Two Last First Dates Page 18

  To my relief, he let go of my hands. I almost staggered back, righting myself just in time.

  “Whoa, there! Looks like you need a sit-you-down in old Roger Rabbit’s office.”

  Roger Rabbit? I smiled at the bald, tubby man in front of me. He did not look anything like Roger Rabbit. Stick a hunting hat on his head and rifle in his hands, however, and he’d be the spitting image of Elmer Fudd.

  “Come with me.” He put his hand on the small of my back. “Thank you for your continued excellent work, Janet,” he said to the receptionist as we passed by.

  Almost Janice. It suited her. She either smiled at us or grimaced. I still couldn’t tell which.

  Roger-Rabbit-slash-Elmer-Fudd walked me through the doors and down the corridor into an office with a large oak door. I glanced around the room, taking in the big Nettco logo and photographs of yachts on the walls. He had one of those adjustable desks you could stand at. He’d clearly got the “sitting is the new smoking” message.

  “Take a seat, Paigey,” he said, indicating red leather chairs that matched the sofa in the reception area.

  I tried not to curse Madi for adding the y to my name. Why did people do that? Paige is a perfectly good name. It’s one syllable, it doesn’t require a nickname. Although Will had called my “Millsey,” after my last name, Miller, and I’d loved that. Why am I thinking about Will?

  Roger sat down opposite me, my CV in his big, warm hands. “Now, let me have a look-see here.” He ran one of his pudgy fingers down the page until he found what he was looking for. “Aha! You worked at AGD for a long time. Good for you!”

  I didn’t know quite what to say. “Err, thanks?”

  “I’ve heard it’s a really demanding company. For you to have survived that long, you must have been an awesome employee.”

  I thought about my frequent trips to the Cozy Cottage, my counting the minutes to the end of the day. “I don’t like to brag, Roger, but I did okay there.”

  He raised his fingers in quotation marks. “‘Okay’? Ha! Madi said you’d be humble and I love that, love that!”

  I smiled at him. He was so upbeat, he rivaled Madi in the perkiness stakes. In an attempt to be professional, I tried to steer the conversation back to my work achievements. “Let me tell you a little bit about my responsibilities at AGD. As you see, I worked there for a long time, and I achieved a lot there. I was involved in many, many email marketing campaigns. One that sticks out clearly in my mind is the one . . . we . . .” I stopped when I noticed Roger shaking his head at me, his grin still firmly in place.

  “I don’t need to hear about that, Paigey. I’ve got that all in here.” He waved my CV around in front of my face. “And you know what? I don’t need any more of the work stuff. What I need to know is what Paigey Miller is made of.”

  I swallowed. “What I’m made of?” This was beginning to feel a little familiar.

  “Yes. Is she the type of person to join a posse and go after the bad guy, or would she stay at home and tend to the cattle?”

  Posse? Cattle? What was Roger Rabbit on? “I . . . err . . .”

  “Would she get that golden ticket, go to that factory, and dance with the Oompa Loompas?”

  I thought of the little orange men from that movie. Paint Roger orange, shrink him down to size, and we’d have a party on our hands. “Well, I don’t really . . .”

  He bounced out of his chair, his eyes wild. “Would she climb the tallest mountain and rappel down it?”

  I blinked at him. Rappelling? All this for a lousy email marketing job?

  Roger took a step closer so that he was standing over me. “Would she?” He stared at me in expectation, his face only about a foot from mine. I could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the whites of his eyes bright and shining. I could smell his breath, a mixture of coffee and oatmeal.

  I clutched onto the armrests of the chair, fighting my instinct to arch away from him and his enthusiasm. “Yes . . . ?” I held my breath. Was that the right answer? Should I be joining the Oompa Loompas in a posse to the top of Mount Everest? In that moment, I just did not know.

  Roger let out a puff of air and stood up straight. “I thought you’d say that.” His tone was solemn. He nodded at the photographs on the wall. “Do you sail?”

  Was this part of the interview? If I gave him the truthful response that no, I don’t, would I fail? In fact, the complete truth was that I was terrified of being out there on the ocean, with all those fish and sharks and who-knows-what-else out there, lurking around, waiting for stray humans to land in their wake. I gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.

