A week passed, and Zola received a handful of replies here and there. Several interview invitations came through, among them one from the Calderon Foundation. Her heart felt unsteady, as if treading on thin ice, yet she dressed neatly and went to each one, one by one.
She could never quite grasp the purpose of interviews. Hadn't everything already been laid out plainly on paper? Why must they ask again in person? What exactly were they trying to dig out of her? She couldn't fathom it; it felt like entering a dim, unfamiliar room where people she could never quite understand sat behind the door.
And so, the days wore on, bit by bit, worn away on the road. For those without money, time is the most expendable—it is, after all, one's own to be spent at others' whim. A single casual remark from someone could send her running across half the city. Her legs grew weary, yet her heart remained suspended, neither here nor there. The outcome always demanded waiting, waiting and waiting, until in the end, it was mostly all for nothing. Naturally, she detested this feeling, but what could she do? When you need something from others, you must first lower your posture, soften your gaze. Walking on the clamorous streets, under the stark white sun pouring down, she felt her shadow clinging thinly to the ground, so faint it was almost invisible, her footsteps swallowed entirely by the city's noise.
What are interview questions, really? They are like peeling back the pages of her past, holding them up to the light, examining the creases and hidden stains. First, they always ask her to "talk about yourself"—as if two or three decades of life could be summed up in just a few sentences. Then they pick at the seams of her words, gently twisting, slowly probing:
"Your resume says you organized a book club… did you encounter any difficulties?"
(In truth, it was just a casual gathering of about ten people, twice.)
"You say you're proficient with office software—what would you do if data suddenly disappeared?"
(They always assume the worst-case scenario.)
Sometimes, a question is tossed out unexpectedly: "What would you do if we didn't get back to you for a long time?" The words carry a soft thorn—they want you to show initiative but not seem too eager; to reveal desire yet maintain poise. The most enigmatic question always comes last: "Do you have any questions for us?"
If you ask about salary or benefits, you seem vulgar; if your questions are too vague, you seem disengaged. This is no simple exchange—it is walking a tightrope, where your smile must be perfectly composed, and the light in your eyes must shine just right—warm as the morning sun yet steady as twilight clouds.
They aren't just listening to your answers; they listen to the slight tremble in your breath, the pauses in your phrasing. Every question is a fine sieve, meant to sift out the exact qualities they seek from your very core: how much initiative lies beneath obedience, how much ambition hides within humility, and whether, even in moments of awkwardness, you can still maintain that dignified façade.
When Zola finally stepped out of that door, the sunlight outside seemed to waver, blurred. That exchange of questions and answers felt like an overly rehearsed play—lines delivered, yet the audience remained unseen, their true faces obscured.
The interviewer at the gallery sat there like a still life, carefully composed with light and shadow. She wore an ivory silk blouse, one button undone at the collar—the kind of effortless looseness that seemed innate. Her sleeves were rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a wristwatch with an impossibly thin gold face that caught the light with a faint, mint-green shimmer. Before her sat a frosted glass, unadorned except for a slender platinum rim at the base. The water inside was perfectly still, a paper-thin slice of lemon floating on the surface like a stranded crescent moon.
When she spoke, her voice seemed filtered through that platinum rim: "Your resume mentions you admire Hopper… could you tell us why?"
Her fingers rested lightly on the table's edge, nails trimmed short and clean, polished with a nearly transparent nude shade. On her left ring finger was a simple band—not the rounded kind of a wedding ring, but a flat one with sharply defined edges, as if broken off from some modernist sculpture.
"If you disagreed with a curator during an exhibition setup…" She leaned forward slightly, the silk of her blouse whispering almost inaudibly. "How would you handle it?"
A small abstract painting hung on the wall, shades of grey-pink and plaster white swirling together. Her earrings echoed those tones—two irregular pearls, surfaces pitted as if eroded by time, suspended from her earlobes on nearly invisible silver hooks. Occasionally, she would brush a stray strand of hair from her forehead, releasing a faint, restrained fragrance, like damp moss mixed with the scent of clean paper.
Most striking was how she arranged the papers after the final question: she aligned several A4 sheets with a soft tap on the table, their edges perfectly parallel to the table's border. The platinum-rimmed glass was pushed to a forty-five-degree angle on her right, its frosted surface absorbing the stray light, leaving only that slim band of metal at its base to gleam with a clear, expensive brilliance.
"That will be all for today," she said with a smile, her teeth fine and white. "We'll notify you of the outcome by email."
