Eyes Wide Open

Chapter One Fiona Gillespie wiped a damp cloth half-heartedly over the surface of the bar. It was a pointless exercise. The pub’s fittings and fixtures were so old that no amount of scrubbing would remove the grime that had been ingrained in the wood over the decades. That and the next time she served one of the old drunks who frequented the place, it’d just get beer spilled on it again. Glancing at her surroundings in distaste, Fiona stifled a derisive snort when she caught sight of the swinging pub sign through the window. It had never really registered before, but The Royal Oak? There was nothing remotely royal about the pub in London’s East End where she worked. If an actual royal—even a minor one—so much as stepped foot across the threshold, they’d run screaming in the other direction. A shame, really, as a chance to try to woo Prince Harry would not go amiss. She was sure those mischievous eyes and smile hid a multitude of sexy sins. His grandmother would not approve. And besides, he was spoken for now. Abandoning her cloth with a sigh, she reached for a newspaper one of the patrons had left behind. There was hardly anyone in, as usual, so no glasses to collect, tables to wipe, or bowls of nuts to refill. A flick through the paper was her only source of entertainment. Or at least the only thing to stop her going completely out of her mind with boredom. It wasn’t quite where she’d seen herself when she’d decided to take a chance and move to London after graduating from university. But while she figured out her next career move—or any career move—this would have to do. It served a purpose—paying her a paltry wage, just enough to cover the rent and bills on her scummy flat, and food. There really wasn’t much left after that, so her social life mainly consisted of vegging in front of the TV with her flatmates. They’d club together their miniscule amount of disposable income to buy some cheap, supermarket own-brand lager and swap stories, either about their pasts or about how their current situation was just temporary—just a stepping stone on their way to success, to high-flying, ridiculously well-paid jobs in the banking world, the publishing industry, in PR, advertising, acting, production, tourism… The list went on. Fiona was absolutely determined to get a foot on the career ladder. She’d rather scurry back home to her parents in Birmingham with her tail between her legs than stay in this dump for much longer. The only trouble was, the others at least knew what they were aiming for, which particular ladder they were trying to grab hold of. She’d graduated with a first class honours in creative writing and didn’t have a clue what to do with the damn degree now she had it. Nobody got approached just for having a degree in creative writing, then were given a ton of money and told to sit down and write a book. It simply didn’t work like that—more was the pity. Even the world’s most famous and successful writers had had to start somewhere. And she wasn’t sure fiction writing was the way to go, anyway. A cough, accompanied by a whiff of stale smoke and booze, alerted her to the presence of a customer. Fixing a smile on her face, she turned to him and said politely, “What can I get you?” A white-haired, grizzled old guy with yellowing teeth—the teeth he still had, anyway—squinted at her. “Pint, if you’re not too busy reading the bleeding newspaper.” Holding the smile so firmly in place it hurt her now-gritted teeth, she took the proffered glass and filled it. After placing it back on the bar, she picked up the money that had been left. The exact right amount. This guy bought enough pints to know. She murmured her thanks as she deposited the money in the till, but she needn’t have bothered. The grumpy old sod was already halfway back to his table, precious beer in hand. She rolled her eyes. Then, after double checking there was nothing that needed doing, shifted her attention back to the newspaper, figuring it was better than wondering about a career she couldn’t even imagine. As it happened, the paper wasn’t all that engaging. It was several days out of date, so she knew about all the big news pieces already, and the weather and TV listings were now obsolete. But her interest was piqued when she reached the jobs section. She’d never looked in this particular publication for jobs before, thinking the online searches she did on various websites were more targeted, more relevant. But then, how could you target a role you didn’t even know you wanted? Skimming through the ads, she immediately dismissed many of them. She had no wish—or the qualifications—to drive an HGV, look after sick or old people, cold call, sell advertising, work in retail or become a model. But amongst all that was something interesting. Something that maybe, just maybe, she could do. She wasn’t entirely sure what being a PR assistant entailed, but it sounded like a very posh job title, and she could sure as hell tick the box of the phrase in the ad that had caught her eye in the first place. We’re looking for someone with creative writing skills. As she read through the information again, excitement bubbled in her stomach. The role was at a top London hotel—in Mayfair, no less—offered live-in accommodation, a generous starting salary, access to all the hotel’s amenities and, best of all, career progression. It was clear they wouldn’t employ just anybody and, if Fiona was honest with herself, they were probably looking for someone with more experience than her—which wasn’t difficult—but she had to give it a go. She had nothing to lose. If she didn’t