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“Amelia Crook?” David asked.
He sounded polite. After all this build-up, he still thought I was her. He must not have met the real Amelia Crook before. I dared align my gaze with his.
“It’s Amelia Cross, actually,” I said.
Outright stealing her name was a step too far. At no point had I lied about my identity, and I wasn’t about to start now.
He wrinkled his brow. “Cross? Why did I think it was Crook?”
“There was someone else called Amelia Crook who used to work here. That would be why.”
“Ah. My mistake. I’m David Green, and this is my assistant, Aroha Williams. We’re taking over from Greg due to the reshuffle.”
I had no idea who Greg was, but I nodded along.
They took turns to shake my hand.
“Please, set yourself up.” David gestured to the screen. “The others won’t be long.”
Others. I swallowed a lump in my throat. “How many are we expecting to join us?”
“Just two. Neil can’t make it.”
I prickled. “Neil Kingston?”
“That’s the one. He has another commitment.”
I hadn’t even considered that he might attend. Thank goodness he wasn’t going to.
“Oh, here they are now,” Aroha said.
A man with salt-and-pepper hair and a blonde woman, both dressed in corporate attire, entered the room.
“Amelia, this is Cindy and Howard from operations management. They’ll be overseeing the whiteware portfolio from now on,” David said.
I shook their hands and introduced myself as Amelia Cross, with emphasis on the “Cross.”
We exchanged vague pleasantries, neither of them questioning me beyond how my day was going.
The group of four sat down. I took it upon myself to pour each attendee a glass of water from the chilled glass jug in the centre of the table. Next, I distributed the printouts I had brought with me.
While David and the others engaged in light chitchat, I set up the presentation on the provided laptop and connected it to the TV. I brought up the first page of the document, and everyone turned their attention towards me.
This is it.
I was either going to fool them and have to continue my charade, or fall flat on my face in a spectacular fashion. I wasn’t sure which outcome was worse.
Over the last few days, I had spent countless hours preparing for this presentation, learning the ins and outs of each line of every table, the meaning behind each chart, and the definitions of all the terminology. With four pairs of eager eyes watching me, I mustered a sense of pseudo-confidence, cleared my throat, and began. “As you’re aware, the dishwasher advertising campaign ran?—”
Clunk.
The boardroom door opened.
Everyone’s focus shifted from me to the late arrival.
In stepped Neil Kingston, clean-shaven, razor-jawed, dressed in a three-piece suit. His stare hit me like an icy blade. His impenetrable black eyes narrowed, and I felt like a deer in headlights. I could tell he was thinking, calculating.
My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.
