by Sarah Duncan
At least she knew the answer to that one, having looked it up.
'Close to the centre, on the far side of town. It's the bit that has loads of those Georgian artisan's cottages, painted in pastel colours. Terribly pretty.' She could see them quite clearly; they had window boxes, and slate roofs. Neil had dismissed them when they were house hunting as being too small, too expensive and too impractical. He had refused to waste his time by going inside.
Neil grunted. 'Is it an office address?'
'He said it was.'
'Doesn't sound like it.' She had to admit he was right; it didn't sound like an office address. She watched his face as he finished his meal, trying to gauge his mood.
Perhaps she could divert him away from office addresses. 'Guess what, I met someone from my old school at the coffee morning. It's a small world, isn't it? Her name's Helen, and her husband's called George Something-Smith. He commutes to London on the same train as you. They live just outside Milbridge and she asked us all over to Sunday lunch next weekend. She was three years above me at school. She seems very nice.' Her voice trailed off.
Neil pushed his plate back and sucked his moustache. 'I can't say I like it, Bel.'
'The fish pie? Oh dear. Sorry.'
'No, not the fish pie. This job.' He rested his elbows on the table, clasped his hands in front of his face and looked at her over them, rather like a kindly headmaster (firm but fair) about to admonish a small child sent to him for some minor misdemeanour. 'You don't know what the business is, what it's called, the name of the man who rang, or what you're going to be asked to do.'
'I do. It's typing and answering the phone and things,' she said quickly, hoping she was right.
'You think.' He was kind, but everything in his attitude said he knew she was making it up as she went along. And he was right, she didn't know anything about the job or the man or the business or anything but -
'Neil, don't spoil it. It's the only interview I've got so far. I thought you'd be pleased.'
'Pleased? Darling, England is not the place it was fifteen, ten years ago even. I really don't think it's safe. You don't know anything about these people. This man could be anyone.'
'He sounded all right on the phone.' He'd sounded gorgeous, in fact, but she didn't think Neil would be impressed with that.
'Isabel.' He leant back in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling. He looked so pompous and sure of himself, Isabel felt she could hit him. And she'd cooked him his favourite treacle tart too. She took it out of the oven and started cutting it up, stabbing at the pastry. Unfair, unfair. She flipped a slice onto a plate and plonked it in front of him.
'Are you saying I can't go?'
'I'm only concerned for your safety.' He calmly picked up his spoon, then paused. 'Aren't you eating any?'
'I'm on a diet.'
'Since when?'
'This afternoon.' She folded her arms and watched him eat, tracking each mouthful. Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. It was unfair. She'd been so excited and now Neil was ruining everything.
'You just don't want me to work, do you?' she blurted out.
'That's nothing to do with it.'
'Isn't it?'
'I'm simply concerned -' he started, but she cut him off.
'You make it sound so reasonable and I look in the wrong, but I know I'm not. You don't want me to go out. All you want me to do is look after you and the children. Just washing and cooking and cleaning for ever and ever.'
'Don't be ridiculous.' He sounded almost bored as he stood up.
'And don't go off. This is important to me, I want to talk about it.'
'Perhaps when you've calmed down.'
'I am calm,' Isabel shouted.
'Thank you for supper.' He pushed his chair in and smiled at a spot just above her head, a tight smile that left his face untouched and his eyes shielded. 'I'm going to watch the News.'
'I'm more important than the News,' she cried, but he was gone. I am more important, she thought. I am. But I always end up in the wrong and feeling stupid. She cleared the plates into the dishwasher then, slowly and deliberately, she cut herself a large slice of treacle tart and drowned it in cream.
