She swallows down a giggle and wrestles the smile from her lips before it is fully formed, managing to maintain a facade of rapt attention.
On and on Ms Latimer goes, for nearly quarter of an hour, giving Grace the impression that this is not so much an interview as a sales pitch.
Finally they get to the nitty gritty. Ms Latimer scrutinises Grace’s extensive CV closely, thumbing through the folio of photographs Grace has included as samples of her previous work. She has purposely left out all mention of her running her own business. That was the past and gone now. This is for the future.
With a nod, Ms Latimer closes the folio and sits back in her chair.
“I have to say I am quite impressed with what I’ve seen here, very impressed,” she says. “In fact, I think you are just what we are looking for.” She stretches the crimson gash into the most synthetic smile Grace has ever seen. “And I would be delighted to be able to invite you to join us here at Latimer Associates. I see great things in your future, Miss Dove.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so,” says Grace.
The simpering smile does not waver. “Do you have any questions you would like to ask me, although I think we’ve covered everything – holiday entitlement, dental plan, salary?”
Had she? Grace hadn’t really been listening.
“Just one thing,” she says. “Regarding your dress code.”
Ms Latimer’s rictus grin twitches at the corners. “What about it?”
“I couldn’t help but notice when I came in that everyone looks so dreadfully … stiff. Actually, they look more like they are ready to go to court than to do a day’s work. Will I be expected to toe that particular line, too? I only ask because I don’t wear a suit well. I’m a casual laid back sort of person and I work best when I’m comfortable. In my last job, they didn’t care if I turned up for work in my jammies and slippers, just as long as the work got done.”
Which was true. As she had been self employed and worked from home most days, unless she had to be somewhere that required clothes she sometimes didn’t bother getting dressed at all.
The smile drops from Ms Latimer’s face as if she’s been slapped. “We strive to maintain the highest standards of professionalism at Latimer Associates, Miss Dove, and those standards extend to our personal presentation as well–”
“So the answer to my question is, yes.”
Ms Latimer juts her chin, stretching her already elongated neck. “We do insist on a certain standard of dress for all our staff. Women will wear skirts no more or less than knee length, no revealing tops, nothing too tight. We expect the men to wear suits and ties. We do not allow denim of any kind, nor do we permit trainers, or–”
“Pink hair? How about tattoos and piercings?”
The very idea instils a chicken like jerk of the head in the haughty woman. “Absolutely not!” she exclaims, as if Grace has asked if she ever enjoyed sexual congress with a cocker spaniel. “They are the cheapest, most vulgar–!”
“–expressions of individualism, which is probably the most essential qualification in a successful designer,” Grace finishes for her.
Ms Latimer pulls her mouth into thin red line. “Latimer Associates is not about individualism, Miss Dove,” she says stiffly. “We are a team, and our aim is to work as a team to provide a highly professional service to our clients, the majority of whom are high status corporates who demand certain–”
“Standards, yes you said.”
“Sloppy clothing reflects a sloppy attitude, and therefore a sloppy mind.”
“Which you think reflects in sloppy designs.”
“Of course they do.”
“But what about a comfortable working environment?” says Grace. “How can someone let their creative juices flow if they are being choked off by a too tight tie or underwires digging into their boobs? How about a little music to jolly things along? Some pictures on the wall to break up the sterility? A bit of fresh air wouldn’t go amiss for goodness sake.”
Ms Latimer’s ice cool attitude withers. “Nobody has ever complained–”
“Would they dare?”
Ms Latimer’s eyebrows strain against the pull of her hair, just enough for a shallow groove to appear above her nose. “Excuse me?”
As Grace has already made her decision - no matter how lucrative the salary, no way could she ever consider working in such restrictive conditions under this harridan - she had nothing to lose by stating her opinion.
“Let me tell you what I think shall I, Mizz Latimer? Firstly, you look and act like some anally retentive school marm, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out you are some kind of tight arsed control freak who wouldn’t know creativity if it jumped up and bit you on your scrawny botoxed backside–”
“How dare–”
Grace stands and gathers up her portfolio and CV. “Your work area is barren, your workforce is miserable, there’s not a spark of inspiration or imagination in the place, and if what I’ve seen is an example of how I’m expected to dress and behave and the conditions I have to endure every day, you can shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. You have a nice day now.”
Grace marches from the room without so much as a backward glance, leaving Ms Latimer gaping in her wake, into the foyer where another young woman is sitting primly on the edge of her seat - same Torry facelift, same clown like expression, same red mouth and stiff suit, nothing short of a carbon copy of Ms Latimer herself.
“You here for the design job?” says Grace.
The woman nods and offers the same plastic smile. “Yes.”
“Then I wish you the very best of luck, but I doubt you’ll need it. From the look of you, you’ll fit right in. Ta ta.”
She heaves open the door, sweeps out into the street, and strides along the pavement towards the nearest coffee shop, her face carrying a grin so wide it touches both her ears.