get it, then she’d have gained some valuable interview experience—if she even got that far, that was—and if she did, well, then she’d have well and truly grabbed the bottom rung of the career ladder she’d been striving for. It was only on her third read-through, when she was mentally picking out key words and phrases she could use to help tailor her CV to the role and to write a spectacular covering letter, that she noticed the closing date for applications. For f**k’s sake! How typical was that? The only job advert she’d seen since arriving in the capital that had got her genuinely fired up, and she’d missed the bloody date by one day. One. Single. Day. Barely stopping herself from screwing up the page and throwing it across the room in a fit of temper, Fiona stepped away and took a long drink from the pint of Coke she had stashed behind the bar. Just as she replaced the glass, another customer came up—one of the few she actually liked. “Hello, Bob,” she said pleasantly, her smile genuine this time. “How are you?” “Fine and dandy thanks, love. And yourself?” She shrugged. “Yeah, I’m all right, thanks.” Bob narrowed his eyes. “Well, that didn’t sound very convincing. Want to tell me about it while you’re pouring my pint?” Unable to help the grin that took over her face, Fiona replied, “Subtle, Bob, very subtle. Being nice on the surface, but underneath it all you’re really saying, ‘Hurry up and pour my drink, wench!’” Clutching a hand to his chest, Bob widened his eyes and shaped his lips into a perfect ‘o’ shape. “What, me?” After a beat, his expression morphed into a good-natured grin to rival her own. “What can I say? I am a nice guy, but I like my beer. Seriously, though, tell me what’s wrong.” As she slotted the pint glass into place beneath the pump and began filling it, she found herself wanting to tell him. She wasn’t in the habit of chatting with the customers, and they weren’t the sort who wanted to prop up the bar all day and regale her with their life stories—thank God. She was more accustomed to pouring pints, handing over packets of crisps and pork scratchings, taking money, and giving change with nothing more than basic manners and a smile. But what harm could it do? She didn’t know the guy beyond these four walls, didn’t know what he did for a living—though by the looks of him he was getting close to retirement age. Maybe he could help, give her some advice? And even if he blabbed to her boss, the pub landlord, Cyril, it wouldn’t matter. He probably wouldn’t care either way. Bar staff were ten a penny—he’d have the role filled within a day. Plus, underneath all that gruff, abrupt bluster, she had an inkling that Cyril was actually human—and smart. He’d have known from day one of taking her on—from the moment he interviewed her, even—that she wasn’t in the job for the long haul. And as long as he had someone at least vaguely competent behind the bar, it didn’t make the slightest difference to him. Fiona jerked her head in the direction of the newspaper. “Just found a great job in that crummy old newspaper.” “Why’s that a problem?” he replied with a frown. She slid his pint onto the bar, then wrinkled her nose. “Emphasis on old. It’s a fantastic bloody role, but the closing date for applications was yesterday. I’m gutted. I’ve been treading water a bit since I’ve been in London because I didn’t know what direction I wanted to go, career-wise, and that could have set me on the perfect path. Reckon I’d have been good at it, too.” Bob handed over the money, then took a sip of his beer and swallowed it. After a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face, he said, “Wouldn’t hurt to send your application anyway, would it? I’m guessing you can send it by email? Send it today and explain you only just saw the advertisement and know the closing date has passed, but you’re so interested in the role, you thought you’d apply anyway. Who knows? Maybe they’ll be impressed by your enthusiasm and put you in the running. For what it’s worth, I reckon you should try. You’ve got nothing to lose.” “Yeah.” She ran a hand through her hair. Then she punched numbers into the till, opened it, put Bob’s cash in the drawer and retrieved his change. “I was thinking the same thing myself about the job before I realised I’d missed the closing date. I think I will. After all, if I don’t apply, I won’t even be in with a chance. And even the tiniest of chances is better than nothing!” “Better than working here, too.” Passing over his change, she said, “How do you know? You don’t even know what the job’s for.” “Doesn’t matter. It’s got to be better than here. Besides, I’ve always thought you were too good for this place. Too damn smart to be pulling pints—though you’ve got that down to a fine art, I must say.” He took another sip and winked at her over the rim of the glass. “Still,” he added, “if you do end up getting that job, or any other, I will be sad to see you go. Brighten up the place, pretty girl like you does. Anyway, let me know how you get on. Good luck!” With another broad grin and a wink, Bob stuffed the coins into his pocket and sauntered over to take a seat by the window. She watched him for a moment or two, pondering what he’d said. Then, her mind made up, she grabbed the newspaper and tore out the advert before folding it carefully and putting it in her pocket. There were only a couple more hours of her shift to go. As soon as she got home, she’d dust off her creative writing skills, tart up her CV, craft an awesome covering letter and ping them over on an email. The Portmannow Hotel wouldn’t know what had hit it.