to an abrupt halt.
A few got off, though they were nowhere near as many as I would’ve liked and I swallowed, considering for a moment the possibility of taking the stairs instead. However, I wasn’t about to risk falling on my face in a lobby full of strangers, effectively ruining my entrance, so I steeled my nerves and stepped into the elevator, hitting the illuminated 03 digit when I noticed that no one was making a move to do anything.
The doors slid slowly shut, and inside oppressive quiet grew, leaving me with time to debate the wisdom in covering my derrière with the handbag I held since I stood in front of the group and could only imagine how many eyes were trained on it.
Behind me, the occasional whisper followed by a quickly snuffed out snicker gave away the fact that I’d become the subject of discussion, but I ignored everything, lifting a hand to get stray wisps of hair away from my eyes as I counted down the seconds until I could be rid of them.
“You work at Wilkinson?” a voice asked, cutting through the silence with an ease of knife through butter, and it was a moment before I realize that I was the one the question had been directed at.
“Yes,” I answered, sparing a glance at the man who’d asked the question—handsome with a hint of stubble, and obviously muscular even thorough the jacket he had on, standing with an easy confidence that seemed to declare him as the leader of this particular pack of suit wearing bros.
Our eyes met, his twinkling with a mischief that reminded me of David, and slowly, deliberately, I looked away, shifting my gaze up to the floor indicator.
A beat passed, and then he cleared his throat.
“I work in Finance—the floor above yours.” He held out a hand, leering at my chest even though the halter neck of my dress effectively covered all the goodies. “I’m Tristan.”
Against my better judgment, I found myself accepting the hand and felt a wave of revulsion wash over me at the thought of how he would probably use the same hand later on in the day to scratch his balls. He seemed the type, and the fact that he let his grip linger on for longer than it needed to helped matters even less.
“Aurora,” I said, barely holding back a grimace as I pulled away. A knife-edged smile cut across the expanse of his face, as if he could sense my lack of interest and it intrigued him.
“Aurora,” Tristan repeated after me, and I ignored the impulse to roll my eyes. “That’s an unusual name. Are you new here?”
Luckily, at that moment the doors slid open before a need to reply arose, and taking my cue, I breezed out without hesitation into the Wilkinson lobby that I’d become so familiar with.
“I look forward to getting to know you!” he called out, much to the delight of his cronies who burst into fits of raucous laughter as the elevator doors slid shut, but I refused to look back much less supply a reply.
He reminded me of David so much, and I found it hard to believe that once upon a time I’d found that type of cocky assurance adorable, the kind that usually emanated from an entitlement to his place in the world and to my attention. It was obscene.
Holding back a shiver, I took a deep breath to steady myself for the day I had ahead of me, holding it in for as long as it took to regain my composure, and then I continued forward.
•
I worked as a Consumer Analyst, and about eight hours of each of my weekdays was spent in a compact two-by-four Wilkinson office that I shared with two others, going through page after page of consumer demographics and market spreadsheet reports until it felt like my eyes would fall out of my head.
Luckily for me my coworkers didn’t make a big fuss of my appearance, throwing me compliments that did not come off as predatory; and by that I mean Markus, who was shy, went red faced and stuttered out a compliment, while Sidd who’d introduced himself to me as Wilkinson’s resident diva (I kid you not), went completely overboard as soon as he laid eyes on me with finger snaps and cries of, “Werk it, baby girl!”
They informed me that our boss, Rita, would be dropping in to check on us after lunch as she had a meeting scheduled with her supervisor—some big shot whose office had stayed empty since my arrival because he travelled so much—which was a pretty sweet arrangement as she made me nervous. Not long passed before I found myself elbow-deep in a stack of product description samples.
We worked in comfortable silence occasionally broken if one person had something to say, and I was halfway through the stack of documents when Sidd announced that it was time for our lunch break, throwing out a request for us to join him on his quest for a quick bite as he rummaged through the carrier bag on his table for his wallet.
It was a thing of habit, I realized, and true to character Markus turned him down with the excuse that he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing the workload quota Rita had assigned to him.
I opened my mouth to parrot Markus but hesitated instead.
Lunch breaks last week had consisted of wolfing down packets of chips with soda, but I had a well-paying job and lived in a major commercial metropolis now. I wanted to explore everything, but more importantly it made sense that my cuisine should reflect these new changes in my life.
Briefly, a memory of breakfast with Kane flashed through my mind’s eye and my stomach grumbled, but still I remained quiet as I weighed the pros and cons of going out like it was some kind of monumentally important decision, though in a way I supposed it was.
Sidd must have taken my silence for an answer, because by the time I made my decision he was almost already at the door and I called out his name, stopping him in his tracks.
He turned to face me with a sardonic twist to his mouth.
“Gimmie a sec,” I said, leaning forward and guiding my feet back into my shoes before straightening. I reached for my purse and stood up, using the table to maintain my balance.
“Okay.” I braced myself. “I’m ready. Lead the way.”