Despite still being unemployed, her boats well and truly burned in that respect, Grace feels good about herself, filled to bursting with pride for having stood up for herself and for speaking her mind.
“The look on her face,” she chuckles to herself. “Bloody priceless!”
With her generosity of spirit overflowing, Grace decides that, for the time being at least, Latimer Associates’ windows will remain intact.
Grace’s good mood lasts almost thirty minutes, until the nerves set in and send it packing. In another half an hour she will face the dreaded driving lesson and she is not looking forward to it one little bit.
She finds herself fingering her mobile phone, in two minds whether to cancel the lesson or not, and makes herself stop. Instead she stares at the empty chair at her table in the bright and breezy Chatterbox Cafe, wishing with every fibre of her being for Colin to somehow sense her distress and come and sit with her and offer some words of comfort. Perhaps he could make the decision for her.
He does not come, and she is left to finish her lunch of a super large hazelnut latté and blueberry muffin and make the decision alone.
She approaches the A1 School of Motoring with her provisional licence in her purse, and the coffee and cake swirling about in a churning stomach.
All the while her lips silently mouth, “You can do this, you can do this,” over and again.
It starts well, and she feels okay while they are in the yard, but all too soon they are out on the road and she finds herself overwhelmed.
The traffic is so much heavier, drivers more impatient and much less courteous than the last time she made an attempt to learn to drive, and she spends the rest of her two hour lesson in a state of near hysteria, praising God in his Heaven for dual controls and an instructor with the lightning fast reactions to use them.
When she is done and they are returned safely to the school’s parking yard, she hands over the car keys and her tuition fee with trembling hands. She does not, however, arrange another lesson. Once was enough for her shattered nerves.
“Shanks’ pony or the bus for
me from now on,” she says, back home and pouring herself a restorative glass of red wine. “Best all round.” She takes a deep quaff. “Think of the number of lives I’ve just saved with that one decision.”
The bottle of wine is soon emptied, however she is well into her second before she begins to relax.
Tomorrow she will start the job search again, but for now, she has a glass to finish.
Snuggled down under her quilt, she is warm and drowsy, with Mr Pickles curled up at her feet and Colin perched on the end of her bed.
“Two visits in one day. Can’t stay away, eh?”
“Thought I’d give it another go in case the first time was a fluke.” He gives her a wicked wink. “And I thought I might catch you in the nip.”
“In your dreams.”
“So how did it go?”
Her voice is slightly slurred, the wine having a comfortably anaesthetising effect. “Let’s say there were swings and there were roundabouts. I really needed for you to give me some more words of comfort and encouragement. Did you not feel me calling out for you?”
“Can’t say I did. Sorry.”
“No matter.” She lets rip a jaw cracking yawn. “Urgh…I’m knackered.”
“Knackered…or blootered?”
“A bit of both I think,” she says. “To be honest, I feel like a piece of chewed string that’s been through the mangle.”
Colin laughs. “Then ye get yersel’ a guid night’s sleep and ye can tell me all about it tomorrow.” He plants a brief kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Gracie.”
“You too. Night sweetie.”
She puts off the lamp and closes her eyes. Helped along by the wine she soon falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Chapter 19
Acting independently of her sleeping body, her hand has already reached out and grabbed the phone trilling and vibrating on the bedside table, and her thumb has already pressed the answer button.
“It’s too early Colin. I’m still sleeping,” she mumbles, not quite fully conscious.
“Grace?”
Not Colin! She sits bolt upright in bed, wide awake now.
“Mal?”
Did he hear her mistake him for Colin?
“Did you forget your appointment…again?”
Apparently not.
“Is that today? What time is it?”
“Gone noon. Where are you?”
She rubs her eyes, last night’s red wine still pulsing behind them.
“Noon? It can’t be,” she says. “That means I’ve been asleep for … God, fifteen hours!”
“You’re still in bed? Are you sick?”
“No. I - I had a trying day yesterday. I got very stressed and upset and needed to sleep it off.”
It sounds better than admitting she has a hangover.
“What time was my appointment?”
“Eleven.”
She swings her legs out of bed. “I’m so sorry, Mal. Can I come in now?”
“No. I’m going for lunch and then I’m booked for the rest of the afternoon.”
Silence.
“I’m worried about you, Grace.”
“There’s no need. I’m fine.”
“I thought we were going to work together on this therapy. Make it a real success.”
“We are!”
“We can’t if you don’t keep your appointments. How can I know whether it’s working or not–”
“It is!”
“–if I don’t see you and we don’t talk about it? You know how important communication is?”
“I said I was sorry. I was asleep. I couldn’t help it. Make me another appointment and I’ll be there. I promise.”
“No. This time, I’m going to make an appointment you can’t wriggle out of. I’m going to come to you.”
“Since when do psychiatrists … sorry, psychologists, make house calls?”
