Her American Classic (Part 2)

by G J Morgan

  “I worked in insurance, but only for a few weeks.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to come home, back to England.”

  “And did you find work here?”

  “I did some agency work briefly.”

  “Doing?”

  “Warehouse work for a few weeks. Cab driver briefly.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ve working with my friend since Christmas.”

  “That’s not written down here is it?”

  “It wasn’t a real job as such. Just helped him out you could say.”

  “Was it paid work?”

  “It was. Not a salary as such. Cash in hand.”

  “Cash in hand?” He wasn’t impressed. “Cash for what?”

  “It’s hard to say. It was target-based you could say.”

  “Targeted on?”

  I took time to answer. “I suppose you could say journalism. I worked with cameras mostly.”

  Adjusting his tie, he considered his notes, flicked through my CV, my cover letter.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Tom. It’s pretty light reading and I’m struggling to understand your journey from fruit picker to tour guide to warehouse operator to photographer and now telesales. Why are you here today, Tom? Why this company?”

  “I feel like a different challenge. Like you said, my career has a been a mixed bag. I want to lay down some roots. I want to be able to provide for my family. This isn’t my dream, no. But that doesn’t mean I won’t give you my 100%.”

  “But for how long? How do I know I can invest in you, train you to our high standards? Put yourself in my shoes as an employer. You’ve never had a career, most jobs you’ve had have lasted months, sometimes weeks. You may have transferable skills, but nothing you can prove on paper. How do I know you won’t give up in six months and move onto your next venture? I don’t want to waste your time or mine and we certainly don’t want to waste our money providing with you all our skills and resources only for you to go off on another adventure.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t serious. I know my résumé isn’t great, but I assure you, I’m timely. I’m hard-working. I do as I’m told. That has to stand for something, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s not enough here, Tom. The ethos is to aim higher. We want people who exceed. Who deliver more than is expected. To live our brand values. Not just arrive on time and be a nodding dog.”

  “You ask for a lot for fourteen grand basic.”

  “We do,” he said. I was already imagining the big red cross he was drawing through my application.

  * * *

  It went on, me explaining myself, selling my soul to the corporate brand, being asked a serious of pre-scripted questions, designed to test my flaws and weaknesses, an example of when I’d last influenced someone, when I’d embraced change, when I’d overcome a difficult situation. My answers were poor, made up on the spot, I knew I hadn’t got the job before the survey started, the smug look on his face, he disliked me from the moment he heard ‘university’ and ‘gap year’, not to mention the words ‘single’ and ‘parent’. He didn’t ask why, luckily, all he heard was ‘inflexible’ and ‘childcare’, why I was a single parent was of little concern.

  He said good or bad, I’d hear from him in the next few weeks, though I didn’t count on it. At first, I felt triumphant, happy I hadn’t measured up, but back in the car with time to think it over, I knew I’d let everyone down. If I was serious in making a go at this I had to be better prepared next time, plan my responses, learn how to sell myself.

  Mum agreed.

  That evening we sat searching for jobs again, slim pickings with small salaries. Found a few possibilities, tweaked my CV, completely rewrote my covering letter, sent them back out there, then I just had to wait. And if I got some responses, got a phone call telling me when and where, then I’d need to prepare more than ironing my shirt and polishing my shoes. I had to make myself sound employable, become the actor, play the part, as at the moment I had as much chance of finding work as I did hearing from across the pond.

  The rest of the week was interview after interview, more positive responses, better feedback, but still the same outcome. There were jobs out there at least, lots of opportunities, just not intended for me. Very nearly got a job in a local newspaper, beat reporter, in fact they said it would have been mine to have, if the position hadn’t been promised to one of the boss’s sons. To be fair, the money was awful, OK for an eighteen-year-old with no outgoings, but not someone pushing thirty. There was always getting back behind the wheel of a taxi again, the one thing I knew I could do was drive around in circles, I wouldn’t need an interview for that.

  * * *

  We waved at the lady whose name I’d already forgotten. I attempted to ask Molly questions about what she thought of it all. Did she like the sandpit? Cushion corner? The sunflowers outside? The slide? But she was preoccupied, a group of young mums had a few of those handbag dogs, they were yapping and sniffing. Think one of the mums even smiled at me, she was about my age, probably just being friendly, probably me getting the wrong impression. Anyway, Molly now wanted a dog, one she could hold and paint its nails, something else alive to be added to her birthday list, flesh and blood rather than batteries and bubble wrap.

  It had been a long day for Molly and by the time I got her in her car seat her eyes were closed before I got into second gear. I hadn’t enjoyed today, we’d visited three day nurseries in total, they all were nice, not much between them, all within twenty minutes of Mum’s village, all the staff friendly, the facilities what I’d expected. I hadn’t enjoyed today because it hadn’t sat right, gave me an awful feeling in my gut. There was a horrible reality to it all, that I would have to work full time again, that for Molly one of those nurseries might be her new home for most of the working week. I looked out of the car window, so far removed from my time in Devon. Gone were the views of meadows and coastlines and ball gowns. Now I was back to grey, bus fumes, roadworks, overdrafts. I checked Molly out in the rear-view mirror, still asleep, she deserved better than being offloaded and a better future than the view outside.

