Sinnerman

Chapter 3 Writers & Rascals

Evie didn't need to be told of the calibre of the office she'd stepped into.

The offices of Hargreaves Lansdowne & Lowe let her know instantly of the high profile nature of the exceedingly rich, blue-blooded corporation. The lobby was an amalgamation of towering glass and stainless steel.

The floor composed of taupe, sleek marble that rattled off a tattling echo of every foot-tread that crossed it. The back wall of the foyer was a warm, walnut tile marbled with blue and silver.

The reception desk is an indomitably huge black block taking up a vast quantity of the posh space, each end of it crowned with red and white arrangements of saffron crocus's, calla lilies' and orchids that she imagines is twice her height and costing more than her pay check.

The desk was squared strategically opposite the revolving door entrances, squat slabs of black sofas are sparsely dotted with the odd white collared worker gabbling into a phone or with their eyes glued to tablet screens before them.

Evie totters slowly over to the desk, to receive a stony look from a snowy pale receptionist with severely elegant cheekbones. Her lips a violent slash of tulip red, her toffee hair silkily piled into a side arrangement. Complex silver accessories dripped from her lobes to her shoulders.

Her poky, sharp shoulders made more boxy by the complex Armani tux she wore. Accented with blouse sporting an oversized bow that on anyone else would have softened her appearance. She suspects the reason for the woman's taciturn glare was due to the fact that she slightly resembled a straggled drowned rat.

She'd taken an Uber here from the office, but the grid of traffic threatened to make her rudely late. So she made a dash for it from a couple of blocks down.

The skies had opened an hour prior and she had dodged under awnings and done anything to keep semi-dry, and she had been almost successful. But her dark grey pinafore dress gave away the streaks of water that had been spattered down her as did the slight squelch of her cheap black work heels.

Her navy cardigan clad shoulders felt a touch damp, as was doubtless the white blouse she had on underneath her dress. Her hair that she'd pinned back this morning now drooped a fair bit, straggled ends beaded and dark with rain.

Her glasses fogged, so she tore them off and clutched them as she approached the desk, praying her simple makeup hadn't run too much. And that her cold, red nose wasn't dripping.

She didn't dare touch the polished surface of the desk as she stood meekly, and timidly stated her purpose to the flawless Chanel mannequin opposite.

The woman said nothing as she tapped a number into a phone and gave a very curt response to the other end. When she spoke Evie heard a Baltic or European lilt that beautifully caressed and rolled her voice. "Take a seat." She orders in a detached voice.

Evie thanks her and slid away, taking up residence nearby on one of the gigantic chunks of leather settees. She shuddered as she walked, pulling her cardigan sleeves up to her knuckles.

The cool air in the lobby was starting to creep into her skin. She nudged one foot against the other with disdain. Not only were her shoes wet, but they were scuffed and peeling on one toe. As if she needed reminding of how shabby she was in comparison to the polished, glittering, refined people that this place was used to welcoming into its ranks.

She tries quickly tucking up the worst wet strands of her hair, stuffs her soaked cardigan deep down in her bag. Taking out her notebook and pen in readiness for the interview. She tucks one ankle behind the other and folds back one misbehaving curl of hair behind her ear.