“Since that psychotherapist has a case that is too special to let it fall by the wayside. I have your address. I’ll be there at six o’clock. I’ll bring food. We’ll eat and we’ll talk. Chinese okay.”
It wasn’t a question, it was an order. Even the food choice has been made for her. She has no option but to agree.
“Six o’clock then.”
The line goes dead.
Grace opens the door to the length of its chain, peers through the gap. A very wet Mal Pettit holds up a white plastic carrier bag. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Better come in then.”
She releases the chain and lets him in and he follows her through to the kitchen area, coat shedding water all the way.
“Bucketing down out there,” he says, placing the bag on the worktop and running a hand through his damp hair, making it stand up in random spikes. “Got sweet and sour. You get some plates while I get out of this wet stuff.”
They divide the contents of the foil containers between two plates, portions of chicken and rice, uranium orange sauce, napalm hot, all wreathed in a cloud of fragrant steam that makes Grace’s mouth water.
She pours two glasses of white wine and she and her therapist settle on the sofa to eat.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Mal says, looking around. “Although smaller than I expected.”
“I think estate agent speak is compact and bijou, but it suits us, doesn’t it Pickles?”
The fat grey cat, perched on top of the bookcase, regards them with emerald eyes and mews his agreement.
“So how has this week been?” Mal asks.
“Good. Busy.” Grace stabs at a piece of chicken. “I had a driving lesson and a job interview.”
“Really? How did they go?”
“The driving lesson was torture, enough to terrify the bark off the trees. I was shaking so much I couldn’t change gear. The instructor did most of the work for me. I won’t be doing that again any time soon. Road users and pedestrians are safe.”
“And the job interview?”
She sweeps up a forkful of rice. “I was offered the job–”
“Brilliant–!”
“But then I lost it.”
“Not so brilliant.”
“Well, not lost it exactly, more threw it away.” She sips at the wine. “The woman interviewing was a real witch and the environment was a dead hell. I pitied the poor buggers who were already working there, silent obedient drones, and I thought I could never work in a place like that. I would curl up and die. Of course, I couldn’t leave it alone and I - I told her what I thought.”
“Oh dear.”
“So I was hired and fired, or more accurately resigned, all within the space of five minutes.”
Mal scrapes rice into the sweet and sour sauce, mixing them together until everything is a uniform fiery orange, whilst Grace tops up both their glasses from the rapidly emptying bottle.
“And how do you feel about what happened?” says Mal.
“Pretty good actually. I felt this surge of self confidence rush through me, sparking me to stand up for myself. It was great.” She raises her glass in a toast to herself. “I couldn’t wait to tell Colin. He thought–”
Mal is watching her intently now, his forkful of rice hovering between his plate and his mouth. “Go on. Tell me. What did Colin think?”
Grace takes a sip of her wine. “Nothing. It was a slip of the tongue.”
They finish the rest of their meal in silence. When they are done, Mal lays his knife and fork on his plate and rubs his stomach. “I could go that again,” he says. “Really hit the spot.”
Grace has hold of the wine bottle. “Top up?”
Mal puts his hand over the glass. “No thanks. I’m driving.”
“All the more for me, then.” She pours the remainder into her glass, jiggling the bottle to get out every last drop. “It’s nice to have a glass of wine to complement the food,” she says. “And a couple in an evening can put a warm and fuzzy glow around an otherwise stressful day, don’t you think? What?”
Mal shrugs. “I never said
a word, although the fact that you feel the need to justify your intake of alcohol without being asked does raise some interesting questions.”
“What are you now, a recruitment officer for AA? I’m perfectly aware of how much I drink. And before you jump in and remind me that the first symptom of being an alcoholic is denial, I know, okay.” She takes a scoof from the glass.
Mal wipes his mouth with his napkin, overlaying the Chinese takeaway’s logo with a faint orange smear, screws it up and drops it onto his plate.
“So bring me up to date on how you think your therapy is going,” he says, getting to the real reason for his visit.
“What do you want to know?”
“How about you tell me a bit more about the persona you created as your confidante now you’ve had chance to get to know him a bit better.”
“Colin? Like I said before, I didn’t create him. At least not in the way you think.” Pause. “He’s nice, a sweet man despite having a whole lot of problems of his own to work through.”
“What sort of problems?”
“He’s a deeply troubled individual, a casualty of war, shattered like an old vase, both physically and mentally.”
“Ah. The ‘friend’ with PTSD?”
“Yes.”
“And the discussions you have with him, they take place how often?”
“Pretty much every day.”
“And whose problems get the biggest airing, his or yours?”
“Either or. Sometimes both. Whoever has the greatest need at the time. Usually though we just enjoy each other’s company, indulge in normal every day chit chat, time passing trivia among friends, nothing too deep or intrusive. Whatever we feel most comfortable with.”
Grace gathers up the plates and takes them to the sink. Mal joins her, adding their empty wine glasses to the dirty crockery before leaning with his back against the worktop so that they can continue talking as she does the washing up.
In The Garden Of Stones Page 12