  Should I lie to try to get the job? Looking at all the photographs of yachts on the wall, it was clear to me Roger was a bit of a sailor. Half of Auckland sailed—it wasn’t called the “City of Sails” because we all loved to rock climb, after all. On a beautiful day, the harbor was dotted with a multitude of yachts. The fact I’d managed to live here all my life and get away with only even having sailed once when I was about seven years old was quite miraculous, really.

  In the end, I plumped for the truth. “No.”

  His eyes bulged. “No?”

  I chewed the inside of my lip. Was that the wrong thing to say? Should I be gushing about my (fake) yachting experiences, garnering Roger’s approval? “Well, I did once, but . . . I didn’t really like it.”

  What? Was I trying to sabotage myself here?

  Roger looked at me in shock. “You didn’t like it?”

  I had to do some quick thinking. Even though I really had no clearer idea about this job than when I had walked through Nettco’s front door, I needed to at least try. “Well, I . . . err . . . what I mean is, I’m not sure I gave it a good enough shot to like it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You know what, Paigey? I admire you for that. You live in a place where every man, his dog, and his dog’s friend’s sister’s teacher sails. But what do you do? You say no.” He nodded at me, crossing his arms across his chest. “Oh yes. I like the cut of your jib.”

  “I’m pleased you do, Roger.” What else could I say?

  He tapped his chin, looking me straight in the eye. “Yes, yes. My daughter got it right.”

  I raised my eyebrows. What did his daughter have to do with my “jib,” or anything else, for that matter? “Who’s your daughter, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Roger threw his plump head back and roared with laughter. I smiled, trying to laugh along with him, secretly scoping the room for an escape route. I calculated we were on the ground floor, so if I could unlatch the window I could probably get out successfully, ninja roll over the grass, and make my escape.

  Roger interrupted my plans. “Madi. She’s my girl. Didn’t you know that?”

  He turned a framed photo on his desk around, and I peered at it. It was of him and Madi, with Santa hats on their heads, dressed in matching Christmas sweaters—although hers was about ten sizes smaller than his—grinning at the camera as they both gave enthusiastic thumbs-up. Naturally.

  Nepotism was alive and kicking in Auckland, it would appear, and it wore cheesy, matching holiday clothes.

  “Oh. I had no idea Madi was your daughter. Her last name is O’Donnell, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, you didn’t know. She’s like me: serious and professional at work. Out of work? Well, that’s another story. We’re a couple of mad hatters, I can tell you.”

  Mad hatters: yes. Serious and professional? Ah, that would be a “no.” More like a couple of friendly lunatics, but maybe that was just me? Despite my concerns, I smiled at him, not exactly sure what to think right now. “I bet.”

  “And she’s married and changed her name, you see. Are you married?”

  I shook my head. “No.” Madi was married? Wow, she looked so young; she would have had to have been in high school when that happened.

  “Well, Paigey.” He sucked his lips, making a weird smacking sound at the end. “I think I’ve seen everything I need to see.
”

  He had?

  “Okay,” I replied uncertainly. “Look, I’m sorry about the yachting thing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said I don’t like it, although I might if I gave it a decent try.” Which was a lie.

  “Oh, I know that.” He nodded at me sagely, as though anyone who tried yachting would instantly succumb to its charms. “Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Well, maybe some things about the job? Like, what my responsibilities would be if I got it, where I’d be working, who I’d be working with? Those sorts of things.” Not whether he would choose the red or blue pill, or any other bizarre question he may have wanted to throw at me. I was still reeling from the Oompa Loompa ordeal.

  Roger launched into a spiel about how the company was an electricity retailer who sold electricity over a fixed line network to residential and business customers, and how they needed someone to replace someone called Wolf (really?) in their marketing team, helping to run their email campaigns.

  I tried not to let my eyes glaze over as he took me through the stats from their most recent campaign. Their results were good, but I knew AGD did better. I told him as much, hopefully without offending him.

  “So, with those few tweaks you were able to increase response rate by over nine percent?”