As Zola stood, she glimpsed a square leather notebook on the corner of the desk, its cover bearing no logo, only a deeply pressed cross-shaped indentation. The leather had the colour of aged ivory piano keys, the edges worn to a soft sheen—the kind of temperament only the finest leather possesses, growing more composed and dignified with use.
Stepping out of the gallery, the afternoon sunlight suddenly felt heavy, pressing down. Zola looked down at her own washed-soft shirt cuffs and remembered the light reflected off that platinum rim—cold, precise, like an unspoken boundary, lightly yet firmly drawn.
The afternoon she received the email from the Calderon Foundation, the city was draped in a fine, persistent rain. Zola had just squeezed off the bus, the toes of her canvas shoes already darkened by the damp. Head down, she hurried toward her apartment building when her phone vibrated in her pocket—at first, she assumed it was just another advertisement, swiping the screen open with idle curiosity.
Then she saw the sender's name.
The sound of the rain suddenly faded away.
She stood in the shadowed stairwell, her back against the cool white wall, and read the email from start to finish four times. Every word was familiar, yet together they felt like some cryptic code. Only when she reached the line—"We are pleased to offer you the internship position"—did it truly sink in.
They wanted her.
That place she had hardly dared to dream of, that gallery space with its platinum-rimmed glass and abstract art, that distant name on what she thought was merely a long shot—the Calderon Foundation.
Raindrops streaked diagonally across the windowpane, tracing transparent paths. The motion-activated light in the stairwell dimmed; she stepped softly to trigger it again, and the light washed back in, illuminating her hand, slightly trembling as it held the phone.
Who should she tell?
Almost without thinking, she opened Instagram, found the familiar profile picture. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a few seconds, then began typing rapidly:
"Emily guess what—Calderon gave me an offer!!! I still can't believe it, it feels like a dream."
She pressed the phone to her chest, feeling her heart thud wildly against her ribs. Outside the stairwell window, the rainy street blurred into a wash of grey-blue watercolour, the red taillights of buses smudging in the damp air like carelessly dropped paint.
She suddenly remembered that afternoon of the interview. The platinum gleam at the base of the frosted glass, the interviewer's restrained scent, the moment she left the gallery and glanced down at her own softened shirt cuffs.
And now, that door had opened for her.
Her phone vibrated. She looked down to see Emily's near-instant reply, a string of celebratory emojis:
"🎉🎉🎉!!!!!! I knew you could do it!!!!"
Followed swiftly by another message:
"Celebration tonight? My treat."
Leaning against the wall, Zola slowly, slowly began to smile. Rain traced winding paths down the glass; the world outside was a haze, yet in her heart, a small lamp now burned clearly—faint and flickering, perhaps, but undeniably alight, casting a warm glow over this small, dry patch of ground beneath her feet.
She replied: "Okay."
Then added: "Thank you, Emily. Really."
This time, there was no immediate reply. The chatbox showed "typing…" then stopped, then appeared again, several times over. Finally, a brief message arrived:
"You deserve it."
Reading those words, Zola's eyes suddenly grew warm. She sniffled, tucked her phone back into her pocket, and turned to climb the stairs. Her canvas shoes left faint, damp prints on the concrete steps—step by step, the prints grew fainter, eventually disappearing into the light around the corner.
The rain continued to fall. But something had changed.
The restaurant was tucked away on the second floor of a side street in Mayfair, reached by a narrow, winding wooden staircase. The door was a dark green, its brass handle polished to a high sheen, like a relic from an old boudoir. Pushing it open, the first sensation was a dense aroma—lemongrass and coconut milk simmered to richness, underpinned by the faint, salty tang of fish sauce, hanging warm in the air as if even the light had been tinted a dusky gold.
The walls were lined with deep peacock-blue velvet, adorned with a few gilt-framed paintings of tropical scenes, where banana leaves looked so lush they seemed to drip green. Each table was draped with crisp white linen, set with a small gilded candlestick, the candles unlit but already beaded with fine sweat. The guests spoke in hushed tones; the clink of cutlery against porcelain was crisp and restrained. The entire space felt like a carefully tuned music box, where even the flow of air seemed measured.
Following Emily inside, Zola suddenly felt her beige suit constrict—a psychological tightness, as if the air inside were thicker than outside. She carried the bag with the silk-scarf bow, the scarf chosen by Emily—a grey-green base sprinkled with delicate gold-foil patterns that now glimmered faintly in the low light, like phosphorus flashing on night water. She tried to imitate Emily's straight-backed posture, but her movements carried a stiffness, like the hesitant strokes of someone copying calligraphy.
