I jumped out of bed—groping for support, hair flying every which way—just as Tasha entered the room. I gaped at her, then at the door on the floor, and then at the clock. It was half past five. I leaned heavily against the wall.

"What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?" I asked, rubbing sleep crusts from my eyes.

"Whoops!" Tasha said, engaging in that little shoulders-shrug thing people do when they know they are in huge trouble but couldn't care less. She pointed at the door with her blood-red nail as she circumvented it and proceeded into the room. "I will definitely get that fixed. You should have told me your hinges were rotten. I only pushed the door open really hard. Sheesh. One would think I had super-human strength."

I planted my hands on my waist and glared at her. "So now it's my fault you vandalised my property? And you bloody well will get it fixed! How did you get in anyways?" I rubbed at my head. It was too early for all this.

I guess I had it coming when I asked that question. Before the words were out of my mouth, she was holding up a suspiciously familiar looking key. "A copy of yours," she admitting, before throwing it into her bag like it was the most normal thing to do.

"When," I asked, holding up a finger, "did you do that?"

"Opportunities, love," she said sagely. "One must avail them when one is given the chance."

"You—"

"Oh, please," she interrupted, raising her hands before her, palms outwards, as if offering peace. "We have much more important things to discuss than this."

I thought for a moment, then concluded it most definitely was too early. Sighing heavily, I let myself fall back on the bed, twisting my head to look at Ella. She, like the true baby she was, was still sleeping peacefully, curled up in a foetal position. "There is a kid in this room, Tasha. You can be more sensible, you know."

"I know, I know. I am sorry." She stopped by Ella's bed to drop a kiss on her forehead. Her lipstick left a mark. Then she flipped her hair over one shoulder and shrugged out of her beige overcoat. "But," she said, as she made herself at home on my bed. "I have the most amazing news and couldn't help getting excited."

"Over-excited," I muttered, wondering if shutting my eyes would make her disappear.

"Listen, you won't believe what I found out!" she squealed.

"I don't believe you broke my door and the evidence is right in front of my eyes. I think you might be right."

"Well, here it is." She waiting to oblige dramatics, then... "I found you a job!"

I opened my eyes. "What?"

"I found you the best of jobs ever! You won't have to work in that shit-hole restaurant anymore! I am amazing! Give a loud round of applause for—"

"Shut it, Tasha," I said, grabbing her hand as she attempted to spread it in a wide circle. I pulled myself up to my elbows, then sat up all the way. "Calm down and tell me what exactly you mean," I ordered.

She took a deep breath, her skin flushed to complement dress. "Okay, listen—"

"Aunt Tasha?"

We both turned to find Ella sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes. "Is that you, Auntie?"

Tasha beamed. She leaped out of bed and gathered the limp-with-sleep Ella in her arms. "Yes, it is, sweetie. Good morning." She fit Ella's head under her chin and kissed her hair. "And how is my best little girl in the world?"

"Good," Ella mumbled, half asleep already.

It seems I need to set matters to right here. No, Tasha is not my sister. She is my best friend though, and the one, single person in the world I would pick over a blood relative any day. She was as strong a part of me as my own heart, so Ella calling her Auntie was no surprise.

I sat up and grabbed my crutches from beside the bed, intruding into the melodrama like the evil stepmother. "Alright Ella, if you are up there's no reason in going to sleep again. Come on, into the bathroom."

"Good morning to you too, mom," she said. Sometimes having a too clever daughter can be a bloody pain in the arse. They get snarky too freaking young and too freaking fast.

Tasha set her down. Ella tugged her pyjamas up her bottom and started walking toward the bathroom. Then she stopped and regarded Tasha with an expectant eye. She held out her hand.

I groaned. "What did I tell you about doing that, Ella?"

She ignored me; so did Tasha, for that matter. She picked up her coat and, digging into the pockets, pulled out a humungous bar of chocolate. Ella reached for it so fast one would think I was in the habit of starving her.

"Now mind, poppet. Don't eat the whole thing at once. And certainly not before you brush your teeth. I can smell your breath from here," Tasha admonished.

Ella stuck out her tongue at Tasha and me and skipped out of the room.

"Ella!"

"Oh, shush, Zara," Tasha said. "Leave her alone. Now come sit down so I can tell you everything."

I sighed in resignation and sat down.

"Okay," she said, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. "So, I was talking to Christopher yesterday—"

"Which one's Christopher?" I asked.

She scowled. "Christopher's my boyfriend, of course."

I gave her a blank stare. "I know. I asked, which one?"

She huffed, but then gave in. "The current one, okay? I broke up with Tommy last week. But listen—"

"Tommy was which one, again? I am still on Nolan. Remember, the architect?"

"Nolan? Nolan, who? I don't remember Nolan."

I shook my head. Of course, she didn't remember. Tasha went through boyfriends like a sensible person goes through toothpicks. How could one remember a special pick from all the others used since?

