8
OLD AND NEW
12.41 pm: How did the interview go? It went fine, thank you. Better than I could have hoped, actually, although I was so nervous I felt like throwing up into one of the bonsai trees they have everywhere in black granite pots. I’m not generally a vomit kind of person (managed to get through two pregnancies with almost no morning sickness), but so much was riding on this. Come to think of it, the queasiness could have been the Shaper Suit constricting my stomach to the size of an almond, or maybe Candy’s testosterone patch with its surge of Man Juice was kicking in. I stuck one on the night before for luck.
There was a panel of four: three men and a woman. They would ask a question, then all three of the men would look down and make copious notes while I answered. It meant that I ended up talking to the crowns of three balding heads, and to Claire, the HR director on the end, who looked interested – kind even.
‘Why do you think you are right for this role, Kate?’ (Because I am so desperate for a job in my industry, any job, that I will be your pathetically grateful slave and work harder than three younger guys combined?)
‘Can you tell us about your experience to date?’ (Well, up to a point, I can. Please do read my most imaginative CV.)
‘Tell us about your weaknesses?’ (Uh-oh, trick question. Carefully select ‘weakness’ that will be a strength in their eyes – ‘bit of a perfectionist’, ‘workaholic tendencies’, ‘never leaves till the job’s done’, ‘won’t take no for an answer’, etc.)
‘Are you comfortable with a target?’ (Are you kidding? Give me a target and I am Jason Bourne’s psychopath auntie.)
‘Are you talking to any other firms?’ (No, I am yours and yours alone! True, though not for reasons they would find comforting.)
‘What is your take on the markets this morning?’
‘So, I’m particularly interested in oil. We’ve seen oil prices fall by nearly fifty per cent in the second half of this year with crude oil from US shale disrupting the global market. And those price drops coming after several years of relative calm in the world-wide crude markets when rising output in America was balanced by growing oil demand around the globe. The critical question now for us is where is oil trading? And what impact is its decline likely to have on global equities. (That should shut them up. I didn’t even take a breath. Please note sly use of ‘us’, as if I’m already part of the team. Sports metaphors always get big Brownie points also.)
‘Kate, what would a typical day look like for you?’
‘Er, expect to get in by eight at the latest, unless I have a breakfast meeting. Aggressively pursue new leads, liaising with contacts in law and accountancy firms. Hand-holding calls with existing clients to reassure them that their wealth is safer with us than anywhere else.’ (I don’t add: despite inexplicably shit performance of the fund.) ‘Lunch at desk or with clients. New business pitches in the afternoon. Dinner and a night at the opera/theatre/charity event, building relationships, encouraging investment, making clients feel loved. Home late to find that no one has walked the dog, loaded the dishwasher, bought milk, cleaned up Lenny’s poo by the back door or even noticed that Mummy has a job.’ (Obviously, I left out that last part too.)
After a while, I got bored of the three male faces disappearing every time I spoke. When one of them asked, ‘Are you familiar with the implications of the latest US non-farm payrolls?’ I watched all their heads go down again, pens poised, expectantly awaiting my response, and I said, ‘Not a clue.’
All three bald heads popped up instantly, like in that Splat the Rat game, and their expressions registered concern and disbelief. (‘Did the candidate just say, “Not a clue?”’)
Now not quite so confident, I said, with what I hoped was an engaging smile, ‘Just kidding’ and obediently reeled off the relevant facts on the US non-farm payrolls. As you do.
‘Tell us, Kate, what do you see as the outlook for PIIGS and the European government bond market following the Greek debt crisis?’ The question comes from the man in the middle with the dead-shark eyes. Hooray, Ben tested me on PIIGS last night.
‘So there is likely to be some degree of contagion pushing European bond yields higher and the Euro lower. Ironically, a weaker Euro will benefit European equities longer term, with the exception of the European banking sector.’ Thank goodness I did my homework.
‘What I would like to know about, Kate’, said Claire, addressing me directly for the first time, ‘are your interests outside work. It’s so important that you can talk to clients, make them want to spend time with you.’
‘Of course. Well, naturally, I do have a wide range of, mmmm, interests.’ Desperately try to buy time while thinking of anything non-child, non-dog, non-Polish builder, non-sweaty-cycling-gear related.