  Back at home, Molly had set up a small veterinary practice in the front room as me and Mum peeled potatoes at the kitchen table.

  “I don’t like the idea of putting down roots here either, you know, Tom.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “I wish you’d let me sell up. Start afresh. I’ve always fancied Spain. Port de Soller. Great food, great architecture, fantastic art.”

  “If anything, if went abroad we would be worse off. Not all healthcare is free.”

  “Tom, you don’t have to follow me. Just because I’m ill doesn’t mean you are now my carer.”

  “I’m afraid it does. I could hardly leave, could I? Leave you to go through all this alone. You’re having a lump removed tomorrow, Mum. We all need to stay put.”

  “It’s my cancer, not yours.”

  I took a handful of potatoes skins to the outside compost bin.

  “If Cassie was still alive and that crash had never happened, I would still have cancer you know.”

  “Mum, what point are you trying to make?”

  “You would still have been living in Los Angeles, with Cassie and Molly, and I would be here. I would’ve had to fight cancer on my own regardless.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. I would’ve flown back.”

  “Would you?”

  “Course I would’ve. Would you have flown to the States if you found out I had cancer?”

  “I hate being a burden, you know that.”

  “It’s one of those things, Mum. We just have to get on with it.”

  “Tom. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” I said, lighting the ring of the gas hob.

  “If I was de
ad, what would you do? I mean, what would you and Molly do next? Where would you go?”

  “Mum, seriously?”

  “Please, Tom. Humour me. Where would you go?”

  “I don’t know, do I?”

  “You must have an idea.”

  “I don’t, Mum. Don’t think you being alive or dead makes my choices any easier. I’ve got too many question marks. All I know is, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in this village. I suppose I wouldn’t want to live anywhere. I’d just grab a suitcase for me and Molly and just go off somewhere. India, Thailand, anywhere. Just roam. Point at a map and go.”

  “You’ve always been one to be on the move. I had visions of you never marrying, living day to day, turning up in twenty years with grey dreadlocks or worse, a bloody sitar. Cassie must have been some woman to keep you in place. Was she the same as you? The travelling hobo?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You two didn’t have much in common, did you?”

  “Except Molly.”

  “For some couples, a child is the only common ground required.”

  “We did talk about it once, the idea of upping sticks, well I did. A travelling friend of mine was about to embark across South America, asked me to tag along, told me to bring the whole family. Six months on the Amazon, me, Cassie, a one-year-old. Sounded pretty wild.”

  “I take it Cassie wasn’t too enthusiastic by the whole idea.”

  “You could say that, yes. To be fair, looking back on it I can see why. Molly wasn’t in good shape around that time. It was stupid of me to even have suggested it.”

  “What about now? Does it sound as stupid as it did then?”

  “I don’t know, Mum. Molly starts school soon.”

  “There are other ways to be educated, Tom.”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  “I know. Sounds hypocritical, but even though he was a teacher he always felt the classrooms and curriculum were far too restrictive. Felt children learnt more from touch and smell and experiences. I don’t think education through travel is that radical any more anyways. Maybe in my day and age but not now.”

  “It’s not just about education, Mum. There’s lots of things to consider.”

  “You think Molly would prefer stability. Somewhere to call home, to make friends, to have pets. Rather than being a vagabond.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to build some foundations. I’ve just no clue where it should be yet. Doesn’t help not having a clue about me and Lilly either.”

  “You need a contingency plan, Lilly can’t be relied upon, which I wish wasn’t the case.”

  “Just wish she’d speak to me.”

  “Look, over the next few days we’ll start looking seriously at all our options. Whether to stay put or sell up. To stay in England or think further afield. Work out what is best. But at least we have a starting point. We are both in agreement that it’s not here.”

  Mum knelt and opened the oven door slightly. The room filled with heat, a waft of spitting sausages.

  “Cassie would’ve hated today,” I said taking the grater out of the cupboard. “She was always against day care and childminders. Parents both working full time. She always believed mothers should be the ones doing the mothering, not strangers. She wouldn’t approve of me putting Molly into some nursery five days a week.”

  “Well, sometimes life isn’t that easy. Sometimes you have to go against your principles.”

  “What did you and Dad do?”

  “I stayed at home. I didn’t go back to work till you were in your teens. Only had your father’s wage. They were hard times. Really hard.”

  “I never noticed,” I said, as I grated and mashed.

  “We hid it well. We went without for a long time.”

  “Thing is, Mum, I’ve done the maths. With your widow’s and state pension, with me currently out of work, the bulk of our outgoings will have to come from what’s left in savings from my work with Vince.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know. Taking away the money I’ve spend on food and petrol this week, her new coat. I’m guessing around ten thousand, maybe less.”

  “That’s a lot of money for three months’ work. I can see why people do such work. A lucrative business.”

  “On paper, yes. But unless I add to it, all it will do is go down and down. I need to earn.”

