I’m not thinking, I’m panicking. I need to be the best version of myself I can be for this interview. If I think I look good, then I will feel good. I will be confident and able to kick ass. I am visualising a lot of ass kicking in my immediate future.
‘Artistic?’
‘Yes, definitely! Artistic and summery. Glitter!’
She dramatically strikes out ‘eyebrows’ and taps on the tablet. ‘I’ll tell Emmi that you’re—’
‘Hang on, hang on!’ I stare at the price list.
She sighs dramatically.
‘I will have my eyebrows done and a basic manicure!’
‘Basic.’ She taps away, emphasises the word as though nobody in their right mind would ever want a basic manicure. Not when you could be artistic or glossy.
Maybe it isn’t perfect, but basic says business-like, not flirty.
‘Sit down. Suzy will sort it out in a minute.’
‘Suzy?’ Isn’t Suzy the one Frankie said never to have, not under any circumstance?
‘Our junior. It’s basic.’
Ah. ‘Will my eyebrows be safe with er Suzy?’
‘Well, she’s got plenty to work with.’
Some people don’t know the meaning of customer service. Or maybe she’s just annoyed that she’s working late and has decided to take it out on the annoying clients who have decided to book late appointments.
I did comment that eyebrow shaping surely only takes a matter of minutes, leaving plenty of time for other things, but there were muttering about deforestation and major reshaping, so I shut up.
Right now, all that matters is looking good for my interview.
Chapter 11
11.30 a.m., 6 April
‘Daisy Dunkerly? Hi, I’m Tim.’
I could have sworn he just said ‘Tim’ not ‘Jim’. This is worrying. All my correspondence has been with James Masters. Jim. Unless I misheard.
Tim, or Jim, is holding his hand out. So I shake it.
He has a very firm handshake. Firm and dry, not clammy and a bit furtive like David’s was.
‘Sit, sit. Sorry, I’m standing in for James, last minute thing. He had to dash off, family emergency.’
I can feel the scowl forming on my face, though I am really trying to stop it. But I’ve had all this stress, then come all this way for my interview, and the boss can’t even be bothered to turn up.
Commuting to Stavington is going to be even worse than I’d imagined – as in practically impossible. It is either car, or very slow bus that stops everywhere, and makes you feel slightly seasick as the bored driver sees how quickly he can fling it round the blind bends on a single-track road. The public transport solution would also cost a ridiculous amount and would mean I’d have to get up even earlier than the milkman.
And I mean, we all know what ‘family emergency’ means, don’t we? Hangover, cold, or can’t be bothered.
Not that I can really blame him.
‘Dog ate a bone, splintered, nasty.’ Tim pulls a face that suggests nasty happenings. He seems to talk in shorthand, missing out unnecessary words. It must be because he’s used to tight word counts.
‘Oh no, poor thing.’ I can now perfectly understand James not being able to be here. His poor dog is probably laid out on an operating table as we speak. A vital organ pierced, a studious vet shouting at orders to a hassled nurse who has been dragged away from her stash of Easter eggs (it is Good Friday tomorrow, after all, so early chocolate eating is allowed). ‘Is it? Will it?’
‘Okay, I think.’ He winks. ‘Post op care at home.’
‘You really do need to be careful with cooked bones you know.’ Bugger, I’m already criticising the absent boss. ‘Though I’m sure he is.’
‘True, the bone thing. Probably better not to have them at all.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Meat. Chickens.’
‘Chickens?’ I am confused.
‘We don’t need to eat meat to survive you know. Never touch it myself.’
I look more closely at him. He is the proof of the pudding as my mother would say. She says a lot of strange things and when I was little I thought the proof was something you found at the bottom of the bowl, after you’d eaten the pudding. Like the syrup at the bottom, a little lake of something called proof. Anyway, he is the proof that you don’t need to eat meat, he looks surprisingly well and bouncy.
