LAURA FUSTER

     Gemma gazes into the hall mirror, her posture strong, her expression decisive, steely eyes meeting those staring back at her.  Well, at least I look like an international sales manager.

 

     Then her shoulders slump.  But so does Annalisa.  And the boss has groomed her for this position for over a year.  Ugh!  My closest rival’s a shoo-in!

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     ‘Ohh, but this job is perrrrfect!’ she moans to her reflection as her hands flop onto her thighs.  ‘Head of International Sales in Paris - Paris!! Aghhh!’

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     She turns on her heels and starts to walk away when the doorbell buzzes.

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     ‘Lui! Hi.  What a surprise!’ she says as she looks down the hallway for Lui’s mum.

The little girl’s toothless smile widens when she holds up a glass jar with an imprisoned insect scurrying around the bottom.

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     ‘I brought you a lucky cricket, Auntie Gemma!  Mum said it was just what you needed to get your new job.’

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     ‘Oh, ah, hmmm,’ Gemma stalls, trying to refuse without disrespecting her sister-in-law’s Chinese folklore or hurting her little niece’s feelings.

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     ‘But Dad said you’d never believe in such superstitious nonsense.’

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     ‘Did he now? Well, my brother doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does. Thank you, Lui, I can use all the help I can get!’

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     Lui’s smile grows wider when Gemma reaches for the jar.  She turns to leave with a wave.  ‘Gotta go, Mum’s waiting in the car.  Good luck, Auntie Gemma!’

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     ´Bye, Lui - and thanks,’ Gemma shouts as the little girl pushes open the stairwell door.

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     She sets the jar on the windowsill with a sarcastic, ´Ok, cricket, you have less than an hour to work your magic.’

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     She sits at her laptop and tries to focus on the latest sales report, but checking emails every five minutes breaks her concentration.  After reading the same paragraph three times, she throws up her hands and paces, eyeing the cricket at each pass.  If only it could be as simple as having a lucky cricket.

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     The ding of an arriving email pauses her foot mid-step.  She runs to her computer and refreshes the screen.  A message in bold from Human Resources sits at the top of the email pile, ‘re: posting in Paris’, its simple, but loaded subject line.  Her finger shakes as she clicks the message open.

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     ‘Dear Ms Martinez. We regret to inform you…’

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     ‘Nooooo!’ Gemma cries, slapping the table as she springs to her feet.  A hand on her hip, the other holding back tears, she turns one way, then another, unable to escape her disappointment.

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     She finally stops, uncovering her eyes as she gulps a deep breath, her gaze landing on the cricket.

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     ‘Some help you were!’

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     She stomps to the shelf, grabs the jar with both hands, and throws it to the floor. The glass shatters; jagged and powdery fragments scatter across the tiles.  In the middle of the sparkling dust, the bug lays supine, its bent legs frozen upwards.

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     A ding draws her eye from the cricket to her laptop.  She hurries over and sees another email from Human Resources, its subject line, ‘re: posting in Paris - revised.’

She clicks it open.

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     ‘Dear Ms Martinez, due to the unavailability of the previously selected candidate, we are happy to offer you the Head of International Sales position in Paris… ‘

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     ‘Ahhh!’ Gemma screams, her eyes now wet with gleeful tears as she dances around the flat. When she passes the dead cricket, she says, ‘Sorry, bug. I guess you brought me good luck after all.’

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                                                         ***

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     A month later, Gemma waits for her luggage to appear on the conveyor belt with a smile that hasn’t left her face since boarding the business class flight to Paris.  When her bag is the first to fall down the chute, she gives it a knowing nod - another sign confirming karma is with her.

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     The huge grin is still there when she walks out of Charles de Gaulle airport into the bright sunshine.  The glare makes her squint as she looks for a cab, the reflection off opposite windows magnifying its intensity.  Through slitted eyes, she soon sees the illuminated green ‘taxi’ light atop an approaching car and an excited tingle tickles her from head to toe.  She steps from the kerb to hail the taxi, oblivious to the oncoming van hidden in the reflecting sunlight.

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                                                          ***

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     Gemma lies in the back of a speeding ambulance, the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth doing little to help her breathe.  With one last gasp she whispers, ‘I shouldn’t have killed the cricket.’

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                                                       THE END