LITMIR.BIZ

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of Vogue. On me it’s a bird’s nest straight out of National Geographic.

      Suddenly Zara flicked her eyes open and inhaled dramatically. Was this it? Was this when she delivered her decision? Or decided that my higher self wasn’t qualified for the post? Nope, eyes shut again, back in weird trance. Zara Delta: founder member of Wackos ‘R’ Us.

      Or maybe that should be Hippy Throwbacks ‘R’ Us, given that Zara’s wardrobe seemed to consist entirely of tie-dyed kaftans, straw flip-flops and headbands from which protruded a menagerie of flowers. Today there was a sunflower sticking out of one side, and three large daisies had wilted on the other side, drooping towards her shoulder. Her thick mahogany hair flowed down to her waist and she wore enough blue eye-shadow to kit out an entire Abba tribute band. According to the press she was forty-five, but she looked younger–obviously all that serenity and inner peace was allowing her to circumvent frown lines and wrinkles.

      While she carried on with strange humming thingies, I contemplated my surroundings and realised that, compared to my current place of employment on a dilapidated industrial estate on the outskirts of Slough, working here would be stellar. Literally. The office was in a grand Georgian townhouse in Notting Hill, the kind of building that looked like it housed a stockbroker, his interior-designer wife and three children called Palomina, Pheronoma and Calispera. But any preconceptions had to be dumped at the door, the one that was carved with ancient Mongolian warrior symbols in a bid to ward off evil spirits, negative forces and any local yobs armed with cans of spray paint.

      The huge oblong entranceway looked like a mini planetarium. The carpet was black, the walls and ceiling were the colour of the night sky, and fluorescent stars covered every surface. It wasn’t so much a professional office, more the view from the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. In the corner, a receptionist sat behind a futuristic silver desk, illuminated only by one desk lamp and the flashing red squares on the switchboard. The first thing that had struck me was how miserable she looked–not surprising given that the lack of sunlight probably made her a shoo-in for rickets.

      Zara’s office took up the entire first floor and suitably reflected a zany TV New Age guru who looked like a cross between a Woodstock refugee and Cher in her ‘Turn Back Time’ years. The walls and ceiling were draped with rich red silks, giving the whole space the vibe of an elaborate Bedouin tent. Huge plants sat in every crevice and corner, while ornate Persian rugs covered almost every inch of the ebony wood floor. Two trees had given their lives to make her inordinately wide desk, both of them cut vertically in half and then laid side by side–a concept that might have worked a little better if the branches had been removed. Instead, about fifteen feet of shrubbery filled a whole corner of the room. The rest of the floor was covered with the same oversized cushions that Zara sat on now; massive squares of intricately embroidered, rich damask in shades of deep ochre interspersed with small tree stubs that doubled as tables.

      Still, at least (unlike the poor, pale, vitamin-deprived receptionist) she had three huge sash windows that filled the room with natural daylight. Or they would have if it wasn’t six o’clock on a January night and pitch dark outside.

      Suddenly, Zara jumped up, grabbed a large, gilt-engraved chalice from her desk and headed towards the window I’d been staring at just seconds before. Spooky. Was that a coincidence? Or a bit of psychic prompting? Oh my God–could she read my thoughts? Think nice things, think nice things…

      She wrenched up the window and held the chalice outside.

      Okaaaaay…So was she:

      a) dealing with a cup of tea that was too hot in a sound ecological fashion by using rainwater to cool it down;

      b) contravening Health & Safety legislation by passing out a liquid refreshment to a window cleaner who bucked the industry norm by working nights;

      c) actually, there wasn’t a c) because I couldn’t think of another logical (or otherwise) reason that she had her arm thrust out of a first-floor window on a cold, dark January night.

      ‘Father Moon,’ she wailed, ‘send me a sign that I am walking the correct path, the one that leads to the destiny that your wondrous powers will deliver.’

      My chin incurred skid marks as it ricocheted off the floor. She was, quite literally, howling at the moon. I didn’t need Father Moon’s divine powers to tell me that this woman was about as stable as a vibrator on a hammock. In a hurricane.

      Suddenly, she slammed one hand over the top of the cup, brought it back inside and turned to me, her victorious grin clearly conveying that whatever the bloke in the sky had done, she was chuffed about it.

      Gliding across the floor (she appeared to move in a Dalek fashion, due to the barefoot/ long kaftan combination), she brought the chalice to me and gingerly lifted her palm to show me what was inside. ‘He sent one to us,’ she announced, her voice all breathy with joy.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous, there’s nothing in there, you mad, mixed-up loon!’ I retorted. But only in my head. In real life I was too stunned to speak and instead just sat with a facial pose that gave her full view of my fillings.

      I stared at the inside of the chalice. Nothing. Empty. Void of all contents.

      ‘He sent us a moonbeam,’ she gushed.

      Of course. A moonbeam. I should have noticed.

      ‘Leni, that’s a sign.’

      I waited for her to add, ‘…that it’s time for me to have a long lie down in a dark room until the magic mushrooms wear off.’

      ‘It’s a sign that we are on the right path,’ she continued.

      I was beginning to understand why her previous assistant had decided that the right path for her was the one that led to Heathrow Airport.

      I attempted an encouraging, receptive expression, one you might give to a four-year-old who’d just confided that her imaginary friend was having a quick shower before dinnertime.

      ‘So, Leni, are you absolutely sure that you want to work here?’

      Noooooooooo!

      So of course I said, ‘Definitely.’

      Look, it didn’t involve flushing, I’d broken the habits of a lifetime by actually getting this far, and it paid fifteen grand a year more than my current job. I’d already decided that as long as it didn’t involve sacrificing my firstborn child then I was taking the position.

      She sank back down onto her cushion and resumed the meditative position: her legs crossed, eyes closed and her fingers upturned on her knees, thumb and middle finger pressed together.

      ‘And you’re open to the new challenges and experiences that destiny will bring?’

      I nodded again, resisting the urge to make the atmosphere a little more dramatic by adding a ‘hmmm’.

      ‘Then welcome to our team. I’m delighted to have you here and I think we’ll work together in perfect harmony.’

      My higher self gave a silent cheer and embarked on a Mexican wave. I’d done it! Sure, it was bizarre and it was just a little bit terrifying, but the most important thing was that I was no longer facing a heady future in ballcocks. I was PA to Zara Delta. And so what if I didn’t know her rising moon from Saturn’s ring–I’d wing it somehow. After all, how tough could it be? I zipped all my doubts in a mental file, labelled it ‘This Job Makes No Bloody Sense Whatsoever’, filed it away and allowed myself a brief moment of self-congratulation–a month into the New Year and already I was on my way to fulfilling my resolution to change everything about my life. And, let’s face it, this was about as different as it could get.

      Zara opened her eyes and gave me a benevolent smile. Maybe working for her would be fine after all. Perhaps I was just a little overwhelmed by her eccentricities and idiosyncrasies and in a few weeks she’d seem perfectly normal.

      ‘Be here next Monday, six a.m., for Tai Chi, affirmations and a full briefing on your first assignment.’

      ‘Er…assignment?’

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