This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …
* * *
‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.
‘No.’
‘Excel?’
‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)
‘Minute taking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’
‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.
Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.
I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.
It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?
Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?
I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.
Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook and pen.
Potential Job List:
P.A./Receptionist/ Switchboard Operator?
Waitress?
Shop assistant?
Tour guide?
Cleaner?
Telesales?
Dog walker?
Market researcher?
Hmm. None of the above fills me with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.
‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’
My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sip cappuccino and cluck and coo …
‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’
My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees, to romp around the park with, and to read Peppa Pig to.
Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.
‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’
‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.
Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects, no daily routine …
Wife and mother
High-powered businesswoman
The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.
Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.
I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate for The Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelled waitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?
The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experience the thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.
Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:
RETAIL CONSULTANT REQUIRED
APPLY WITHIN
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …
Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.
‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items are very, very valuable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawlty voice.
‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am … au fait with handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)
‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’
Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.
Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.
There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.
‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.
Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’
I