The Last Resort Read Online Free PDF Page A

and take down the number at the same time. It didn’t work. Eventually, Mia swore at me some more and texted the number through.
    By then I was emotionally exhausted, but I refused to give in. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity run away from me. Least of all because it was being offered by an awfully intriguing man with a wicked glint in his eye.
    “Hello,” said a male voice.
    “H-hello. My name is Ava, and I—”
    “Oh, right. Come in at one p.m.” Then he gave me an address in Mayfair.
    Then he hung up.
    The voice had been harsh, and the manner brusque. It occurred to me that Jack Rutherford-West was not going to be the one to interview me—and a wave of relief resulted. Fine. It was going to be someone else. That was fine. That was wonderful, in fact.
    “Did you speak to him?” she demanded, sotto voce , as I sidled back behind reception. “Did he tell you to bring your crotchless underwear?”
    “You’re such a whore!” I scolded her. I was still buzzing with fearful adrenalin. How was I going to cope through an interview if this is how I felt after a simple phone call?
    She started sniggering, but then Victor put his head out of his office and glared at her. “Shit,” she muttered. “Well? Is it on for this afternoon?”
    “They want me there at lunchtime. One o’clock, in Mayfair. Do you think Victor’ll have a hernia?”
    “Well, he would, if you didn’t have me on the case.” She winked salaciously at me. “No worries. I’ll keep him occupied.”
    We looked at the clock in unison. 10:55. I felt my stomach lurch with nervousness: I’d have to leave in an hour and a half or so. “Don’t fret,” she soothed. “You’ll be alright.”
    The next ninety minutes went by far too quickly. Inexplicably, the switchboard was manic and we barely had a moment to spare. Seemingly a heartbeat later, Sharon glanced up at the clock again and gasped. “Ava, move your arse!”
    I looked up too. 12:35. “Shit!” I squeaked, wrestling my handbag out from the cabinet and nearly twisting my ankle as I bolted out the door.
    I ran full throttle down to the station. If only I’d known earlier where the bloody interview would be, I wouldn’t have to try and work out the cheapest and/or fastest route while my nerves were completely shot. Luckily I could get there in one go, on the Piccadilly line. I was there quicker than I wanted to be. (I noted that life had become more exciting. Venturing into London twice in the space of four days was unheard-of for me.)
    The building looked as posh as the others—unassuming from the outside. I rang the little bell and shouted my name into the speaker a few times before being buzzed through. I was greeted by a terse-looking receptionist who nodded me toward a plush waiting area, all in burgundies and scarlets, where a new round of torture began.
    What were they going to ask me? Was I going to have to do one of those personality assessments? The idea filled me with terror. I was in no state to be psychiatrically evaluated.
    I glanced at my savagely bitten fingernails. I was really not good at waiting. Not at all. But neither was I good at coping under pressure; doubly cursed as far as modern life was concerned.
    Eventually, after aeons, the manic-looking receptionist toddled toward me, to say “he” (eek!) was ready for me. I smiled bravely as I followed her toward the office. Maybe I was about to see Jack the Billionaire. Never mind, I thought, ignoring an internal scream. I’ve got my Sunday best on .
    She left me there, at the enormous door. Apparently, I was to announce myself. I shivered involuntarily, partly out of anticipation, and partly out of fear.
    I knocked. Faintly, a voice seeped through the dark, heavy wood, inviting me in. In slow motion, I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it. I pushed. And there was the desk: and there was a man behind it, facing away from me.
    It wasn’t the man from Friday night. I remember seeing the silky whorl of