And then he appeared.
Emerging from the private dining area deeper within the second floor. First came his companion—tall, slender, in a silver-grey slip dress that clung softly to her form, each step like liquid mercury flowing. Her blonde hair was loosely knotted at her nape, revealing a long neck unadorned by any jewelry, yet more striking for it.
But all eyes ultimately settled on him.
Alex—Zola would later learn his name—was the kind of presence that made the very space lose focus. He was tall, not awkwardly so, but with the slender, upright lines of a poplar. His hair was a deep brown, nearly black, cut short and casually, a few strands falling over his brow, just grazing his brow bone. His brow bone was exceptionally defined, high and sharp, beneath which were set eyes of a very light colour—grey-blue in the shadows like a frozen lake, but near the candlelight, they took on a faint amber hue, cool and without warmth.
His nose had the sharp, steep slope characteristic of Russian features, and his jawline was clean and precise, as if drawn with the hardest pencil. He wore a simple black turtleneck under a deep grey overcoat, left unbuttoned, swaying slightly with his stride. Beneath the clothes, one could sense the breadth of his shoulders—a frame built through consistent discipline, yet without bulk, retaining an almost elegant leanness.
He walked unhurriedly but with an undeniable rhythm. His companion tilted her head slightly, saying something; he leaned down to listen, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly—a smile so faint it vanished upon reaching his lips, like snow on warm stone, gone in an instant.
Just as Zola's gaze was about to trace the line of his profile, a shadow abruptly cut across.
A man in a black suit, broad-shouldered as a wall, positioned himself precisely between her and Alex. His placement was so skillful it seemed neither obtrusive nor accidental, completely blocking any possible line of sight. Zola only caught a glimpse of the edge of Alex's coat slipping past the man's shoulder—that flash of grey like a fish's tail disappearing into deep water, gone in a moment.
She stared, disoriented, instinctively seeking Emily's eyes. Emily was studying the menu, her long lashes casting twin crescents of shadow on her cheeks, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired. Candlelight flickered on the simple band on her finger, glinting almost too sharply.
Suddenly, the scent of lemongrass in the air intensified, thickening until it felt almost suffocating. From somewhere distant came the faint clink of dishes—a single, clear note, crisp and remote, as if from another world.
When the tom yum soup arrived, its surface was a rich red, dotted with plump prawns, the aroma of lemongrass and chili rising in a heated wave. Emily stirred it gently with a silver spoon, the broth rippling in fine circles. Without looking up, her voice, warm as the steam, floated over: "What's wrong? See something that caught your eye just now?"
Startled, Zola's fingertips bumped her water glass, spilling only a few drops that bloomed into small grey stains on the white tablecloth. "N-no," she stammered, hastily dabbing at the moisture, the silk bow on her bag trembling with the motion. "It's just… everyone here dresses so well."
Emily glanced up, her gaze lingering on Zola's face for a moment, the corner of her mouth curving in knowing amusement, as if deciphering a childish secret. "Is that so?" She lifted a spoonful of soup, blew on it gently. "This city has no shortage of beautiful people. Especially," she paused, her spoon clinking softly against the bowl, "the beautiful and dangerous ones."
The words slid into the air like a sliver of ice. Zola lowered her eyes, staring at the slice of lime on her plate. Yet the fleeting image from earlier refused to fade—the silver-grey silhouette beside Alex, the slender neck, the loosely knotted blonde hair, the fluid, mercury-like grace of her movement.
The restroom was hidden at the end of the corridor, its door heavy walnut, groaning softly on its hinges when pushed. Inside, the space was unexpectedly spacious, one entire wall covered in gilt-edged round mirrors that left no place to hide.
Zola was washing her hands, water rushing over her fingers, carrying away the sticky scent of spices. The door opened again.
First came the fragrance—not the warm, blended spices of the restaurant, but a clear, dewy lily of the valley, sweet yet with an underlying chill. She looked up and saw the companion in the mirror.
Up close, she was even more arresting. Her face was no larger than a palm, skin so pale it seemed translucent, with the faintest blush beneath, like fine porcelain gently kissed by light. Her eyes were a crystal blue, long lashes fluttering like a child's Barbie doll's, blinking with an innocent, glass-bead brightness. Yet beneath that light lay an emptiness, reflecting no emotion whatsoever.
