Chapter 3

3

The first Monday of June rolls around after months of anticipation, bringing with it the first official day of the Arrowmile internship. After all the buildup, the entire morning is so overwhelming it becomes a blur. Somehow, I get from sharing a commute with a group of equally nervous interns to the large, clinical reception of a shared office building in Victoria. We huddle together like lost ducklings, trying not to get swept up in the tide of people swiping key cards and striding through waist-high glass barriers.

I hadn't been sure what to expect of the other interns, but most of us seem to have formed a quick camaraderie. I'd been terrified to meet my new roommates in the accommodations Arrowmile had organized for us, worried they might be like the girls from my college halls. I'd been terrified to meet everyone.

I guess I also had the idea that they'd be…better than me, somehow. Cooler, more worldly. High-flying achievers who put all my efforts to shame. Intimidating.

But our collective anxiety about what to do now we're actually here reminds me that they're all…normal. Just doing their best, with varying levels of self-confidence. I'm not a huge fan of Monty, an Exeter student with a very "rah" sort of posh accent, who spent the icebreaker dinner talking—very loudly, very brashly—almost exclusively about himself and implying that he was somehow entitled to this spot on the internship. But I won't hold it against him; there's a good chance it was just nerves.

In spite of the fact I hardly know these people, the uncertain glances we give each other right now helps me feel hopeful about the rest of the summer. Like we'll have each other's backs, help each other out. Not shun each other if someone hits Reply All on a mass email by mistake.

Oh God, I think suddenly. How do you even write an email? Can you start "hi," or is that too informal? What's the most appropriate sign-off? How many exclamation marks are too many?????

While I stand paralyzed with the knowledge that I've forgotten how to do something so basic, one of the girls, Tasha, takes the lead and goes up to the reception desk. The rest of us follow, and soon enough we've signed ourselves into the guest book and collected bright-red lanyards with temporary guest passes hanging from them, with instructions to take the lift up to the twelfth floor and wait in the boardroom.

For a moment, as I wait for someone to swipe their way through the glass barriers before I can follow, an intense paranoia seizes me. What if my pass doesn't work? What if some security guard comes over to stop me because there's been a mistake and I'm not on the internship because they've decided I'm not cut out for it after all? I desperately want to go back in time and ask Annalise from five months ago what the ever-loving fuck she thought she was doing applying for this internship.

It'll be too tough. Too demanding. I won't keep up. I'll be bad at that watercooler small talk and for the rest of the summer everyone will ask, "Who's that weird ginger girl who can barely string a sentence together?" I'll do everything wrong or not know what I'm doing at all, and they'll find out I'm a fraud….

The barrier makes a cheerful little blip! when I press my pass against the sensor, and opens for me to go through. I remember to breathe, and try to shake off the irrational, intrusive thoughts of failure.

Waiting for the lift, I smooth my hands over my dress. It's a bubblegum-pink, knee-length wrap dress with a modest neckline in a flattering-but-professional cut. When I first tried it on, it made me feel like I was channeling fictional feminist icon Elle Woods—and I could definitely do with her kind of energy and self-belief today.

Up on the twelfth floor, the boardroom is everything I expected: a large rectangular table, with a projector set up at one end, and along the back wall, canisters of tea and coffee we all help ourselves to before finding seats. Windows on one side offer a view of the street; the wall opposite it is made up entirely of glass panels emblazoned with the cobalt-blue Arrowmile logo and looks onto an open-plan office teeming with people who peer in on us like animals at the zoo, all curious about this new exhibit. I mean, cohort of interns.

Some of them wave when they see we've caught them looking.

One woman strides right up to the room, hand outstretched, staring at us so brazenly I think she's about to tap on the glass wall and see if she can make us move, but instead she opens the door and steps into the room, and our murmured conversations are swallowed all at once by silence.

The woman, despite being slim and petite, cuts an imposing figure in her tailored pair of black trousers and a high-necked black sleeveless blouse as she comes to a stop near the projector, her hands on her hips. Her ash-blond hair is cut in a short and severe bob that adds angles to her face. Her lips are painted deep red, and her only other makeup appears to be a precise flick of gold eyeliner.

She looks like she would tear you to pieces with a wave of herhand.