‘Right, er.’ He coughs as though he’s realised we’ve strayed away from his interview script and shuffles some paper around. It’s rather endearing. If an interviewer can be endearing. ‘Thanks for coming in today, sorry you’ve got me, James didn’t want to leave people hanging any longer, didn’t want to reschedule. Not fair, you know.’
I nod. I do know. Definitely not fair. I quite like Tim, and James. I just wished they were nearer to my home. And had done this in January, instead of sending psycho-boss in for three months.
‘Am sure you’d much rather be home breaking out the vegan Easter eggs; know I would.’
‘Not sure about the vegan bit, but I’m with you on the chocolate!’ I smile, then realise the error of my ways. This is not going to get me a job. ‘Though it’s brilliant of you to do this, and I don’t mind at all, and there’s hardly anybody on the roads so it was really easy to get here.’ I’m rambling, I know I am. I clamp my lips together and force myself to wait.
Tim grins very disarmingly. Although he’d be disarming even without the grin.
I was expecting someone older. Or somebody like psycho-boss stand-in.
Somebody youngish, good looking, who is not staring at my boobs or leaning into my personal space has thrown me. God, I hadn’t realised just how bad working with my old boss was. Maybe this is all going to work out for the best. As long as I do get a job. ‘Now, sit down and tell me a bit about yourself.’
I hover, mid sit. Tell him about me? This hadn’t featured in my pre-interview prep. I have a whole spiel prepared about why I changed career, how satisfying working with the public is, how I am more than a classified ads supremo and aspire to having my own feature, how enthusiastic I am, how co-operative and how much I like to collaborate – the perfect team player, no ‘I’ in team, ha-ha. But at the same time how I take initiative (though this isn’t proven – answering the phone all by myself isn’t exactly hitting the heights, is it?).
‘Please, sit.’
I sit. Rather heavily, and flounder. ‘I, er, write the ads.’ Shouldn’t he know this bit? Is he so underwhelmed by his act of swallowing our little newspaper up whole that he hasn’t actually read my bloody application form? I spent bloody hours writing and rewriting and deleting stuff when I wasn’t sure if my grammar was right and trying to think up interests that might actually seem interesting to somebody else. He might be bloody good looking, but we deserve better!
‘Sure, I get that.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘But I want to know about you, from the horse’s mouth as it were.’
Oh.
I stare at him. My horse’s mouth dropping open.
He’s actually quite attractive in a freckles and mussed up slightly ginger hair way, and staring is no hardship, but probably won’t help in the getting-a-job stakes. His eyes are a soft brown flecked with green, and his thinnish lips are strangely mobile and attractive. And it’s hard not to look at him and try to pin his features down.
If I don’t stop staring and get my brain into gear though, then writing small ads is all I will ever do.
‘Don’t look so worried, nothing too personal.’ He laughs. ‘Though I am all ears on that one, but work wise? What do you do, what do you want to do, what brings you here?’
‘Well, losing my job brings me here.’ I might as well start with the easy one, and he has wound me up a bit with his cavalier attitude to my application form.
‘Not losing.’ He sits back, relaxed. So I cautiously let my clenched fists relax slightly, but I stay perched on the edge of the seat trying to look professional and interested, and not slouch. His voice has softe
ned. He really is rather nice. ‘James doesn’t want anybody to lose jobs. We’re one big family here, and we’re getting bigger. Know that sounds a bit like marketing hype, but we are. Honestly, not bullshitting! He wants to slot people into the right spots though, not shoehorn you where you don’t want to be.’ He shrugs. ‘And if you’d rather not move here then that’s cool, too. He knows this is quite a move and people have responsibilities, homes, kids.’
‘Not me! Young, free, single, well not free in that way, I mean free to take on work responsibilities, to move.’
‘Great! So …’ he leans forward earnestly, rests his forearms on the desk. He’s pulled his sleeves up, showing off tanned, toned arms that have a mist of soft blond hairs over them. ‘So where do you want to be?’
His fingers are steepled under his chin. His hair has got the hint of curls to it. He’s also staring at me as though he’s genuinely interested in what I have to say.
