The Waiting Room
by Nik Perring
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Angela could feel herself burning up as she sat in the waiting room. How aptly named, she thought as she fidgeted and fiddled with the broach that she had pinned by the left breast of her new jacket. The receptionist smiled.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” she said cheerily enough, her phone perched between chin and shoulder. “They don’t usually keep new…”
That was that. The one friendly face Angela had seen all morning had gone back to her call and Angela was alone again; left to be swallowed by the waiting room. Angela had known the day was going to be a bad one since her alarm clock hadn’t gone off. Although this hadn’t been a problem (Angela was awake anyway having barely slept so much as a wink all night) she knew it had been a bad omen. She was doomed to fail. She shouldn’t even be here, waiting for such an important job. There must have been some kind of terrible mistake.
The door at the far end of the waiting room opened and from behind it appeared the face of a very smartly dressed lady in her forties. What a pretty broach she was wearing, thought Angela. Just like mine. “Angela Dowd?”
Angela raised her head like a rabbit before headlights. “Yes.” Thank God. She had managed a reply, surprising considering her throat was tickle-dry.
The woman bounded over in a manner too efficient to make Angela feel comfortable. Seconds later Angela had a fist thrust towards her. “Helen Booth. It’s a pleasure.”
As Angela stood she could feel her shoulder bag slipping, slowly but most definitely slipping, from her shoulder. “I’m sorry” she spluttered. “I almost dropped my…” Helen hadn’t noticed. She had already turned on her shiny black heels and was half way back to the door from which she had appeared.
Angela followed, clutching bag and broach with clammy hands. “Follow me,” said Helen. “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Sugar?”
“What are you having?”
“I don’t get much time to drink. More thinking, less drinking. That’s our motto here. So what will it be?”
“Erm. I’ll have.”
“Yes?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. What would you like?”
“I’ll just have a glass of water.”
“No problem. Do you not like hot drinks?”
“No. Yes. Not really, Well, sort of.”
This is going terribly, thought Angela. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I make it to lunch.
“Here we are,” beamed Helen. “After you.”
Helen held the door as Angela walked into the bright new office. “Well? What do you think?” asked Helen.
“It’s lovely. It’s beautiful.”
“Good. I think you’ll like it in here. Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No thanks. Just that water if you don’t mind. I mean, I don’t want to put you to any trouble Helen, I mean Ms Booth.”
“Call me Helen. Please. We’ll be working close together and I’d rather you called be by my name.”
“Ok.”
“I’ll get that glass of water to you as soon as. Do you prefer sparkling or straight?”
“Either’s fine.”
“Ok. I’ll let you get settled in. If there’s anything you need, just give me a shout. I’m only through there.” Helen was half way out of the door when she stopped, as though she had suddenly remembered something. “Miss Dowd?”
“Yes Helen?”
“My extension number is number five. Like Chanel.” A small smile spread over Angela’s pale lips.
“That’s what I’m wearing,” she said.
“I know,” replied Helen, returning the smile. “If you need me, dial five. My old boss just used to pop her head ‘round the door, so you could do that if you like.”
Angela, now calmer, turned to face Helen. “Whichever is easier for you.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Whatever’s easier for you! You are the boss.”
©2005 By Nik Perring.
nikperring@aol.com
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