At that precise moment, for reasons still unknown, Roy came up trumps, bringing me answers on a silver salver. ‘So, yes, I’m passionate about the theatre, with a particular interest in Shakespeare. I was only reading Twelfth Night again last night,’ (well, I saw it on Emily’s bed), ‘because I know The Globe is doing a new production, and we have a membership there. Terribly important to support the arts, isn’t it? I’ve steered several clients towards successful sponsorships in the past. I also enjoy architecture, particularly the restoration of historic buildings using authentic materials. I like to keep up with trends in computer gaming; the interactive nature of that is particularly fascinating. And I’m a keen reader – Hilary Mantel, Julian Barnes and this year’s Booker prizewinner.’ (Give me a break. It’s on my bedside table, OK?) ‘Lately, I’ve even tried to, um, start dabbling in fiction myself.’
From: Debra Richards
To: Kate Reddy
Subject: New job?
Well? Have you rejoined the Rat Race? Must I suffer alone? Pls send news soonest.
D xx
From: Candy Stratton
To: Kate Reddy
Subject: Interview
Don’t keep me in suspense, honey. Bet you blew them away, or blew them anyhow. Is it still OK to make BJ jokes if you are the last woman in NYC who ‘identifies as heterosexual’? I get confused.
If you don’t get this job, you will get the NEXT one. Cross my heart and hope to diet.
XXO C
Sally to Kate
Have been thinking of you all day. So much hoping it’s good news and the testosterone patch(!) your friend gave you worked. Coco pining for Lenny. Saturday afternoon any good?
Sx
Richard to Kate
What time are you back? Piotr moved my bike stuff to get to the fusebox and I can’t find the Kryptonite lock. Emily said something about her art folder? Hope interview went OK.
R x
Tuesday, 6.28 am: It’s my Assessment at the gym and I am really not in the mood, but Conor wants to record my progress. Need to get back in plenty of time to take Ben plus drum kit to school for Christmas concert rehearsal. (Christmas already? I haven’t even started to think about it.) As I haul myself out of bed, I can feel the three-hundred-year-old oak boards beneath my feet sloping away. Piotr says he can level the floor if we take the boards up, get the joists replaced and then re-lay them, but the quote was vertiginous, dizzying. Can’t afford it, not while Richard’s retraining and I don’t know when – if – I will be gainfully employed. (Still no word from EM Royal.) Getting to the bathroom from my own bed each night is a bit like being on board HMS Victory in a gale.
Richard says that a modern floor would be much cheaper and all the bedroom furniture would not be tilting drunkenly and our bed would not be on a steep slope with its legs propped up on bricks so we can sleep on a vaguely flat surface. But I love the boards. I feel protective towards them; their generous width, their gnarled richness, the injuries which time has inflicted on them, the living that has happened on them, the stories they could tell. OK, they are ancient and sagging and a nightmare to maintain, but then so is my pelvic floor. And you don’t see me replacing that with a cheap, modern re-tread.
6.43
am: Drive in dark to gym wearing newly purchased three-quarter-length leggings, which looked sporty and youthful in the shop. In spirit of New-Me optimism I bought the smaller size, which are too small, so stretch leggings only just reach my kneecaps. I look ridiculous: like Big Bird minus the insouciance. To compensate have worn my longest T-shirt and dog-walking fleece. Conor is waiting for me in brightly lit Cardio Room. A large TV on the wall is helpfully showing Ariana Grande (size zero and pipe-cleaner legs) on a spin bike.
‘No worries,’ says Conor. The assessment is just to figure out my level of motivation and commitment to exercise and diet. He is going to use calipers to measure my fat. No worries. The calipers are like crab claws pinching my midriff, but I feel no pain as the subcutaneous blubber acts as a protective layer. (‘I am the walrus! Goo goo g’joob.’) Conor asks me how much I weigh. I think of a worst-case scenario and knock off a couple of pounds. Sadly, my guess is nowhere near high enough. Conor adjusts the scale, notch by dismaying notch, away from my delusions of Grande. Seeing my disappointment, he sweetly asks if I’d like to remove some clothing as that might help. I decline, protectively pulling the fleece, coated in Lenny’s hair, tightly around me. Let my shame stay covered.