"Fine, you don't remember. Forget Nolan. Now tell me what you mean about the job."

"Okay, okay," she said, grinning broadly. "So, I was talking to Christopher yesterday. We had just had dinner and were wondering if we should go to his house or mine—"

"Very important decision," I noted.

"Well, of course. The location always matters." She winked. "But that's not relevant. What I am trying to say here is that our conversation somehow wandered, and suddenly he was telling me about this rich-ass brother of his—"

"How the hell did you make that leap?"

She glared at me."—and how he couldn't find a secretary." Clearly, she was going to ignore my just question. "Apparently this brother hasn't liked the work of any of his secretaries and most of them remain for a month at most before he violently and embarrassingly kicks them out. Christopher said his brother is very particular about what and what not his secretary can do.

"And then he joked that Alexander—that's the brother," she added, in case I thought she was talking about someone else. "Alexander would probably be better off with someone he trained himself because there was no way he could find one on planet earth that he found adequate. And then, BAM!" She mimicked an explosion, looking at me expectantly.

"What?" I asked, wide-eyed. "Your car crashed?"

"Huh? No! I mean BAM! Idea strike!"

"You had one?" I was skeptical.

"Oh, Zara, focus already. Don't you see, you can get this job. It was made for you!" She shook my hands hard enough to rattle my teeth.

It took me a moment to grasp what it was she was trying to say. And then another to really grasp what it was she was trying to say.

"Are you trying to tell me that you want me to work for a violent psychopath?"

"I did not say psychopath. Violent, yes, but not psychopath. At least not officially. Why would you say that? He sounds perfectly perfect."

"Are you on drugs, Tasha?"

She tapped her finger against her lips, thoughtful. "Not as far as I remember." Then she smiled brilliantly. "Come on, this is great! Be a sport! I couldn't believe it at all when Christopher told me. This is perfect!"

I frowned. Perfect indeed. Small alarm bells started ringing in my head. I couldn't believe it either. It sounded too scripted, the pieces falling too perfectly.

What were the odds that this Alexander person was looking for someone to work for him exactly when Christopher and Tasha started dating? And what were the odds that Christopher had just happened to mention this fact in a discussion that had started with their plans for the night? I knew for a fact that Tasha was virtually incapable of thinking about something else when certain things were on her mind. So, was it safe to assume that it was Christopher who had steered the conversation? But why?

My naturally suspicious nature was working in overdrive. Was I thinking too much into this? Then again, thinking too much was what had kept me safe these five years.

Tasha didn't give me a chance to decide. "This is so the job for you," she said dreamily, clasping her hands before her chest like a cartoon.

I had to take a deep breath to steady myself. Regardless of what it was, the girl was talking pure nonsense, and clearly it fell upon me to wrestle her brain back to planet earth.

But she had other plans.

Before I could get another word out, she started rushing about the room. She pressed my crutches into my hands and began rummaging in my drawers. "We have no time to waste, of course. The clock is ticking!"

I frowned. "Ticking for what?"

"Your interview, duh, what else? I already called and set one up for you. You can thank me later when you get the job." She held up one of my kameez, a midnight blue silk affair with a button-down shirt collar. She glared at it for a moment, as if personally offended, then nodded in resignation.

"Would have to do," she said, obviously rallying bravely. "Paired with black leggings..." She picked said item from the drawer. "Passable. Not that you are going to remove that despicable abaya anyways."

She looked at me then, still sitting on the bed, frozen in place. "Hey," she said. "what are you doing? Get a move on!"

"You set me an interview with him?" I had to ask again, just to make sure.

"Weren't you listening before? Of course, I did. I am the best of friends. Now, to the bathroom with you. I think I here Ella gurgling."

"Tasha, I can't go to this interview."

"Pish-and-posh! Of course you can."

I rephrased. "Tasha, I am not going to go to this interview."

That got her attention. She stopped ripping my drawers apart and looked at me. "What did you say?"

"I am not going, Tasha. What makes you think he will accept me?"

She huffed in exasperation. "Didn't I explain already? It's because you are new, you are fresh, and he will damn well have to train you because your secretarial experience won't fill a thimble. You fit all the criteria!"

"Tasha, this is ridi—"

"I told you I won't hear no! So don't waste time saying it. Get up, get up, get up!" She put all the clothes down and came to pull me up. I think I was still in shock, because I let her.

She handed me my crutches and rushed to the bathroom. Rapping her knuckles against the door, she singsong-ed, "Baby girl? Mommy needs the tap now! Come out!"

There was the final sound of spitting and water running from the faucet, before Ella stuck her head out. "Pass me the towel?" she said.