She wore a silver-grey off-shoulder dress, and now, standing before the mirror, she turned slightly to check a small diamond on her earlobe. With the movement, the dress flowed, outlining a body so taut it seemed stretched like silk—not a trace of excess, from collarbone to waist to the straight, long legs, every inch measured with ruthless precision. It was a body forged through strict discipline, money, and will—flawlessly beautiful, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Zola looked at her own reflection: the beige suit appeared somewhat worn under the dim light, her cheeks flushed from the restaurant's heat, her hair not nearly as immaculate. She could even feel the slight, almost imperceptible tightness of the fabric at her waist when she breathed—the trace of an extra half-slice of bread from last night. A sharp, almost visceral jealousy pricked her unexpectedly.
The woman seemed to sense the gaze, meeting Zola's eyes briefly in the mirror. There was no hostility, no scrutiny, not even curiosity—as though observing an insignificant object. She then gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, her manner aloof and detached. From her pearl-clasped handbag, she retrieved a nude-coloured lipstick and applied it with meticulous precision. Her fingers were slender, her nails a healthy pale pink, plain and unadorned yet more precious than any jewel.
Finished, she put the lipstick away and turned to leave. The scent of lily of the valley trailed after her, marking the air with a faint, cool trace. The walnut door closed softly, sealing the two worlds apart once more.
Zola remained rooted to the spot. The water had long since ceased flowing, yet she remained oblivious; the tap dripped its final drop—plop—into the white basin, the sound echoing with jarring clarity in the excessively quiet room. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, seeing lingering admiration in her eyes, and a hint of disarray—the shame born of an unmistakable inadequacy laid bare. Suddenly, she reached out and tugged at her suit jacket, as if to smooth invisible creases, to bridge the unbridgeable chasm the mirror could not reflect.
The mirror was cold, clearly reflecting the ornate brass wall lamp behind her, beneath which no one stood. That silver-grey, Barbie-doll-perfect figure had vanished like a too-vivid, too-brief dream, leaving no trace. Only the faint, cold fragrance lingering at her nostrils proved she had ever been there.
Emily leaned against the deep peacock-blue velvet wallpaper, her phone held between her fingertips. The screen's glow lit half her face, the other half sinking into shadow, her lashes casting a dense fence of lines on her lower lids.
She typed: "She saw him. Went smoothly. As you wished." Her finger hovered over the send button for a moment, as if stung by that faint light. She turned off the phone, slipped it back into her clutch, the metal clasp snapping shut with a crisp click that seemed too loud in the silent hallway.
At the far end of the corridor was a small window overlooking London's heavy night, neon lights blurring in the damp air like unblended oils. Staring at that hazy glow, the aged vinegar in her heart seemed overturned, thick jealousy welling up like spilt ink, seeping slowly through her organs.
Some people are just born lucky. As if walking a path paved with gold leaf, every stumbling stone cleared away in advance, yet they remain blissfully unaware, believing their own steps are naturally light. Zola's clear eyes, that timid, untouched delight, now felt like fine needles pricking at her long-scarred wounds.
She remembered her first time entering a restaurant like this, one requiring reservations months in advance—her palms sweaty, spine stiff with tension, afraid a single misstep would betray her origins. And Zola? With a gentle push, she had tumbled into this glittering illusion, not even a speck of dust on her hem.
From the distance came the muffled laughter of the dining room, the light clink of cutlery. She took a deep breath; the air still carried the lingering scent of lemongrass, now cloying. She took a lipstick from her clutch, twisted it open, and carefully reapplied her colour using the faint reflection in the windowpane. It was a true red, making her skin glow like warm jade. She pressed her lips together, observing the flawlessly made-up, impeccable woman in the glass.
Then, slowly, very softly, she rolled her eyes at her own reflection.
Her phone vibrated once in her bag. She didn't rush to look. She knew who it was, and knew it wouldn't contain any tender words. Probably just a terse "Noted," or perhaps no reply at all.
She recapped the lipstick, returned it to her bag. Lifting her head again, her face had reassumed its warm, slightly concerned expression, her eyes reflecting the hallway's soft yellow lamplight, not a ripple in sight.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the restroom. She turned to see Zola emerging, looking somewhat dazed, her fingers unconsciously fiddling with the silk bow on her bag.
"What took you so long?" Emily stepped forward, her voice blending just the right note of gentle reproach. "The soup's getting cold."
She reached out, naturally smoothing a stray strand of hair behind Zola's ear. Her fingertips brushed against the other's cool skin, her touch gentle as if handling fragile porcelain. No one saw, in that moment her eyes lowered, the ink-dark hue that had not yet fully dispersed. Like the deepest ocean trench, where all churning, lightless emotions lay submerged in silence.