The Bottom of the Sea

Part 6: First Impressions

After the worst and shortest job interview in the history of the world, I did what anyone would do. I fled.

Our eyes met for about a half minute. Donnelly had jumped up and out of his chair to survey the damage as I backed slowly out of the office, hand over my mouth in horror. I turned and nearly crashed into the lady from the front desk, before running out the door.

"Are you alright?" I heard her call as I ran.

Fuck. I kept repeating the word with each hurried step. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My face was flushed; I felt like some internal furnace in my body was set on blast, and yet I shivered in the late-summer sun. What in God's name was wrong with me?

I'd been feeling unwell since I arrived in Locke's Harbour, but the nausea came and went. It was nerves; always being fearful and on high alert was clearly taking a physical toll, and now it just cost me a job. Goddamn that Shane. Goddamn him straight to hell.

I limped along, cursing the decision to leave my comfortable sneakers at home and wear a stiff pair of beige flats because they would be more 'professional.' Little did I know that I'd end up projectile vomiting on the editor in chief. I was pretty sure he didn't notice my shoes.

The shoes were hard and unyielding, and pinched my feet. In a fit of rage, I ripped them off, stomped on them and threw them into my shoulder bag, walking along the hot sidewalk in bare feet.

I wanted to cry, but there's no way I was giving the little town one more thing to talk about — the screwup from 'away' who barfed at a job interview and then cried all the way home. I'd wait till I got back to the house to cry my eyes out. Then I'd crawl into bed for the rest of the day, possibly the rest of my life.

"Hey! HEY YOU!"

I heard the first shout, but I didn't think it was aimed at me. When I heard the second one, I turned around. Oh no.

Donnelly had pulled up alongside me in a champagne gold Mercedes. A fucking Mercedes. "What are you crazy, walking when you're ill? Get in, I'll drive you home." He looked even more annoyed with me than when I first entered his office.

"Sorry to ruin your day. I'm fine, thank you anyway." I limped along, tiny pebbles digging into my feet. I refused to look at him as he drove alongside me at a snail's pace.

"Don't be stupid. Get in the car."

I ignored him and kept walking. I was already completely humiliated. I didn't need his pity.

A loud honk startled me. Annoyed, I stopped walking and glared at him.

"I'll just keep following you all the way home, so you might as well get in." He stared at me and gave the horn one more long blast, jarring my already-frayed nerves. A small lineup of cars had formed behind him, aggravated that he was going 10 kilometers an hour on the busy main street. They joined in with the honking.

Frustrated, I gathered my bag and got on the front seat. I rolled the window down and covered my eyes with my hand as he drove. The hot summer wind felt good on my face. Besides, I couldn't look at him.

He cleared his throat. "Are you alright?"

"I've been better," I said, my eyes still closed.

"You're interested in the job, I take it?"

"I was."

"But not now?"

I pulled my hand away from my eyes and turned to look at him. Was he serious?

My throat tightened up, and I could barely speak. To add to the full humiliation package, tears began to slip down my cheeks.

"Ah, Jesus. Don't do that." He rummaged around until he found a small packet of tissues. "Here."

Grateful, I took them and wiped my eyes.

"Look, take a few days and then come back and see me again when you're feeling better. I need a photographer. They pay is shit and if you're from the Calgary Herald, the job will be dead boring. But if you're halfway good and you won't bail on me like the last guy, the job is yours."

I couldn't believe what I'd heard.

"Really?" I dared to look at him then. He was handsome — if I was interested in that sort of thing. His hair was so black, it glinted nearly blue in the sunlight and was cut in a trendy fade. He was tanned and looked like he had a permanent five o'clock shadow. In contrast to his dark looks, his eyes were a startlingly light green. He probably had the women in a tizzy in the small town; he looked like he should be on the cover of GQ instead of running a crappy little paper in the middle of nowhere.

"On a trial basis. I don't know you from Adam. But Missy says you're alright, so that's enough for a test run. Besides, you're the only one who applied for the position," he said, giving me a side-eye. "Just get well first."

I felt a fresh wave of humiliation. "I am so sorry," I said, looking at my hands. "I don't know what happened, I was feeling fine earlier, but I guess I have a bit of a bug." I glanced at him. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't need those files on my desk anyway," he said. "Or my leather briefcase." He winced.

I cringed, as he turned up the driveway to my rented house. I realize I hadn't told him where I lived, but clearly Missy had already filled him in on what little details she knew about me, including the fact that I'd worked at the Herald. This guy must be totally desperate to give someone like me a chance.

"Do you have a portfolio?"

I nodded, fishing around in my bag. I handed him my card with the web address of my digital portfolio. I could still feel the hot flush in my cheeks.

He nodded. "Come by on Monday if you're feeling up to it. I'll give you a week's trial. The hours are 10 am – 4 pm with some after-hours work if any news actually happens around here, which is rare. You good with that?"

I cleared my throat, feeling brave. "Yes. And you won't regret it. I'm a professionally trained photographer with years of experience. I can't be much worse than whoever is taking your photos now. The lighting and composition are way off; they're pretty bad."

He sighed. "That would be me," he said. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for a hole to open up under my feet to swallow me up. He shook his head. "I don't know if I'm crazy or desperate, but welcome to the team, Miss—"

"Keane. Sarah Keane," I said, extending my hand without looking at him. He gave it a curt shake.

"See you Monday, Keane. Now rest up. You look like shit."

"Thanks," I mumbled, getting out of the car. I gave him a small wave as he backed down the driveway,

I had a job. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I'd make it after all.

I climbed the steps to the house and unlocked the door when I heard a shout from my left. It was Missy, hurrying over with a Tupperware container in her hands.

"I heard what happened, you poor, poor thing." I felt my jaw literally drop. The gossip network in this town was startlingly efficient.

"I know, small towns are awful. Margaret from The Light called, she said you were awfully sick," she said, hurrying up the stairs. "I defrosted some homemade chicken soup. Even if you just get the broth down, that'll be good. It's made with lots of garlic."

She talked fast as she handed me the warm container. She smiled and turned to leave.

I looked with wonder at this woman, who seemed incapable of taking a hint and hellbent on getting to know me better, despite my best efforts. I sighed.

"Missy, would you like to come in? I'm not much company, but I could make you some tea."

She turned back, looking like she was trying very hard not to hug me.

"I would love to. Now, you go up and get into your comfy pjs, I'll dish this up we'll have a good natter. And I'll make the tea, silly."

"That would be great," I said, meaning it.