London born Gigi Lastra is struggling to make ends meet let alone make it big in the music business and make a name for herself. Working two jobs to keep her life afloat and provide for her family she's haunted by her past. That's until she meets t...
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Slapping my hand against the whirring printer I inwardly groan. These printers never bloody work, ninety percent of the time you have to fiddle around with them for at least half an hour before they finally tell you there's no paper or the inks run out. I stamp my foot against the marble floor shuffling paper around in the trays, agitated. Mr Berkeley needs these documents for his meeting in a few minutes and I really can't afford to piss him off today.
Mr Berkeley is the head of Berkeley Public Relations Limited, he's a very... difficult man to get along with. I've been working at Berkeleys for around three years now and the man still doesn't know my name, some days its Grace or Gabby and sometimes it's even Ramona. Seriously? Who the fuck is Ramona? He couldn't be any further from Gigi if he tried. He's tiring, to say the least, especially when he has me working for twelve hours some days. The pays good but the hours are long, I start at eight most mornings and finish whenever he decides he wants me to finish. On top of working at Niki's and gigging, I'm pretty fucking exhausted... all the time. Mr Berkley is a very respectable man who owns a large chain of offices across the world, one in LA, Toronto, Madrid, Moscow, Melbourne and even Shanghai, and obviously the one I work at in Mayfair. The company is one of the largest PR firms in the world right now with important clients flying in from all over the world for all different matter of things, mostly advertising for important celebrities.
I groan again, Mr Berkeley has more money than he knows what to do with and yet he still can't buy decent fucking printers. I hit the side of the printer again, with more force, ramming the documents through the numerous trays.
"Is it playing up again?" Francesca walks in and places her petite body into the large leather swivel chair behind reception.
"When isn't it playing up?" I sigh and raise an eyebrow.
Frannie giggles, answering the ringing phone under the desk,
"Berkley public relations limited, Francesca speaking..." she says down the line in her formal voice. I turn back to the printer, I'm seconds away from throwing it at a sodding wall.
Frannie's the only person I've made friends with during my time with the company, she's so smiley and bright. I call her my ' sunshine' because she always manages to brighten the emotionless rooms here. The rest of the company is filled with boring fucks in expensive pinstripe suits and Prada dresses, the kind of people who have never had to worry about anything or anyone but themselves. Sometimes I feel the urge to scream in their Botox filled faces but weighing out the pros and cons I always come to the conclusion that I really need to keep this job, so I just smile and deliver their fancy soymilk lattes.
I continue fighting with the machine as she finishes her phone call and immediately picks up the next one waiting on the line. The printer sounds like its coughing and I realise I'm finally getting somewhere when sheets of warm paper come flying into the bottom tray. I let out a breath of relief and turn to face Francesca who is still on a call. I lean my achy body against the filling cabinets, my eyes wandering to the clock sat on the side of the desk. 11:09. I'm surprised I'm still awake and haven't collapsed under my office desk yet, I'm running on purely red bull and iced frappes. My head is killing me and all I want to do is go home, open a tub of Ben and Jerrys and watch endless amounts of Geordie Shore until fall into a yearlong sleep.
