Fly By Night

Fly By Night - The Interview

"Ya don't say," the receptionist continued.

She spoke distractedly into a headset while filing her shocking pink nails. It was a strong Bronx accent, Polly assumed; an opinion formed entirely from Hollywood movies and a boxed set of Friends.
"Ya don't saaaay."
Whatever the caller was talking about, they didn't say.

The waiting room was a garish, lurid affair. Lush satin curtains framed ornately patterned wallpaper broken with fussy gold fittings. A large black crescent reception desk arced round, guarding the entrance to the dragon's lair beyond.
Polly sat in one of two oversized Chesterfield sofas in faux-zebra hide. She hoped it was faux at least - it was very convincing. Not that she had ever sat on a zebra... surely it would smell of horse. Stripy horse.

Focus Polly, focus.

A small, neat stack of magazines was arranged on a John-Paul Melia black high gloss coffee table; Conde Nast, Time, Forbes. She leafed through the only magazine she could find of any interest: Weekly World News.
'I've Had Sex With Over A Thousand Automobiles!' screamed the sordid headline. The story told of Bob in Minnesota. Sad, bald, lonely Bob and his erotic fixation with motor vehicles. 'And My Favourite Is A Volkswagen Beetle'

Well, it's got the curves at least, thought Polly.

Behind the frosted glass to the boardroom, figures began to move. Chairs sliding on the wooden floor, polite muffled laughter - the universal sounds of an interview coming to an end. The shadows moved towards the door.
In a well-practiced move, Nail girl stopped mid 'Ya don't' and pushed a button on her phone. Her Bronx drawl became clipped and precise, "Please hold."
The translucent doors slid silently, effortlessly aside revealing a tantalising glimpse into the room beyond. Two women emerged, laughing at what appeared to be the funniest joke in the world.

That's not a good sign, thought Polly.

The younger girl was clearly the interviewee. Long plaited auburn hair snaked down across her Victoria Beckham crepe dress. Subtle cream and black panelling ended above a skirt shorter than any Polly would ever dare to wear. She wore large round Gucci glasses and a Dior handbag. Her body language was casual and relaxed; they seemed to know each other well.

No, that really wasn't good.

The interviewer was mid 30's and carried herself with confidence and effortless poise. Slim, athletic build with toned legs that went on forever and came back again. Cropped short, almost totally white platinum blonde hair framed a high cheekboned face. She was, without doubt The Ice Queen. She wore a Herve Leger strapless bandage dress in teal, crossed by a thick black leather belt with silver Coco Chanel buckle. An elegant necklace of South Sea cultured pearls with 18k gold clasp matched her earrings.
She glanced at Polly, her eyes drawn to the wide open magazine on her lap... and that article.

Not there. Don't look there...

Maintaining her best air of indifference, Polly gingerly, deliberately, without a care-in-the-worldingly turned the page.
Revealing a double page spread of naked Bob draped across his beloved German engineering, pasty white bottom in sharp relief.
The Ice Queen leaned in, whispering in pigtails ear. They both glanced at Polly and giggled.

No. Not good. At. All.

They air kissed. Mwah. Mwah. Ice Queen said, "We'll be in touch." Then a bit too loudly, "I don't think you have anything to worry about."
Pigtails exited stage left and Ice Queen retreated to her frozen lair.

Great, Just great. That had to be a personal best even by Polly's standards. Had she lost the contract before it had even began?

"Ya don't say."
The receptionists call was back off hold, continuing the longest and possibly dullest monologue in recorded history. Her console chimed politely.
"They're ready for you now."