I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Park soyeon for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with brown eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.
Soyeon is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seoul in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Park Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, her time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but she has granted Soyeon an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.
Soyeon is huddled on the couch in the living room. “Jiyeon, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” soyeon begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, charcoal brown hair in place and eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go Soyeon. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about her” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. “The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.” “Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at her fondly. Only for you, soyeon,  would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks jiyeon – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.”
Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I can- not believe I have let soyeon talk me into this. But then soyeon can talk anyone into anything. She’ll make an exceptional journalist. She’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she’s my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Busan toward seoul and the I-5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in seoul until two this afternoon. Fortunately, soyeon lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Miss parks  global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty- story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Park House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimi- dating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed,  young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Miss park.  Park jiyeon for Park soyeon.”
“Excuse me one moment, Miss park.” She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self- consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of soyeons formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn’t intimidate me.
“Miss soyeon is expected. Please sign in here, Miss jiyeon. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impec- cably in black and white who rises to greet me.
“Miss Park jiyeon, could you wait here, please?” She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seoul skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing soyeon for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this woman I’m about to interview. She could be ninety or she could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colos- sal glass and stone edifice.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, jiyeon. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Park is in her forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed woman comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate woman? It’s like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. “Miss Park jiyeon?” the latest woman asks.
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident. “Miss Park will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?” “Oh please.” I struggle out of the jacket. “Have you been offered any refreshment?” “Um – no.” Oh dear, is woman Number One in trouble? Woman Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk. “Would you like tea, coffee, water?” she asks, turning her attention back to me. “A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.
“victoria, please fetch Miss park jiyeon a glass of water.” Her voice is stern. Victoria scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
“My apologies, Miss park jiyeon,  victoria is our new intern. Please be seated. Miss park will be another five minutes.”
Victoria returns with a glass of iced water. “Here you go, Miss park jiyeon.”
“Thank you.”
Woman Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work. Perhaps Miss park Hyomin insists on all her employees being pretty. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive  man exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. He turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, park.”
I don’t hear the reply. She turns, sees me, and smiles, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Victoria has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She’s more nervous than me!
“Good afternoon ladies,” she says as she departs through the sliding door.
“Ms. Park  will see you now, Miss jiyeon. Do go through,” woman Number Two says. I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door. “You don’t need to knock – just go in.” She smiles kindly. I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Ms. Parks office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so em- barrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – She’s so young.
“Miss soyeon.” He extends a long- hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Hyomin Park. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”
So young – and attractive, very attractive. She’s tall, dressed in a fine black pencil skirt, white long sleeve button down tucked in, and dark brown eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this girl is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in hers and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
“Miss soyeon is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Park.” “And you are?” Her voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from her impassive expression. She looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
“Jiyeon Park. I’m studying English Literature with soyeon, um…  Miss park soyeon at seoul State.”
sure. “I see,” she says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in her expression, but I’m not sure.
“Would you like to sit?” she waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch. Her office is way too big for j