  “Those day nurseries won’t be cheap.”

  “Tell me about it. I’ll lose most of my wage.”

  “Hardly sounds worth it. Money will go in and then straight out again. Not easy being a single parent. I thought the government would be doing more to help you. You must be able to get some support. I mean, child benefit, jobseeker’s allowance, you might even get something for being a widower. May even be backdated.”

  “Mum. I don’t want handouts.”

  “It’s not a handout. You’re entitled to it.”

  “It means I’ll have to sign on, meet with someone, send proofs. I’ll be begging, basically.”

  “It’s not begging, Tom. And yes, you’re probably right. You may have to meet with someone and talk through your situation, so they can understand what you might be entitled to. And sending proofs is no hardship. Probably need a birth certificate for Molly, probably want to see proof of what you’ve been up to since you came back to England. We’ll have to check online, see how it all works. It might tide us over till we know where all our futures lie.”

  “I don’t even know where Molly’s birth certificate is.”

  “You brought it back with you, surely?”

  “I can’t find it, Mum. I thought I brought it back.”

  “You need to get that sorted.”

  “I know. I’ve got a number of a county office in LA. I need to ring them. I’ve got some other stuff I need to check out about Molly and Cassie.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Legal stuff, paperwork. I left in a hurry. I just need to get my shit in order.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t receiving any widower’s pension for Cassie?”

  “I just assumed as we were never married that I wouldn’t be entitled. That’s the stuff I’ve got to find out.”

  The phone rang. Mum answered it, hanging up moments later.

  “I take it that wasn’t Lilly.”

  “Unless she’s now in PPI Claims. That’s another reason to leave this country. If I’ve months left to live I’d rather spent it strolling on a beach rather than arguing about being missold something I’ve never even had. And don’t worry, Lilly will call. She’s a busy actress, remember? Busy being famous, not like she’s sitting at home with her feet up.”

  “That’s what worries me. She’s back in her real world now. Looking back at me and England might not seem as attractive as it once did.”

  The phone rang again.

  “I’ll get it, Mum. Probably be PPI Claims again. I’ll make it clear not to ring again. We need to ring BT, get them to block these cold calls.”

  I picked up the phone.

  It wasn’t Lilly. It wasn’t PPI Claims either.

  It was a voice I didn’t expect.

  Cassie’s father.

  46

  It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, though it was still a shock to the system. My months away in the English countryside had gotten me used to quite a lethargic way of life, where things got done when they were ready, things done at their own speed, it had turned me soft. This was a wake-up call, back to work, I wondered if Sally had done this purposely, made such a manic schedule, a boot camp of endless work duties, make me hard again, get me back into shape as quickly as possible.

  Sally did actually warn me that I would be pulled from pillar to post whilst in New York, but I didn’t predict the extremes of one city and three locations in one day. Sally talked m
e through it in detail at the celebratory dinner she’d thrown for me the night before. Told me in depth what to expect and where I needed to be, but I was barely listening. I chewed my food as toasts were made and glasses were clinked, another one of those happy occasions when I couldn’t have been unhappier. It wasn’t Sally or Frank’s fault, to them it was celebratory, a time for pats on the back and high-fives, defining moments, they kept saying, role of a lifetime, and they were right, it would take everything I had and more. If I could act, then this would be the time to prove it, I didn’t know if I could do it, honestly and truthfully, I didn’t know if I’d be capable of putting up such a front, over such a long period of time, lying every day to Sally, Frank, the world, Tom. I had to, though, I couldn’t fail at this, had to see it through. Otherwise none of it would’ve been worth it.

  How long had I been on my feet now, I thought to myself. Shoot began at five, now it was dark. The morning started with Rockefeller’s. I’ve never been great with heights, especially before sunrise and without a decent breakfast, 9/11 sprang to mind, which was never good when seventy floors high in the middle of New York, I kept looking out for planes. I got a bit upset would you believe, my dad knew someone who went down in the South Tower, being so high made it all too real, the horror of it all. I felt quite vulnerable up there, tried my best to look unaffected, look sexy and confident, wondering if they could edit out my nerves, seeing as they could remove wrinkles and cellulite, I was sure fear and exhaustion could be Photoshopped just as easily.

  Next whisked away to Manhattan harbour. The Captain warned us of the weather, said it might get a bit choppy out there as we stepped onto his schooner, didn’t think I would actually throw up, not that anyone noticed. One thing us models and actresses knew was how to vomit in secret, managed to find a toilet below deck to spare any embarrassment, make-up girls worked a minor miracle turning my skin to any colour other than green.

  Now I was in Queens, back on dry land, not back at the ground level necessarily but the garden rooftop terrace of a swanky hotel was a height I could cope with. Despite my bad mood, I still appreciated the view across East River, being under a bridge never looked so fucking cool. Biggest bridge I’d ever seen, made me feel small, sometimes humans amazed me with what they were capable of. New York was an amazing place, full of man-made miracles, skyscrapers, statues, bridges, but even that couldn’t make me smile. For all that the city could offer I still wished I was somewhere else, with someone else.