  I nodded. “Yes. It was really so easy to do as well.”

  He shook his head. “Paigey, do you know what?”

  Having no clue what to expect from this loose cannon of a man, I replied, “No.”

  “Just as well I do,” he replied before laughing at his own joke. “I’m going to offer you the job. Right here, right now. I do not care to see anyone else. You are it for me. You’ve got it. What do you have to say about that, hmm?”

  I looked at him, my jaw slack. “You’re offering me the job?”

  He beamed at me. “Yes, I am. What do you say?”

  You know how people say to go with your gut when you’re forced to make a quick decision? That without giving it any real thought, you will instinctively know what the right thing to do is? Well, my gut had a tantrum right there and then in Roger Rabbit’s office. It gave me it’s message loud and clear.

  I stood up and faced him. Roger may be on the wrong end of the loop-de-loop spectrum, but he was a picnic in comparison with Portia de Havilland. “I say, yes, Roger. Thank you.”

  He pumped the air with two fists, his belly bobbing up and down. “Awesomesauce!”

  Up until that moment, I didn’t think I had heard anyone over the age of about eleven use that expression, but somehow it suited Mr. Possibly-A-Little-Crazy-But-Certainly-Very-Happy Roger Barnett.

  We shook hands, and he escorted me out of his office and back out to reception, where Janet was once again talking like Uhura into her earpiece with her charmingly nasal voice, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. It was funny, Roger and Janet were just about as polar opposite as any two people could get, in looks as well as in personality. Maybe if you put them together, you’d have a normal, balanced human being?

  “So, I’ll let Madi know, and we’ll see you on the Pacific Princess next week.”

  Confused, I asked, “The Pacific what?”

  Roger laughed. Again. “You must have been thinking of The Love Boat. Ha!”

  Ah, no, I wasn’t.

  “It’s not that Pacific Princess. There’s no Gopher or Captain Stubing or Julie McCoy, although she was a cutie in her day.” He chuckled some more. “You are so funny, Paigey. You’re going to fit in well. We’re all a little mad, here, you know.”

  You don’t say.

  He made his eyes cross to show me just how mad they all were. I wanted to tell him I didn’t need any convincing.

  “Okay. Great. So, this Pacific Princess, not the one on The Love Boat.”

  “Right?” He pointed at me. “You’re onto it.”

  “Thank you. Um, what is it, exactly?” Please don’t be a yacht, please don’t be a yacht.

  “My yacht, of course.” My heart sank. “You can meet the team and come for a sail. You’ll love it!”

  My eyes bulged as I tried to swallow a rising lump in my throat. “Great. Yachting. How . . . wonderful.”

  Chapter 18

  “YOU'VE GOT TO GO YACHTING?”

  I nodded grimly. I was sitting on the sofa with Marissa at Cassie’s place, having a glass of wine before I headed home to my loved-up dad and the paleo-tastic dinner he’d promised to make. Eggs with steak and chia seeds, sprinkled with protein powder, or something.

  “But aren’t you scared of the ocean?” Cassie asked, topping up my wineglass on the coffee table in front of us.

  Again, I gave a grim nod, tightness spreading across my chest. This was quickly becoming a disaster-in-the-making. After my interview on Monday, true to his word, Roger had sent over an employment contract with a formal offer for the job. He’d attached a note with a date, time, and location for the dreaded sail.

  I buried my head in my hands. “God, how do I get myself into these situations?”

  “It’s no big deal. Just go, sail, and it’ll be over,” Marissa said in her pragmatic way.

  I looked up at her from my bent-over position. “Do you not remember how I was on the ferry to Waiheke that time?”

  Last summer, the three of us had been invited to a wedding at a vineyard on Waiheke, an island off the east coast of Auckland city in the Hauraki Gulf. There was a regular ferry service to and from the island, and, although I had always been freaked out by the ocean, I figured I would be fine on a boat as large as a ferry. I wasn’t. While the others enjoyed the brilliant summer sun outside, I spent the entire return journey inside, looking at the floor, clutching onto my seat, trying my best not to think of the terrifying sea life that lay beneath my feet.