"You should really remember to take one in with you," Tasha admonished, handing it over. "Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

The door banged shut. A moment later it opened again, revealing Ella wrapped snugly in a towel. Tasha rushed forward to pick her up, cuddling her against her chest. "There's my wittle doll, all clean and sparkly." She buried her face in the girl's neck. Ella giggled.

I blinked and rubbed my temples, still having trouble processing the daunting task before me. My discomfort was apparent, a fact Ella picked on immediately.

"What's wrong with Mommy?" she whispered into Tasha's ear.

Tasha sighed. "Mommy's being unreasonable. But don't worry. I got this. Why don't you go get into your uniform while I sort your Mommy out?"

Ella gave me one last look, then nodded. She hopped out of Tasha's hands and, pulling out her uniform, rushed to change in the kitchen so no one would see. Tasha waited till she was out of sight. Then she came closer and slapped my cheek, lightly.

"Hey," I said. "What was that for?"

"For you to get a grip and stop acting like an idiot." She planted her hands on her hips and glared at me. "I am telling you this is a perfect opportunity. And if you're still not sure, then there is only one thing I can say." She jabbed her thumb at the yawning doorway. "That girl out there deserves better than this decrepit hole you call home and the money cleaning dishes makes you. Do this for her if not yourself. Try this for her."

So, that's how Tasha got her way.

Stepping out of the apartment a half-hour later, I stopped. I was forgetting something; something about last night. I screwed my eyes shut, trying to concentrate, but no matter how hard I tried, the thought kept slipping away.

I sighed. This wasn't anything unusual. The psychiatrist had called it a common effect of PTSD, where my attention span was minimal. As I debated going inside and assuring myself everything was alright, Tasha leaned heavily on the horn, pulling me back to the present and getting me to rush down before the neighbours called the police. If I was forgetting something, it would have to fend for itself for a while.

After dropping Ella off at her school, Tasha dove into the early morning traffic like a maniac. I sat as stiff as a stick beside her, still pissed that she had used the Ella-card. Tasha had no qualms about what she had done, though. She had been a woman on a mission, out of which she had emerged victorious. Who cared if below-the-belt methods had been used? Triumph was triumph.

It took us an hour to reach downtown, where we stopped before a tall building. Rodwell & Sons Enterprises. Even the bloody name sounds snobby, I thought.

Tasha parked the car beside the curb, grinning at me before getting out and coming to my door. After helping me out she stood silent for a moment, a finger against her chin in the universal gesture of deep thought. Her aviator glasses reflected back a hunched, black clad figure tapping one foot impatiently.

"Will I do, then?" I asked when half a minute had passed.

"Hmm? Yes, I guess," she said. "There is no helping what can't be helped. Come on, now. Chop, chop." She snapped her fingers and she threw the car keys in the valet's face. I winced in apology.

The structure we were walking toward rose before us into the sky, high and high, blocking out the rays of the sun; everything in its shadow remained swathed in grey darkness. It felt like a statement.

The whole front façade was glass, winking at the people passing its doors. A pair of revolving doors led to a lobby of green marble, shot through with spider-thin veins of silver. A massive chandelier jingled overhead, sparkling with bulbs and cut-glass diamonds.

The room was awash with people walking to-and-fro, carrying suitcases and files. A dour-faced receptionist—what was it with receptionists and dour faces, anyways?—sat behind the high front desk, staring at the new arrivals above his glasses.

Tasha immediately headed for him. I followed, in no mood to hurry.

"Excuse me?" she said sweetly.

The receptionist looked down at her, unimpressed. "Yes?" His voice sounded like a body being dragged over gravel.

"We have an appointment with Mr. Alexander Rodwell."

The receptionist—Bob, the triangular thingy on his desk said—raised his eyebrows. He raked Tasha up and down and then looked at me, curiosity positively bubbling from his eyes. "Is that so?"

"Yes. I am Tasha Evans, and this," she motioned towards me, "this is Zara Mahal. Would you please inform him of our arrival?"

"Well, of course. That's my job." He smiled, somehow making me feel colder than before. I fidgeted with my belt. He picked up a receiver and, after pressing a mysterious button, put it to his ear. "Geric? There are two ladies here saying they have an appointment with Mr. Rodwell. Tasha Evans and Zara..." He looked back at me, pressing the phone to his chest. "I am sorry. What was that again?"

I barely controlled my scowl. "Mahal," I said. "Zara Mahal."

"Of course." He nodded. Putting the phone back to his ear, he said, "Zara Mahal." He did not pronounce it right. "Could you check that for me?"

He waited a beat, listening, then put the phone back in its cradle. "Your appointment is confirmed," he said. "You may go on ahead. Floor thirty-two. Geric will show you the way." He nodded towards the elevators.

Tasha started walking forward without a backward glance. I gulped and followed, feeling each step heavier than the last. Bob's morbid curiosity escorted us all the way to the doors of the elevator.

I took a deep breath and stepped on. Here goes nothing.