‘Well, I er, I write the ads and, er, well,’ I swallow. ‘I have done the odd article here and there, on demand. I’m versatile.’
He suddenly smiles broadly, and he’s gone from earnest to pretty damned attractive. If Frankie was here now she’d be talking about column inches in a totally inappropriate way.
Mum would love him.
‘You’ve taken adverts and notices to a totally new level.’
I was so on edge when I came into the office, I hadn’t noticed all the sheets of paper he’d got on his desk. I was also too busy staring at him, which doesn’t help. He picks a sheet up.
I think I might be grinning. ‘In a good way?’
He chuckles. ‘Definitely. Particularly the pet ones.’
‘I love animals, I wanted to be a vet, and now I foster dogs.’
‘Ah. Figures. What else do you love?’
What am I supposed to say now without sounding daft? Pizza? Pringles? A night in with a good film and my pyjamas? G&T, cocktails? All those things most of us would like to admit to, but instead we say ‘tennis’ or ‘the opera’.
‘Honestly?’ I do want to be honest. I want to get the best job I can on my own merits, not just made up guff. ‘Books!’
‘How much?’His eyes twinkle. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was flirting. But the nervous tension in my shoulders is taking a hike and my stomach doesn’t feel quite as upside down and empty.
‘Oh God, I can talk about books all day.’ And I can. I think it all started when Uncle T offered to look after me in his bookshop, while Mum did her Christmas shopping. It was magical, I’d never been anywhere like it – and Uncle T was just like a character out of one of the books on the shelves of the shop. It was like having my own personal library, and as each year passed, he guided me round from genre to genre, continent to continent, from this world to others.
‘Classics?’ He frowns slightly, as though he’s thinking. ‘But you didn’t do lit at uni?’
‘Oh no, no. I mean I have read some of the classics, I loved the stuff we read at school, but I read anything really.’
‘Totally anything?’ He starts to throw out titles. Some I’ve read, some I want to, some that would be like inviting somebody to poke my eyeballs with needles.
Tim laughs, I think I said that last bit out loud. ‘You know what you like!’
‘Oh yeah, I mean some of the hyped-up ones are fantastic, others just aren’t my thing.’ Terence treats fiction like mothers treat food, he’s always encouraged me to try a taster, even if I was sure I wouldn’t like something. I mention a treasure I found hidden in the bookshop a couple of weeks ago, the amazing dust jacket of a book that’s due out any day, Uncle T’s habit of sneaking psychological thrillers in with romance, and the odd romcom in the fantasy section.
He smiles, and twiddles with a pen. ‘Fab! Films?’
‘Definitely. All kinds of films, I love a good movie. Though not the really nail-biting stuff, that makes me want to hide behind the sofa. I have to peep out and pretend I’m not watching, but I can’t help myself.’
‘Art?’
‘Proper art, not weird stuff that you’re supposed to say clever things about.’ I’m getting into this now, he’s so easy to talk to. ‘You know that black canvas with a red dot kind of thing that supposed to represent the dawning of humanity, or aliens visiting from another planet? Crap! Sorry, I mean it’s rubbish. To me.’
He chuckles again. It’s the type of chuckle that warms you up on the inside and brings out goose-bumps on the outside.
His long, elegant fingers are steepled under his chin, his gaze locked onto mine. ‘Looking at the stuff you’ve done I reckon you like people, don’t you? You like to help, get involved?’
Is this a trick question? This is nothing like an interview. Especially not an interview for an advertising manager. I’m not sure I’d consider helping Mary sort out her sister Alice’s funeral really counts for anything at all in this situation.
‘Well yes, but …’
‘Great.’ He leans back suddenly and fishes out a second sheet of paper. ‘I’d re-home this dog in a jiffy if I hadn’t got a cat that would torment it then eat it for breakfast.’
‘Really? You’ve got an evil cat?’ Sad. I had him down as a dog person. A definite dog person. Not that I have anything against cat people, but I’ll always have a dog. Our relationship is already doomed.