"All right, then," she announces. "Looks like everybody's here, so let's get started! Welcome to Arrowmile! My name is Nadja. I'll put you all through some completely humiliating exercises later to learn your names—the ‘hi, my name is so-and-so, and these are my three biggest goals for my time here' kind of thing. But first, I'm going to make the most of your undivided attention and talk all about myself.

"My role here is senior client partner, meaning I work a lot with our customers in the B2B area, listen to feedback from focus groups, do the graft when it comes to outreach and new contracts…A couple of you will actually be working with me this summer, you lucky ducks."

Nadja winks, which looks totally menacing, and there's a polite ripple of laughter. I notice a few people shift in their seats like they're praying they're not one of her "lucky ducks."

She continues, "But outside of that role, I've taken a special interest in our internship program—I think it's one of our best initiatives, and I'm not just saying that because I was one of the people who spearheaded its creation a few years ago. I love seeing all the talent we can foster that comes through our doors each summer. We take only the best and brightest. You've all worked hard to get to this point—and we expect that same attitude from you while you're here. I want to see you all going above and beyond; don't think that you can sit back and take it easy now you're here. With any luck, some of you might even do a good enough job that we'll see you back here again after you graduate. So don't let me down!"

A pause for dramatic effect, and another deadly smile. This time when Nadja looks around the room, she locks eyes with each of us individually, as if to really drive home her "it could be you!" point. It feels more like an "it won't be you!" threat, but I sit up straighter and weather her gaze when it lands on me.

The tension in the room thickens, and I hardly dare look at any of the others. The Arrowmile internship is tough to get onto, but their graduate placements are even more like striking gold. They only take on about ten people each year—and very few interns make the cut. But they have one of the most competitive starting salaries, an impressive rate of graduates turned senior managers, and Arrowmile itself is so widely respected as a company that I've heard if you've worked there, you'll waltz into any other job afterward.

Life-changing—as long as it all goes to plan.

Nadja carries on with her introductory speech, telling us that our placements were selected based on our applications and interviews—we've been put in roles where they believe we'll thrive, be challenged, and get the most out of this experience. The scheme is designed to push us outside of our comfort zones. We'll each have an allocated "buddy" in our department to be a regular point of contact outside of our managers, and no question is too small or too silly—although, as Nadja says it, some of the interns look around haughtily as if wondering who will be the first to have a terrible question, like it will be a nail in our coffin. Tasha and Monty exchange self-confident smirks, while Elaine turns so pale she looks almost gray.

After Nadja wraps up telling us about the company's history and departmental structure, she announces that it's time to find out what our placements are.

And just as she brings out a sheaf of papers with the details, there's a knock at the door. Next to me, table-dancing goes-by-his-last-name Burnley lets out a quiet, frustrated groan. His leg is bouncing wildly under the table; he catches my eye long enough to huff at the interruption. I pull a face back, on the same page.

But it turns out we have no right to be annoyed at the delay, because then Nadja declares, "Ah! Our illustrious leader! Topher, come in, come in—I was just about to put this cohort out of their misery and let them know where they'll be working."

The interloper in the doorway laughs good-naturedly. "Ah, let them stew a little while longer, eh? Hi, folks. Topher Fletcher. CEO and founder of Arrowmile Inc."

Heads spin, the room turning as one to gawp.

Tasha and two of the boys shoot to their feet, reminding me of being at school and having to stand up when a teacher came into the classroom. A few others (me included) start to follow suit but Illustrious Leader/CEO Topher Fletcher laughs again and waves us down.

He looks like any other middle-aged guy. His thinning brown hair is graying around the temples; wrinkles around his eyes and mouth give away his age. He's wearing a suit, but it's dressed down and casual: a tie but no cuff links, the top button of his shirt undone. He takes off his glasses and balances them on top of his head as he smiles at us.

He's ordinary, unremarkable. Somehow, it's disappointing.

What did I expect, though? That he'd have a town crier go before him, ringing a bell and announcing his presence, or maybe that he'd be surrounded by a glowing white light and just seeing him would make me feel inspired, driven, awed?

"Which one of you is Freya?" he asks, and a tentative hand creeps into the air. "Ah—brilliant. You'll be shadowing me, Freya. Attending meetings, reviewing reports, all that jazz."

Again, heads turn as one, this time pinning a stout brunette girl to the spot a few seats down from me. Her cheeks turn bright red, but she nods enthusiastically, at once honored and horrified. A couple of people look jealous; some look relieved.

