The Red-Heeled Receptionist

A sassy, sexy receptionist named Chelsea talks about life, work, love, friends, family and secrets....


1. Ending up here

You know what I hate?

When people are made to be seen differently to how they’re really seen. Like receptionists, for example. In movies, they’re portrayed as bubbly, bright-eyed, naïve girls with a badge adhered to their double D chests and a smile plastered on their artificial faces as they clack around their classy offices in red hot heels; their thick hair bouncing around their small shoulders .

What they really do is sit in a crummy, cluttered, crappy, one-windowed office, tapping away on their century-old keyboards, repeating ‘he’ll be with you in a minute’ or ‘do you have an appointment?’ hundred of times a day and trying their best to hide their complete and utter boredom and frustration with a feeble smile that resembles a frown almost too much.

And the phones, oh the phones, ringing every minute, no, second of the day forcing that poor receptionist to answer in the least monotonous tone they can produce.

I would know.

I’m a receptionist.

In fact, it’s a surprise the phones haven’t rang by now. It’d be a miracle if this lasted ten more seconds.


Yeah. Right. A miracle. They don’t happen that often round here as you can see.

‘Hello, JRT Enterprise, how may I assist you?’

One other thing that receptionists constantly have to deal with is the gossip. The gossip you hear, the lies you witness, the scandal they cause.

And I’m the queen of it all; that’s why they call me the red-heeled receptionist.

At the age of about fifteen, I went to my first party. Not those childish parties with balloons, cheesy DJ’s and finger food. Trust me, I’ve been to my fair share of those. No, I’m talking about the real parties with boys and alcohol and lacy dresses…yes, lace.

I remember my first party was in Year 10. The host was Lizzie Burns, a popular yet bitchy egoist. She handed out invites to everyone but I was free that night and a lot of people were going. My parents had no clue; they were of at a weekend resort leaving me and my 19 year old sister, Jennifer. 

I knew Jennifer was meeting up with her model boyfriend so the two could get up to God-knows-what together so I practically had the day to myself. I remember taking a hot shower, then a cold shower and then a kiwi and strawberry face mask. I wore a lacy black dress which was more a top than a dress with Jennifer's black criss-cross stilettos. I got a cab there which pretty much depleted my pocket money but I didn't want to turn up sweating from walking or late if I took the bus.

There was a nearby shop which I remember nicking some beers from. When I arrived at the party, everyone was glammed up and the atmosphere was buzzing. I loved it; the way I felt, the way people looked at me, paid attention to me. It was one of the best nights I spent out. I remember about the first half an hour when we danced and chatted and the next two hours that followed are all a blur.  I must of drank about half my weight in alcohol and I was utterly stoned when I got home. Jennifer was upstairs in her room with David, her boyfriend. I didn't dare go up. I wouldn't be able to get any images out of my head  if I did. 

I slept on the sofa and when I awoke, a pounding headache had formed in my brain as blood roared in my ears making me dizzy and nauseas. I spent the most of the next day throwing up and vowed never to drink again but at the next party, I went back on my promise. It made me feel so good. I did everything I wanted to do but couldn't do when I was sober. I finally had a sense of freedom and I couldn't get enough. 

Every week for the last five years, I have been partying and drinking and I don't regret some I do regret. But it has made me who am I am today.

And who am I?

I am the most respected bitch round here. Best believe it. 

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