Chapter 3: Jayne
Sleep was not a luxury I enjoyed on Sunday night.
Earlier in the day, I got a call from a nice lady who told me I was to report to HR and the company was excited to have me on board. She briefly confirmed my salary and benefits, which came as a complete shock to me since I had taken the job without knowing what it paid.
If that isn’t the definition of desperation, I don’t know what is.
It turns out the pay was almost double my last wage, which would go a long way toward getting me into a nicer apartment. I guess that’s the difference between the struggling start-up I used to work for and a successful company.
So an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off this morning, I gave up trying to sleep.
I must have twisted and turned a hundred times, trying to find a position that didn’t make my heart feel like it was rattling in my chest. My brain wouldn’t stop spinning with thoughts—what to wear, who I’d meet, what my desk would look like, if I’d even have a desk. Would they like me? Would I be good enough?
Around 4:45 a.m., I finally gave up, made a cup of tea I didn’t drink, and stood in front of my closet for twenty full minutes trying to decide if “trying too hard” was better or worse than “not trying hard enough.”
The lobby of the building is quiet so early in the morning, but it isn’t a comforting silence. It’s an absence of bustling, a void of progress. The few noises, a cough here or a scuffle of feet on the marble floor there, echo around the empty room.
The air is cool, with the sharp, clean scent of lemon floor polish, and everything feels polished to the point of sterility. Even the plants look too perfect to be real.
A few people are talking in small groups with hushed voices, and a couple sits on the couches lining the front windows near the entrance.
I pay careful attention to what everyone is wearing, hoping I made an acceptable choice for my first day of work. I opted for tan flared trousers with nude heels and a white wraparound blouse. I consider myself to be average size, but my judgmental mother would call me fat, so I chose heels that make my legs look leaner. Looking around, I think it’s a good outfit. It’s professional, but it doesn’t stand out.
I exhale, trying to calm the flutter in my chest that hasn’t let up since I walked through the doors. I remind myself that I earned this job—technically—but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m out of my depth. Like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life by mistake.
A group of women stand together near the front, and I close the distance between us to ask for directions. They look deep in conversation, but they are smiling. When I clear my throat to speak, the pleasant atmosphere tilts. They turn in unison to look at me, and I’m momentarily taken aback by their poise as they glare down their noses.
It’s like talking to my mother. I’ve trained my whole life for this moment.
I force my grin wider and attempt to push down the disappointment I feel at the thought that I’m going to be working with a bunch of women who remind me of Evelyn.
They are all done up so tight that they look like they could spring apart at any moment. Their outfits are immaculate, and their makeup is flawless.
The kind of flawless that takes two hours and a prayer to achieve. That brand of beauty that’s so polished it feels like armor. And maybe it is.
Standing in front of them, I’m immediately glad I can’t see my reflection in any mirrors.
As I glance from one to the other, my thoughts go to a story I read as a child. One of these things is not like the other. My confidence wavers, but I’m not ready to back down.
Then a crash behind me draws everyone’s attention. An older man has tripped and fallen over one of the carpets at the front doors, and he’s dropped his briefcase.
I rush over to help him back to his feet. “Sir, are you okay?”
I hold his arm, offering him support so he can stand, and look over my shoulder to the women for help. I’m met with ice-cold stares before they collectively turn and walk away without a word. Heaven forbid they break a nail trying to be kind.
I hope everyone else here isn’t like them as I turn my attention back to the man in front of me.
“I’m fine. I just didn’t see the carpet. Only bruised my pride, my dear.” He winces as I bend over to pick up his briefcase.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it was a rather graceful fall.” I try to lighten the mood. But before he answers, someone walks up behind me and clears their throat.
