The Boss Upstairs - Roya Carmen Page 0,6
on for over an hour about him, when Mischa who looks bored, changes the subject. “So, Gretchen. How did the interview go?”
Abigail perks up. “Oh yeah, I forgot… the interview. How did it go?”
“Was Mr. Dark & Mysterious there?” Claudia asks.
I smile. “We can stop calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious now. His name is Weston.”
Claudia smirks. “But I like calling him Mr. Dark & Mysterious.”
I shake my head. “Yeah… he was there.”
“How did he look?” Mischa asks.
“Amazing… God, I could barely breathe around him,” I confess.
Abigail smiles. “Well, that might be a problem if you get the job.”
“Well, I actually would be working mostly with his assistant, Rosetta,” I explain. “She’s a hoot.”
“Is that the older lady he’s with sometimes?” Claudia asks.
“Yeah.”
“I knew it wasn’t his mother,” she says. “They look nothing alike.”
“Anyway, she’s a lot of fun—”
“What is the penthouse like?” Mischa asks.
My eyes widen at the recollection. “It’s amazing. You would love it, Mischa. Everything is so pristine and perfect, and you can tell everything is top-notch expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows and the views are fantastic.”
Her smile is tight when she says, “You really want the job, don’t you?”
I nod, knowing that I’m in for a huge heartbreak if I don’t get it. I’m starting to worry. It’s already been three days.
“You’ll get it,” Abigail says. “I can feel it.”
I smile at my sweet friend. I hope she’s right.
The room is as dreary as I remember. It’s only my second time here. I didn’t hate it the first time. I didn’t love it either.
My gaze darts over the posters on the wall, the colorful marked calendar, the table covered with tea and coffee and store-bought cookies, the kind I don’t like; cinnamon swirl and oatmeal.
I’m early again. There’s only four of us, seated in a circle. Deanna, the group leader, a tall delicate blonde, is shuffling through her notes and papers. She’s a soft-spoken woman with a calming voice, about forty or so. If she weren’t a social worker, I could easily imagine her as a yoga instructor. She has a zen quality about her.
She’s married and has two children, a boy, ten, and a girl, eight. I forget their names now. She’s been working as a social worker for almost twenty years. She’s a Grief Counsellor at the hospital nearby. She’s called in to console the loved ones of the deceased. I wouldn’t want her job for all the money in the world. Yet, I’m thankful there are people like her around. She’s as close to an angel as you can find on earth.
I know all this because we chatted a bit last week since it was my first time at the Grief Counseling Group.
I blame Abigail for all this. She’s been on my case for a long time about this, harping on the fact that I need to properly grieve Donovan. She just wouldn’t let it go, so I finally relented and let her do her thing, and find a group for me. I promised to go, and now I feel obliged, accountable.
I hate everything about this place; the hard chairs, the crappy cookies, the dumb motivational posters. I’m debating how many weeks I’m obliged to attend in order to prove that I really gave it a go when he walks in.
Samuel.
He shoots me a tight smile as he takes a seat next to Charmaine, who has recently lost her husband. Charmaine is old, about eighty or so, and her husband was eighty-six. Don’t get me wrong, but I don't feel too bad for her. The man was old. He lived a full life.
She was friendly last week, telling me that she too, had lost her husband, and could understand how I felt. Really? I wanted to say. Was your husband only thirty-four? Were you carrying his unborn baby? Did you cause his death? Of course, I already knew all the answers. Her husband had died of a heart attack.
Her situation is nothing like mine. I don’t want her anywhere near me.
Samuel, on the other hand, I can relate to. His sixteen-year old daughter committed suicide two years ago, and he has since gone through a divorce. Now, that’s just as fucked up as my situation.
He can sit next to me.
The members trickle in slowly as we all nervously fidget, check our phones and make awkward small talk. Last week, there were eight of us. I wonder how many people will show up today.
When the clock strikes five minutes past seven, Deanna officially starts. I steal