- ooo -
The next day Isabel couldn't decide what to wear. A job interview meant a suit, which she didn't have, so it would have to be a skirt. Although it hadn't sounded like a formal sort of set-up. She shied away from thinking about Neil's questions yesterday and their row. She opened the wardrobe gingerly - one of the wardrobe doors had already started to hang crookedly on its hinges, too flimsy to take the weight - and started to rifle through the tightly packed clothes, ticking them off in her mind. Too tight, too short, too old-fashioned - how could she have worn all those pleats like an Austrian hausfrau? She knew she should throw it out, but she found it hard to discard clothes, and instead moved on. The corporate wife stuff was shrouded in dry cleaning bags, obviously wrong. Her hand paused on her favourite dress, white splashed with pink hibiscus. Too bright. Too girlie. No, the only possibility was a long, straight, dark navy skirt, which she hoped would make her look taller and slimmer. It was all very well to say that men preferred a cosy armful, but when it came to clothes it was definitely better to be a size ten.
She sucked her tummy in as she pulled the zip up and looked in the mirror, arching round to check the rear view. No excessive bulges, although her legs looked ridiculous, protruding from the bottom hem, two inches of solid white flesh then black ankle socks. Her feet looked enormous, and strangely flat. She slipped the socks off. The elasticated tops had left a ring of vertical red lines around her fat calves. It didn't look very attractive.
She stood on tiptoes to see if the skirt might look any better with high-heels, squinting in an effort to imagine opaque tights. It would work but she didn't have the right sort of shoes. Back to jeans then. Perhaps black ones, with a jacket over them, long enough to cover her rear. The problem then shifted to her middle. Unless she sucked her stomach in, it spread over the waistband. Realistically she was going to have to breathe at some point so that meant wearing a cardigan or sweater under the jacket to hide the bulge. She knew even without trying on the combination that it would make the jacket sleeves too tight plus today was the hottest day they'd had since they'd been back.
So what if she was a bit overweight? She was a mother, not a model. She made a face at herself in the mirror for minding about how she looked. She was a respectable married woman who was meeting someone about a job possibility, not heading for a casting couch session. Neil's words flashed through her mind but she pushed them away. Why should it matter what she looked like? Why should she have to starve herself in an effort to look young and sexy? Her abilities were what counted, surely. She looked at her reflection, pushing her hair away from her face and wishing that just once it would lie sleekly like Justine's instead of frizzing out. Why would someone employ me? she thought. What can I do? What can I offer?
I've got O levels and A levels and a TEFL certificate. I've taught children in schools where the nearest clean water was two kilometres away. I can whistle and hum at the same time. I can drive a jeep up sand dunes and I'm better than Neil at wadi bashing. I've read the whole of War and Peace, even the boring bits, and I find Anthony Trollope funny. I love nineteenth-century literature and baroque music.
None of which seemed to be relevant attributes for a woman looking for an office job. But I want to be useful, she thought. I want to do something beyond sitting around drinking coffee and playing the occasional game of tennis. She sniffed, then picked up the discarded skirt lying crumpled on the floor and briskly shook it out. She would wear it with flat shoes if need be, she decided, but if she got a move on there might be time to pop into town and hunt for a new outfit. After all, it was about time she treated herself to something other than doughnuts.
Chapter 3
'Great shoes,' Mr Sherwin said, raising one eyebrow.
'Thanks,' Isabel said, slightly flustered, both that he'd noticed and also c
ommented. She had meant to buy something sensible, with a lowish heel. Useful shoes. Not plum-purple suede with three-inch high-heels and a finger's-width band of snakeskin across the extravagantly pointed toes. For a crucial second in the shop she'd rebelled against being sensible, so the low-heeled shoes remained on the shelf and the plum-purples had been bought. In their honour she'd also bought hardly-there tights in the finest denier and slipped them on in the car, squeezing awkwardly under the steering wheel, trying to remain decent. She could feel her feet arching over the instep, rubbing gently against the shiny golden lining. To balance she had to stand very straight with her hips pushed out, shoulders back and her bottom tucked in.
'Let's find you a place to sit.' He looked around him. Every surface of the room appeared to be covered with papers. He bundled some of them to the side, careless of scrumpled corners, uncovering part of a faded chintz sofa. 'Here.'
Isabel sat down and tensed as the sofa springs threatened to give way. She perched on the edge.
