Short story: My safe haven

We have all different point of views and thoughts of what suits us. Everything is not for everyone. This is a short story just about that. 

While I was walking up the street in Fitzrovia the wind was catching my Burberry trenchcoat, giving it a life of its own. The houses, with its well polished entrances, all looked both intimidating and intriguing. I call my style black and expensive but I’m not a posh person. I love cheap beer, weird underground parties and my favourite paraphernalia is a pair of kaleidoscopic glasses I bought online from Australia. I like weird – not slick. I do not belong on the streets of the rich and glamorous. Yet, here I am, in one of the most extravagant areas of London, heading towards an interview with a fashion brand a million girls would kill for.

Ringing the door bell, ring, ring, ring. Answer ‘Hello, what’s your errand?’ ‘I’ve a meeting with Executive X’ ‘Please come in’. I sit down on a pink chair in the hall next to blooming lilies. The house is old and I imagine the parties the Downtown Abbey people held here a hundred years ago. The only sounds are tall girls in high heels running up and down the stairs and doors opening and closing. The office assistant is preparing a meeting, cleaning a room. Accurate and speed is for sure his middle names. Never rest may be his surname, I didn’t ask. He shows me into the meeting room, no coffee is offered, nor a glass of water.

It’s a heavy, flowery scent in the room, as if someone had sprayed it with my grandmamas long lost perfume. The heat is turned up to max and after five minutes I’m about to faint. I wait, wait, and wait. Thirteen minutes late the door opens. She is tall, slim and has impeccable style. A sleek skirt and some top accompanied by a grand necklace that steals all the attention. Her assistant is more modest, almost plain. We shake hands, sits down and she fires away.

‘What have you done before?’
‘Have you executed the task we sent you?’
‘Oh, you reinterpreted it…’

She silence and tightens her lips.

‘We asked for this, we don’t want anything else.’

I try to explain, there is more. One have to utilise the community. Not a single thing I say works. I stutter now, the words sticks in my throat. My shirt is coming to life, strangling me. I ask for a glass of water. The sweat will soon be visible on my back.

‘I think we’re done here, if you haven’t done what we asked there’s no reason to prolong this torture. May you please send it over, and we can decide on how to proceed.’

I leave the room, the white walls in the hall stares at me, they have moved closer during the short time I spent in the perfumed meeting room. I can’t get out fast enough, almost forgetting my trenchcoat at the coat check.

When outside, when I’m able to breathe again, when I’m able to think again, I realise these wasted minutes is not for me. I will never belong in these streets, I walk them off as fast as I can. Heading back to my neighbourhood. My graffiti covered brick walls, my beer smelling floors, my dirty old streets. My safe haven.