Free Grand Slam by Kathryn Ledson

today. Off you go.’ She shooed me.
    I dared to keep standing there. ‘What about the other applicants?’
    Rosalind glared at me. I turned and left, made a beeline for Marcus in the kitchen. I flapped the envelope in his face.
    â€˜Graduate!’
    â€˜I know, honey. Painful, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Why wasn’t I told?’
    â€˜Wait, you didn’t know?’
    â€˜No! Last I knew we’d advertised and were starting interviews after the tennis.’
    â€˜God, she’s a cow.’
    â€˜She’s not a cow. Cows are
nice
, Marcus.’ I stomped back to my desk and opened the envelope with the graduate’s résumé inside.
    Charlotte Johnson was her name. There was a photo of the girl. She’d provided her age, which she said was twenty-five. Quite old for a PR graduate – and in fact she looked older than twenty-five – but then people do go back to school. Her mousy hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was without make-up and quite pretty in a plain kind of way. Charlotte had completed a Bachelor of Arts (Public Relations) degree and passed all subjects with high distinctions. She listed her ‘interests and hobbies’ as tennis and cooking. Well, there was one thing we had in common. Although I preferred to watch tennis than play it.
    Marcus propped on my desk. ‘I hate board-meeting day. They’re so demanding.’
    I stared at Charlotte’s résumé.
    He gave me a tickle under the chin. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help keep her occupied.’
    â€˜Who did the interviewing?’
    â€˜Rosalind. While you were meeting with the Tennis people. But there was only one applicant.’
    â€˜What? Why? This role should have attracted heaps.’
    He shrugged. ‘One got sick, someone’s dog died, another moved interstate . . .’
    â€˜Well, this one’s certainly qualified.’
    â€˜Get her to do your filing.’
    Great idea! In fact, I thought, Charlotte could do all the crappy things I don’t like doing. She could pretend to be me and go live with my mother.
    At 8:45 a.m., I got a call from reception: ‘Charlotte Johnson here to see you.’
    In the lobby, on the far side of the vast, granite space, Charlotte sat primly on the edge of an uncomfortable designer bench, hands clasped on her lap. She looked just as she did in the photo, with her hair in a ponytail and face without make-up. When she saw me approaching she stood, gathered her bag and mirrored my stride across the marble floor.
    â€˜Hi, Charlotte? I’m Erica. Welcome to Dega.’ I held out my hand.
    Charlotte gave it a good shake. ‘Thank you for employing me,’ she said with confidence but she was bright red in the face, embarrassed. Or maybe . . .
    â€˜Are you sunburnt?’
    â€˜Yes. I went to the beach on Saturday.’
    â€˜Oh, me, too! Which beach did you go to?’
    â€˜St Kilda. You?’
    â€˜Same. Maybe we saw each other without realising.’
    â€˜It was pretty crowded.’
    â€˜Let’s get you settled in, shall we?’
    Charlotte followed me to the lifts.
    â€˜Did you drive?’ I said as we waited.
    â€˜I came on the train.’
    â€˜I prefer the train.’ I smiled at Charlotte and she smiled back.
    The lift whizzed us upwards and we stood side by side, watching the numbers as they lit up in turn.
    Charlotte said, ‘I saw you in the paper.’
    â€˜Oh, right. Emilio’s lunch.’
    â€˜You’re lucky. Getting to meet Emilio Méndez.’
    â€˜I suppose.’ We reached our floor. ‘Here we are!’
    At my desk I pulled up a visitor’s chair and offered it to her. It was where she’d have to sit until I found another spot.
    â€˜Well,’ I said and smiled.
    â€˜Well,’ she said and smiled.
    I stood and she stood. ‘Let me show you the ladies’.’ After a few introductions and a tour of the