I really don’t want to embarrass this genial giant, but I could weep with frustration. For years, I tell Conor, my weight hovered under nine stone. Then came two large babies and a lot of clearing up (OK, eating) kids’ food. I put on a few pounds, but that was just about OK while I was still killing myself doing fourteen-hour days. After I left work, and with no office clothes to fit into, I stopped watching what I ate. Since the Perimeno – well, over the last year or so – I seem to have ballooned for no reason. Now, after weeks of self-denial and strenuous working out, with barely a grain of sugar passing my lips, I still weigh more than in my worst nightmare.
Conor says that, at my age, the body will take longer to respond. It’s not realistic to compare me to my thirty-year-old self. ‘Your body is changing, Kate, no question, just that the scales aren’t reflecting that yet. Muscle weighs more than fat, remember. Be patient.’
He leads me to the static bike and off I go, mesmerised by Ariana Grande pedalling away in full make-up, hair extensions flying. One good thing about being nearly fifty (note to Roy: ‘please remind me there was one good thing about turning fifty’) is I know that, for me, such a look is unattainable. And I don’t care. What bliss, finally, not to care. Can’t help wondering if airbrushed, uber-skinny perfection is what girls like Emily feel compelled to achieve, and how that must make them feel. Em is going to see Taylor Swift with Lizzy and the other girls at the weekend. I thought she’d be happy about it, but she’s been shutting herself away in her room, yelling at me if I try to go in. When I went to say goodnight last night, there was a PRIVATE notice on her door.
7.56 am: Ben is crashing about the kitchen when I get back, complaining that we don’t have any cereal. We do have cereal. We just don’t have chocolate-filled Addict, or whatever it’s called, which I have strictly forbidden after watching a recent documentary on child obesity. Ben has inherited his father’s wiry physique, but a certain deadly kind of fat can accumulate around the vital organs apparently. Visceral fat. Ha! Didn’t need Roy for that one. It even sounds like a poisonous dart. I’ve probably got that as well.
‘Not having that granola crap,’ he bellows like a stricken bison.
‘Please, Ben …’
‘How’m I s’posed to find stuff in this mess?’
‘It will be lovely by Christmas. Clever Piotr will have finished our new kitchen, won’t you Piotr?’
I raise my voice to reach the prone form of our builder. All that is visible of him is denim legs poking out from under the sink, or where the sink would be if we had a sink. The button of his jeans is undone and his black T-shirt has ridden up over his taut stomach revealing a band of pale skin and curly dark hairs beneath which …
No, Kate, don’t go there. What are you thinking?
Piotr’s head emerges from the cupboard and he gives us both a cheery little wave. ‘Trust Mum, Ben, Christmas mother she always does perfect.’
8.10 am: Driving Ben to school and doing breathing exercises. Exhale on a count of ten. We were early, but now we’re late because Ringo Starr forgot his drumsticks and we had to go back to get them and the traffic is insane. He’s next to me, in the passenger seat, scribbling, a pad of lined paper open on his knees. ‘Please do your belt up, sweetheart. Is that homework?’
‘Gnnnn.’
‘You really need to get your act into gear now, you know. This constant leaving your homework until the last minute, it’s not good enough any more.’
Ben sighs with a fourteen-year-old’s infinite weariness at the vast, fathomless stupidity of his elders.
‘Seriously, Mum, no one works hard at my age. Except the Asian kids.’
I flinch. ‘What kind of attitude is that? If the Asian kids can work, why can’t you?’
I picture a future where Indians and Chinese are running all the multinationals and the UK is one giant call-centre manned by white slacker-boys – like mine – with very poor English and mismatched socks. All too plausible, sadly.
‘Nobody starts working till second year of GCSEs, Mum.’
‘Well, I worked hard at your age. I had to. No one was spoon-feeding me and making my life easy. We had a French verbs test every Monday morning and God help you if you didn’t …’
Glance over and see that Ben is playing a tiny invisible violin, the plangent soundtrack to Mummy’s growing-up-poor, hard-luck story that my kids love to mock.
‘Can you stop that? I’m being serious.’
‘Don’t take it out on me because you’re stressy about not getting your job, OK? It’s not fair.’