"Well, don't let me keep you!" booms Topher Fletcher. "Best of luck for your first week, everybody—I'm sure I'll see you around and about the office. My door is always open!"

He raises a hand in farewell and strolls out. Whispers start to circulate—Burnley mumbles to me, "God, that guy is so cool "—before Nadja claps her hands to signal for quiet.

"Now! On to the good stuff…"

—

In a spacious corner section of the eleventh floor, I join the ranks of the project development team as a junior coordinator. My new boss, Michaela, senior project development partner, left me a shiny new HP laptop and vanished into a meeting.

It's been six hours since I walked through the doors of Arrowmile Inc., and I am…

Still terrified, but also raring to go. Even if the only thing I've done so far is log on, change my password, painstakingly craft my new email signature, and scroll through a few documents Michaela left in my inbox.

I'm excited about my role—the team is basically responsible for reviewing ongoing projects for new products and initiatives; they make sure everything is on track and "value adding," shut down anything that isn't working, and act as a bit of a go-between among all the other teams involved in making things happen at Arrowmile. My role is going to involve a lot of reading documents, chasing people for information, checking financials, and pulling together slide decks for the more senior members of my team to present at meetings.

Except, obviously, I intend to be presenting those slide decks before the summer's over. I'm sure once I find my feet and get the hang of things, I'll be able to ask Michaela if I can step up and give it a go. We are supposed to be going above and beyond to prove ourselves, after all.

This is what the summer's about: working my butt off, doing a good job, and getting a glowing recommendation at the end of it—or, even better, a job offer for after I graduate.

In my final interview, they asked me, "Where do you see yourself in five years, Anna?"

And I said, "Running a department here. In ten, I'll be running the whole show."

Which had made them laugh, so I'd smiled along like it was kind of a joke, but I'd been deadly serious. I've always had ambition in spades. Dad says I get it from my mother, which I know should be a compliment but always makes me feel icky. Mom's ambition was more like a poison than a positive trait. Before now, my ambition has been channeled into hockey, tennis, cello and piano lessons, school plays…basically any extracurricular I could get my hands on to beef up my college application. But things are different now.

Now, the end goal isn't just the next three years. It's the entire rest of my life.

And right now, that means doing the best I can at this internship. Being the best.

And nothing is going to get in my way.

"Oh, hello, stranger!" Laurie—my designated buddy—calls out. She was the kind (read: only) person who took pity on me and showed me how to adjust the height on my desk chair when I couldn't find the right lever. She's sitting opposite me and waving at someone behind me. "Didn't expect to see you around today. I thought you were in client meetings to help cover for Nadja!"

Behind me, a guy chuckles and says, "Ah, you know me, Laur. Can't resist scouting out the new recruits, and I had a little time between calls. How're they looking so far? I heard you got one."

Laurie grins and then cuts a look at me—amiable, like this is a joke I'm in on, not the butt of. I'd guess she's in her thirties. There's a large sapphire engagement ring on her left hand. She seems nice so far, so I smile back, then turn to look at the newcomer and make myself part of the conversation.

Before I can quite spin around in my chair, though, a hand settles warm and heavy on my shoulder and twirls me around. Between the two of us, I have enough momentum to do a full rotation. Startled, I throw my legs out to catch myself.

My knees bump into the newcomer's when he doesn't quite move out of the way in time, making him stumble backward and a mortified apology spill from my lips (even though it was absolutely not my fault). My cheeks begin to burn; wouldn't it be just my luck if I'd almost knocked Topher Fletcher himself on his arse on my first day?

The guy standing a mere few inches away, laughing and apologizing with a broad smile on his face, is cute. He's not much older than me and tall. He's wearing a crisp blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a halfway smile on his face. He's got curling dark hair and bright-green eyes, and…

The blood drains from my face—from my whole body. I turn cold all over, goose bumps prickling across my skin, heart thundering so hard it's about to tear its way right out of my chest. I think I see something flicker across his face for the moment—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty—but it's gone so quickly that I must have imagined it.

His smile stretches a little wider, eyes dancing with mischief and the memory of a kiss by a river, and he sticks his hand out toward me.

"Hi there," he says, as if we're complete strangers. "I'm Lloyd Fletcher."