‘I have.’ He puts the sheet down, and the smile fades. He leans back. Face of regret on. ‘Sadly, I’ve got a bit of an issue here. James is cutting back on staff in that department, more and more people are subbing adverts online, so I can’t make any promises. It’s not my call, it’s his.’
‘Oh.’ Shit.
‘Have you ever thought of doing something other than ads?’
I am not going to clean the office. Or just make coffee. No way. I have got standards, I have fallen as low as I’m going to. So he better not bloody suggest that!
I take a deep breath and spit the words out before I have chance to back down, like the old pre-life-changing-catastrophe Daisy would have done. She would have owned this. ‘Well, yes, actually.’ Frankie had told me to aim for advertising manager. To work my way up, but inside I know it’s not my passion, not what I really want to do. And chatting to Tim about books has lit some kind of fuse inside me.
‘Go on?’
Oh God, what have I done? My insides have gone all jittery. What do I say now?
‘Well apart from the fact that I’m underpaid,’ I seem to be on some kind of uncontrollable auto-pilot, ‘I think my skills have been overlooked.’ Bugger he’s raised an eyebrow. But I’m not going to let him put me off. ‘I love books, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘But I also love people, like you said, I want to help people.’
‘I can tell that.’
‘You can?’ I blink. He nods, an encouraging kind of nod. ‘I’ve written the odd column for the paper, nothing much, but I’d really like to write some human-interest stories.’
‘What kind of stuff were you thinking? We do have a style, and …’
‘Look, there’s lots going on in villages like ours, and even here.’
‘True. And we’ll be covering your old stomping ground as well as a few other areas when we get going properly.’
‘Exactly! There are lots of invisible people who make a real difference to the community. Local newspapers are important, local people are, I could cover stories like that. I know the people, the places.’
‘I’m sure you could.’
‘I mean just because we’re going to be based here doesn’t mean the small stories aren’t important.’
I run out of steam a bit and burn under his silent appraisal. Then he smiles. ‘True.’ His voice is soft. ‘The paper’s not lost sight of that with the merger you know.’ He’s gone into auto-professional mode. I get the impression he’s repeating some of the things his boss has said.
‘Well yes, but—’ You need somebody like me, I want to scream. But I don’t.
‘Y
ou’ve got a natural empathy. You’re genuinely interested in helping people,’ he pauses, grins again, ‘and dogs.’
‘Well yes, I did write a—’
‘Jimmy read the pieces you’ve done and was pretty impressed.’ He shrugs, suddenly boyish and cheeky. ‘They’re not bad at all. You’ve got a way with words.’ He smiles. ‘You’re funny.’
There’s a strange sensation in my tummy. A fluttering.
‘He agrees with you, he thinks you’ve been under-utilised. Look, nobody wants to put pressure on if you don’t want to—’
This is positive. He’s not saying no! ‘I do want, I do!’ I’m not quite sure what I’m committing to here, but I need a job. I can worry about what type of job later. Although, I did vow to set my life in order. Take control, stop letting things just happen to me. ‘Probably. I mean I am more than happy to look at,’ I pause, ‘any jobs you think I may be suited to.’
He raises an eyebrow. The fluttering slows to a flap.
‘Spreading my wings.’ Flying. Right now I want to fly out of the window, I think it’s time to shut up. I’m talking rubbish. What kind of newspaper editor is interested in employing somebody who spouts nonsense?
‘Good.’ His eyes narrow and he studies me for a moment, then suddenly seems to make a decision. He leaps out of his seat. And all that nice feeling of anticipation drops with a thud to the bottom of my stomach. ‘Leave it with me. Great.’ He glances at his watch, then shoves out a hand. He’s rather tall actually, towering above me. ‘Sorry to rush, but I’ve got another appointment. I was supposed to be helping James by splitting the load, but,’ he shrugs, ‘all down to me now. Thanks again for coming in though, I’ll report back to the boss,’ he grins, ‘and he’ll be in touch. I’ll walk you to the lift.’ And just like that I’m dismissed. Very effectively.
Four Christmases and a Secret Page 9