‘We don’t know I didn’t get the job,’ I protest, but my boy has already jumped out, got his drums from the boot and is lugging them towards the school hall. He doesn’t turn to wave.
I hate parting from him that way more than I can say. I just hate it.
To: Candy Stratton
From: Kate Reddy
Subject: Interview
Still no word from EM Royal. Finding it really hard tbh. Will officially give up hope tomorrow, burn Women Returners’ handbook and throw myself on pyre of dead career.
In other news, since wearing your testosterone patches I have felt first frisson of sexual desire in over a year. For my Polish builder.
I would get rid of him, but I need a kitchen by Christmas. What do I DO?
Kxx
From: Candy Stratton
To: Kate Reddy
Subject: Woo hoo!
Easy. Pole dancing! I knew you had it in you.
Do NOT give up hope. It’s only been three working days.
XXO C
There now follows an anxious period of limbo while I wait to hear if I got the job. I am keen to find any excuse to remove my new, disconcertingly horny self from temptation presented by Piotr, who is lying on his back fiddling with my plumbing. You wish.
Decide this is a good moment to go and see Barbara and Donald, check how they’re doing and placate obnoxious sister-in-law at the same time. Ben has fixed my phone so the Psycho shower-scene music plays if Auntie Cheryl rings. (Bad boy, yet somehow very good.) Richard says he still can’t get away. Something urgent to do with a mindfulness retreat. (Isn’t an urgent mindfulness retreat a contradiction in terms?) It in-furiates me that Rich the trainee counsellor is so caring about the whole damn world but happy to abandon his own parents. I feel like telling him I’m not putting up with his excuses but, as Donald’s answerphone messages get more effusively apologetic, I have started to fear the worst. I can combine a trip to Wrothly with a visit to my mum, who lives fifty miles away.
Donald admitted that the electric blanket we got them a few years back has packed up, so I pop into the department store in town to get a new one. My parents-in-laws’ house is so cold, a heated blanket counts as a necessity not a luxury.
&n
bsp; ‘Would you like one of our brand-new store cards?’ the assistant asks. Indeed, I would. Other middle-aged women turn to alcohol, toy boys or colouring-in books: John Lewis is my drug of choice. They say that heroin makes the cares of the world go away. That’s what happens to me in the soft furnishings department of John Lewis. I fill out the form and am amazed and embarrassed a few minutes later when the man returns and tells me that my application for a store card has been rejected. Says he isn’t allowed to give me a reason, but when I demand to see the manager, he mutters under his breath that it has something to do with my credit rating.
Go online, check credit rating and find that it is the lowest it could possibly be, short of my actually being deceased. Actually, a dead person would have a better credit rating.
‘Roy, can you think of any unpaid bills I have? Sorry, Ben? What has Ben got to do with my credit rating??’
2 pm: Leeds station. As I approach the gates, I see Donald is standing just beyond the barrier waiting for me. You couldn’t miss him. For a man of almost ninety, he is remarkably upright, with that posture people used to call military bearing. (What do we have instead, a computer crouch?) Not as tall as when I first met him, but you can see what a fine figure of a man he was. He’s wearing his tweed coat, the one with the brown suede collar – not the kind of coat you see much any more. Donald insists on taking my case from me and there is a moment, one of those delicate moments you get with elderly people, when you hesitate because you’re not sure if you should insist on carrying your own bag, as it’s clear you are more capable of doing it than they are. But to do so would be to deprive Donald of his natural role, being the gentleman. And I don’t want to do that, so I thank him and yield the case to his trembling hand.
On the winding road to Wrothly, memories ambush me at every turn. Like the first time Richard took me home to meet his parents. We were having sex about three times a day back then. We only got out of bed to eat and go to work. Barbara knew full well we lived together, in a tiny flat above a launderette in Hackney, but she showed me to a small bedroom containing a chaste single-bed with a frowning, brown-wood headboard. (It was the room in the house where all the bad ornaments and crappy lamps end up because no one has the heart to throw them away.) Rich crept along the corridor when he thought everyone was asleep, and there was much hilarity as he tried to fuck me without rattling the bed, whose screeching springs were Barbara’s unpaid informants. I could be wrong, but I think there might have been so much laughter that, in the end, we gave up and talked instead.
How Hard Can It Be? Page 14