Carried Away

First Day

"Jesus fucking Christ," I curse under my breath. I've accidentally smacked my hand on the handle of my bedroom door, something I do almost every damn day. Most people have a cognitive spatial intuition so they know where the parts of their bodies are in comparison to their external environment at all times. Apparently, this does not apply to my hands.

I shake the slight pain off as I head towards the kitchen. I quickly pour myself a cup of iced coffee from the refrigerator and screw on the lid to the travel mug. My heart is beating too quickly. Today is my first day at my new job, in a new country. It's hard to believe that I was finishing up my master's degree in Florida only three weeks ago.

I force my breath to normalize, slowing my heart down to a comfortable pace. "Okay, here we go," I say to myself out loud. I snatch my keys off of the counter and swing my beige and orange messenger bag onto my shoulder. A few more steps take me out the door, down the stairs, through the ground-level door, and into the early morning chill of London.

...

The train ride is minimal. Twenty minutes and a short walk will take me to the office. Not too long ago, that term meant trouble. Now, it means a paycheck. Weird. I don't know why I'm acting so nostalgic this morning. I've technically been an adult for a while now.

The building is large and grey. It's newer and square, like a lot of office buildings in the U.S. That's actually a comfort while, at the same time, being a bit of a let-down. I feel someone stopping next to me.

"You're about forty minutes from the Abbey by train," a very posh-sounding voice prods. I look to my right. Standing about two feet to my right and just slightly behind me is a man in his thirties, with black hair, brown eyes, and a perfectly tailored navy blue suit. I can tell by his eyes that he's joking with me. I fake a laugh.

"Hahaha. I'm actually new here, uh-new to working here," I jumble my words. Smooth as fuck.

"Ahhh," the man leans his head back and smiles as if I've solved a great mystery. "I see. Follow me, I'll show you where to check in," he says, flashing a perfect and very white smile. He's had dental work done.

"Oh, thanks.," I follow him towards the doors. After about six feet, he turns his head to me.

"I noticed the accent. You're American?" His voice is incredibly positive in tone.

"Yea. I just moved here from Florida." My mom said that volunteering information was a way to seem friendly with new people.

"Oh, really? Anywhere near Miami? I love the food there."

"Not quite. I'm from Orlando, the city of facades." This earns a head-tilt from him. He must use product in his hair, because it doesn't move. He waits for me to say something else.

"We've got a two-story McDonald's, though, so there's that," I try a joke and it works. He laughs. He sounds like a dying seal. So this perfect-looking man does have a flaw. I smile back as we go through the door because Mom also said that smiling makes you seem nice and happy.

"Good morning, Jim," the young man at the desk smiles broadly at Dying Seal Man (now a.k.a Jim). Mr. Dying Seal flashes that blindingly-white smile.

"Mornin' Spence! You've got a new girl here. She's funny, too," he extends his arm behind me, but does not touch me. I make a series of mental notes: he altered the style of his speech to seem less posh, he said "you" and not "we" so he probably doesn't actually work here, he complimented me, and he respected my personal space (thank god). I smile my smile built for strangers and say hi.

"Welcome to the building, miss. Can I have your name?" Spencer uses the same tone people in retail use while working.

"Emily Wells," I reply and Spencer starts shifting through a drawer. Dying Seal Man stands, smiling, with his hands folded behind his back next to me. I guess he's waiting to go up with me. He starts shifting his weight back and forth from his toes to his heels.

"Ah! Here we are!" Spencer says too loudly as he holds up a little card with my name, face, position, and a barcode on it. It's got a blue lantern attached to it too, so I can hang it around my neck like the new kid at school with a name tag.

I take the ID and put it around my neck, dutifully. I'm not sure if I need to have this displayed at all times or not. I read that some offices have that rule.

"Thanks, Spence! Have a good one!" Dying Seal Man waves to Spencer and jerks his head to the elevator while looking at me. He wants me to follow him. I do, but remember to turn and say thanks to Spencer after a few steps. He smiles back and waves.

"Have a good day, miss," his voice is loud. I turn and continue to follow Dying Seal Man, aka Jim, to the elevator.

"There's a lift on the other side of the lobby too," he calls over his shoulder as he presses the UP button. I stand next to him and nod twice. There a few seconds of silence, but he doesn't let it linger.

"So, your name's Emily?" he spins at his waist so his torso is facing more towards me. He's still smiling.

"I prefer Emma, if that's alright."

"Of course, Emma. I'm Jimmy." He reaches his hand out and leaves it there for a handshake. I hate handshakes. Men use them to establish dominance. I don't see why women have to since we don't need tricks to know our standings with men or other women.

I shake his hand though, because I should and I don't want him to think I don't like him. I say, "Nice to meet you," like I was taught.

The elevator doors open and we step inside. He lets me go first and then follows. "Do you know which floor you're going to?" Jimmy asks.

"Yea. They told me I'm on the seventh floor."

"Ooooo. That's pretty high up for a new girl. What are you going to be doing at Channel 4?" He doesn't seem patronizing, but rather genuinely curious. I tempt a lighter tone to seem more friendly. He presses the buttons for floor seven and floor nine.

"I'm a researcher. From what I can tell, I'll be fact-checking shows as well as researching stories for the topical programs. I basically try to make sure no one accidentally gets a figure wrong." I play down my job description. I'm not trying to seem important.

"Ah. I see. It's people like you that keep me out of the papers, well, more than normal," he jokes and gives a shrug. He's in the papers? I don't really know what to say, so I just smile at his joke. I hope this guy isn't someone important. I've seen on TV how people treat new women who make friends with male bosses early on. I don't need that.

"Have you seen much of the shows on Channel 4?" Jimmy asks.

"Uh- a few. I didn't actually have access to a lot of them in Florida and I wasn't able to get a TV here until yesterday. I'm a bit behind," I add, scratching the back of my head.

"What? No TV until yesterday? How long have you been in Britain?" He feigns indignance. He must be a tv personality. No regular person acts like that with a total stranger.

"Only about a week," I say honestly.

"So, you're a fresh one?" He jokes, still acting but this time he's astonished. "As a gentleman, I must ensure your successful integration into English society. What's your mobile?" Jimmy pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He isn't asking me if I'll give him my number. He's just asking which number out of the infinite combinations is mine. I break my self-imposed rule and tell him. I can always ignore his calls if I want.

He punches the number into his phone along with my name. He puts it under "Emma" only, rather than my full name, which is weird. The only contacts in my phone that don't have full names on them are my parents. Even my grandmas are put in under Myra Heath and Eunice Wells.

Just when he's done, the doors open. Jimmy shoves his phone back into his pocket and grins. "Have a great first day, Emma. Don't break a leg. That'd be a health and safety nightmare."

I step out. "Thanks. Jimmy." The doors close. I turn around and people are buzzing all around. I take a deep breath and head towards the big office on the far-right corner. That's where Mrs. Vicars' office should be, at least that's what I remember her e-mail saying.