  “Yes, but I’m sure you’ll be fine. How big is the yacht?” Cassie asked.

  I shrugged. “Big enough to take the whole team, I guess.” Madi had told me her dad had a group of about seven employees in the marketing team. All of them “completely bonkers,” apparently.

  “And you’ll have a life jacket on,” Marissa added.

  I sat bolt upright. “A lifejacket?”

  “Yeah, in case you go over . . . board . . .” Marissa trailed off. “Sorry.” She pressed her lips together and knitted her brow when she saw the look of sheer horror on my face. “It’s only a safeguard, nothing to worry about, right, Cassie?”

  “Absolutely,” she said with conviction. “Maybe you need to do a practice run? So you don’t get so freaked out.”

  I chortled. “Spread the panic?”

  Cassie shook her head. “I mean, if you go out for a sail before you go with your new boss, it won’t seem so bad. Do you know anyone with a yacht?”

  “Sure, all my friends have yachts. They keep them at their multi-million-dollar seaside mansions along with their classic car collection and their butler’s quarters,” I deadpanned.

  “Cute. Here’s a fresh glass of wine.” Cassie handed me my glass. I knew it was a diversion tactic and I didn’t care. Being diverted from my certain watery death was fine with me. I took a sip, hoping the alcohol would quell my nerves. It did not.

  “Well, I think it’s fantastic you got this new job. Cheers!” Cassie raised her glass and the three of us clinked. “When do you start?”

  “They want me to start as soon as I can. This guy, Wolf, had to leave in a hurry, so the team is down one.”

  Cassie raised her eyebrows. “Wolf? What did he have to do, go on a hunting expedition with the pack?”

  I laughed.

  “I know!” Marissa exclaimed, suddenly excited. Cassie and I looked at her in expectation. “Josh. He sails.”

  We were back on that? I shook my head. Mr. Action Man sailed yachts: why did that not surprise me? He did pretty much everything, that guy. Not quite beat me at pool, however. A smile crept across my face. “Huh. I did not know that.”

  “Who’s Josh?” Cassie asked.

>   “He’s the guy Bailey and I want Paige to go on her Last First Date with. Only, she’s not exactly on board with the idea.”

  “Ah. Well, isn’t that convenient?” Cassie said, grinning at me, her eyes wide.

  I pursed my lips, shooting Marissa a look. “Can we deal with one disaster at a time, please?”

  Marissa shook her head. “You haven’t read the dossier we gave you on him, have you? If you did, you’d know he sails. It’s all in there.”

  I thought of the blue folder they’d given me that afternoon. When I’d got it home, I’d stuffed it into a drawer full of scarves and hats and hadn’t given it a second thought.

  “Are you going to go out with him?” Cassie asked eagerly.

  “I’m hardly going to go yachting on a Last First Date with the guy,” I replied. In fact, I wasn’t going to do anything with Josh on a date because I wasn’t going on a Last First Date with him!

  “Not your first date. Perhaps your second?” Marissa suggested and Cassie agreed.

  I shook my head in exasperation. “Just drop it, okay?”

  Marissa shrugged. “Sure, no problem. But he’s the right guy for you, Paige. You just don’t know it yet.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Change of subject, please.”

  Thankfully, that was all it took. Marissa launched into talking about something that had happened at work, and I sat there, only half listening, my upcoming yachting disaster weighing heavily on my mind.

  * * *

  During my next shift at the Cozy Cottage, Bailey and I were standing next to one another in the kitchen, frosting and decorating cakes.

  “I’ve got some news,” I said as I slathered a final blob of frosting onto a carrot cake, trying not to drool too much. There was something about carrot cake—Bailey’s carrot cake, in particular. It was light, moist, and delicious, the hint of sourness from the cream cheese frosting providing a wonderful contrast to the sweetness of the cake. And with healthy carrots in there, it had to be good for you, right? At least, that was what I would always tell myself.

  “Oh?” she said, looking up from the apple strudel she was sifting powdered sugar over. Her eyes were shining. “Don’t tell me. I think I know. You went out with Josh!”