'The office proper is upstairs, but that's even more chaotic. I'm just going to get myself a chair,' he said over his shoulder as he left the room. Isabel could hardly imagine anywhere more chaotic than the room she was in. She'd remembered correctly when talking to Neil: Downton Street was a terrace of Georgian artisan's cottages, neat as doll's-houses. The downstairs hall and room had been knocked through so the front door opened straight onto the paper-strewn living room and the stairs ran up one side.
Patrick came back in with a kitchen chair. 'As you can see, I desperately need someone who can sort out my paperwork. I meant to have a go at the weekend, which is why there's lots of stuff down here but...' he shrugged, palms up. 'Paperwork's not my thing,' he added. Isabel could see that. She wasn't sure if paperwork was her thing either.
'What do you do?' she asked. Neil hadn't actually said she wasn't to go, but she knew he didn't approve. The least she could do was ask his questions.
'I set up computer systems for people, supply software, hardware, whatever's needed. You don't happen to speak Italian, do you?'
'No,' Isabel said, thinking she'd blown it. She didn't think failing O Level Latin counted.
'No matter,' he said. 'It would have been a bonus. I have clients in Italy as well as here, that's all.'
Isabel wondered if he was Italian himself. He was dark skinned with dark brown hair, but it was his gestures that seemed Italian, the way he shrugged. And the well cut, obviously expensive clothes. Most of the computer guys she'd met before who worked for Neil's company were quite different, bearded and slightly earnest and badly dressed, uncomfortable in suits, as if the coat hangers had been left in them. But his accent was impeccably English.
He leant back in his chair. 'Tell me about yourself, what you've done workwise. That sort of thing.'
Isabel clutched the handles of her bag, trying to remember what she'd planned to say. It was quite hard to make nothing sound impressive. 'I haven't been working recently, not formally at least. My husband's job has meant that we've had to travel around, often to countries where women aren't allowed to work. We came back to the UK this summer which is why I'm interested in this job. You said you wanted someone part time?'
'You have children?'
Isabel nodded. Somewhere, at the back of her mind, she was sure she could remember that employers weren't allowed to ask prospective employees about children. It was the sort of thing Neil would know.
'I've got two,' she said, pushing Neil out of her mind. 'Katie's six and Michael's eight. They're both at school.'
'Does that mean you can't do a full day?'
'Well, yes, really.' She bit her lip. 'The school does have an after-school club, so I wouldn't have to go early. But I'd rather not use it, at least, not in their first term.' Her voice trailed away.
'So when would you want to go?'
'Three?'
'I see. And when could you start in the morning?'
'After the school run, but that's more flexible. I could be here really early, before nine if you wanted.'
'Mmm. I'm not famous for being an early riser.' Patrick looked at her as if considering.
Isabel inwardly cringed. She knew that she was doing the interview all wrong, that she should be talking about all the positive benefits she would bring to the business, rather than the times she couldn't work. On the other hand, she wasn't sure what positive benefits she could bring to Patrick's business. Perhaps if she knew more about what he wanted.
'What exactly were you looking for?' she tried.
'Someone who can manage all this,' he said, waving a hand. 'Also, answer the phone and deal with clients if I'm out and generally act as a PA. I want someone who's prepared to be flexible about what they do and not expire in horror if I ask them to take cheques to the bank or pick up my dry cleaning.' His eyes dropped to her feet as if in doubt that anyone who would wear such shoes could do anything as mundane as going to the dry cleaners.
'I wouldn't have a problem with doing that,' Isabel said, tucking her feet under her, trying to make the shoes less obvious. She was starting to get excited. There was nothing that Patrick had said so far that she couldn't do. Picking up dry cleaning, going to the bank and answering the phone were definitely within her capabilities. It was the more conventional secretarial abilities like touch-typing and shorthand that she lacked.
'I work mainly on computer -' he paused. 'I take it you can use one.' She nodded and he carried on. 'I use most of the standard office software - Sage, Word, Excel and so on. Are you familiar with them?'
