The Interview

She looked at the painting hung on the wall in front of her, tilting her head slightly. A small frown creased the skin between her expertly groomed brows. Yes, it was definitely off centre.

Now that she’d noticed it, it was all she could see.

Sigh.

Fighting the urge to stand up and adjust its position, she took in the gaudy gold frame, the flouncy wreaths protruding from the corners, its edges dripping with bunches of shimmering grapes. It screamed for attention, overpowering the painting it held: a huge, lithe shark, gliding through a sun-dappled sea. The artist hadn’t done a bad job, she supposed – as if she were some sort of expert. The proportions seemed right, it was lifelike enough. But something about the apex predator hanging in an office waiting area made her uneasy. Or maybe it was just nerves... There'd been butterflies dancing in the pit of her stomach all day, after all. It was only since walking into the office that they'd suddenly turned leaden.

She glanced at the receptionist and sighed again, loudly. What was the hold up? She hated waiting. It made her edgy.

Her gaze floated back to the painting and landed on the shark’s rows upon rows of teeth. So many of them, like miniature razor-sharp arrow heads, filling the beast's mouth to overflowing. The shark wasn't poised to strike, but those tiny white dagger tips were gleaming, nevertheless, in the shafts of sunlight that streamed through the water, strokes of white piercing the deep blue, filtering to the murky depths below.

The shark's glossy black eyes, deep holes holding ancient secrets, seemed to stare through her and she felt a slight shudder ripple down her spine. She shifted in her seat, uncrossing and rearranging her legs, tugging at the sleeves of her blazer, willing them to provide her extra warmth. The office was icy. Why was the air con always cranked so high in these corporate spaces?

She didn’t want to look at the shark painting again, didn’t want to let it distract her from the meeting she was about to join. Yet her gaze was inexplicably dragged back; back to the gentle lines of the water, the dappled sunlight wrapping around the smooth lines of the predator’s sleek body, those all-knowing eyes.

It was… too perfect, she thought, leaning forward, her forehead creasing again as she realised this wasn’t a painting at all.

It was a print.

Just a print.

That god-awful frame should’ve given it away. Surely no-one would put real art into that tacky monstrosity.

She leaned back, puckering her lips into the shape of mild annoyance and folding her arms across her chest, feeling cheated. She’d been cowed by the power inside the piece; the shark's strength and lethal beauty, the moments of solace offered by the beams of light breaking through the waves… but it was fake. A cheap knock-off; a fakery of an imitation of real life.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, making a noise that sat somewhere between a contemptuous snort and a humourless laugh.

Why was she so angry?

And why was this guy so late? She’d made the effort to be on time – early even – couldn’t he do her the same courtesy? She’d spent all week preparing, researching, reading, memorising prompts, predicting the questions he might ask… She knew the numbers back to front, had the market research tucked away safely in her mind...

She slid off her glasses, pulling down her sleeve once again, this time rubbing at the lenses, mindlessly shooing away nonexistent grime. Force of habit, she supposed.

Click.

She didn’t look as the door swung open, though she did sit up a little straighter in her seat.

“Emily? Come on in – I’m Michael.”

She smiled and stood, reaching for her bag. Glancing at the shark as she approached the door, she felt the animal's quiet confidence; its unyielding certainty.

A small smile crept into the corners of her lips.

She was strong, too.

And powerful.

She was going to kill this interview.

She would eat him alive.