'We've got all of them on the computer at home,' Isabel said truthfully, omitting that it was Neil's computer and that she'd hardly ever used it.
'And the internet?'
'Oh yes,' Isabel said, relieved that she could offer some evidence of her skills. 'I'm an ex-pat. The internet's the easiest way to keep in touch with friends when they're scattered all over the world.'
'Good.' Patrick frowned. 'Did you bring me a CV?'
Isabel shook her head, excitement being sucked away like dust up a vacuum cleaner. Nervousness was making her mouth dry, the lining as wrinkled as a lychee skin.
He scratched his nose. 'So what sort of work have you done before?'
'Before I married I worked at the BBC as a researcher.' No need to tell him that it was two months' unpaid work experience one summer. 'And I've taught English abroad, both privately and in schools.'
'So you're a teacher.' Mr Sherwin checked his watch. He sounded bored.
'No. Well, yes. Sort of. I taught English as a foreign language.'
'I don't think I need that.' He smiled, and Isabel tried to smile back. 'So no office experience to speak of, in fact,' Mr Sherwin said.
Isabel stared at the floor. All those years and nothing to show for it except a fast-fading suntan and a competent backhand. What had she been doing with her life?
'No, but I have spent many years running a household, often in quite difficult circumstances.' Unconsciously she sat up straighter. 'From what you've said, you need someone with organisational abilities rather than specific office skills.' She put what she hoped was a confident, efficient expression on her face but inside she felt close to tears. It seemed desperately important that she was successful, just to show Neil that she could get a job, even though it looked like she'd be spending her days tidying up.
'I don't need someone more than fifteen hours a week. That's five hours on three days,' he said, and she looked at him, startled at the thought that he might be about to offer her the job. 'Mid-week would suit me best.'
'You mean, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday? That would suit me too,' She could hardly breathe with excitement.
'Look, why don't you start next week and we'll see how we get on. Call it a trial period, no strings on either side.'
'That sounds fine,' she beamed at him. He could have said anything and she'd have agreed with it. The first job I go for I get, she thought. Not that hopeless after all. She felt wonderful. A job, a real job. A
job meant purpose, and validation and wages and... Oh! She realised she had been so bound up in the getting of the job that she had completely forgotten about the money. She swallowed.
'Um, can I ask about wages?'
'Ah. I thought three pounds fifty an hour.'
Her ego deflated rapidly. 'That's outrageous. I mean, that's less than cleaning ladies.' She'd been horrified when she'd discovered what the going rate was in Milbridge. But perhaps cleaning ladies were harder to find than would-be office workers.
He shrugged, unperturbed.
'Five pounds,' she said, breathless at negotiating.
'You've no experience, no qualifications. You could say that I'm offering you on-the-job training.'
'That's taking advantage. Supermarkets pay more than that.'
'Then take a job in a supermarket.' He leant back, completely relaxed, totally confident that she didn't want to work in a supermarket. Which she didn't.
'Four pounds.'
'Three pounds seventy-five,' he countered, smiling at her. The smile irritated her.
'Four pounds,' she repeated, determined not to give in. She didn't want him to think she was a pushover. 'It'd make the maths easier.'
He laughed, and stood up. 'Let it not be said that I'm taking advantage of inexperience. Four pounds an hour it is. Deal?' He held out his hand.
Isabel stood up too. She'd forgotten about the plum high-heels, and the factory-smooth soles slid on the rug under her feet. She nearly stumbled, grabbing at his hand to steady herself. His grip was warm and firm.
'Deal,' she said.
- ooo -
I've got a job, I've got a job. The words sang in her head. Paying peanuts, but Neil had said that the money wasn't important, and if Neil said it... And she had negotiated the wage herself. She collected the children from school.
'We've got to stop at the supermarket and get some eggs,' she said.
'Can we have some sweets?' Michael asked. Both children were unused to the abundance of sweets in shops, having been brought up mainly in Syria, and Isabel had been trying to keep it that way.