by Ber Carroll
‘I expect a big discount,’ he states.
‘Of course.’ I hide a grin.
‘I mean it!’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.’
‘When can you send me a quote?’
‘Next week. I’ll show the discount clearly.’
The quote will spark more haggling, maybe even another dinner and drinks. But it’s close now, very close.
Derek spots a taxi and raises his hand. ‘I’ll talk to you soon,’ he says as he gets into the cab.
He leaves me on the pavement to find a taxi of my own. Next week, or the one after, he’ll be handing me a five-million-dollar order; apparently this exempts him from everyday manners.
I turn and begin to walk down the street. I’m not ready for a taxi just yet anyway. I want to stroll, clear my head, savour the moment, the city. The pubs have spilled onto the streets, there’s a party under the stars, rock music swirling with conversation, laughter and a sense of excitement: Melbourne on a Friday night, the working week over, a long sunny weekend ahead. God, I love the atmosphere of this city, the distinct lines drawn between work and leisure, what’s serious and what’s fun. Everything so clear-cut and in its place, with no undercurrents of religion or politics. No history or past injustices to undermine the happiness of the present moment.
My first few years in Australia were tumultuous, a succession of different jobs, friends and places to live. I arrived in Sydney not knowing a soul and for a while I revelled in my anonymity. Living in a hostel and working casually, I gradually met some people, mainly backpackers in transit to somewhere else, and formed the kind of friendships that last until one or the other of you moves on, the kind that have no history and are based in the present only, and where you make a conscious decision what, if anything, you reveal about yourself.
After the hostel, I lived in an apartment in an old-style building in Bondi Junction. The apartment came with three bedrooms and two wild flatmates who clubbed and partied from one week to the next. I got my first permanent job, selling credit cards over the phone. It was hard work, cold-calling strangers, trying to persuade them they needed more credit, and nine times out of ten people hung up on me. It was useful grounding, though. It taught me how to make a good first impression, how to close a sale, and it was the first step in establishing my career.
A year later I moved to Brisbane where I started over with a new job, friends and flat. Another year saw my return to Sydney, this time to the north side of the city, and nine months later I moved to Melbourne. Melbourne instantly felt like a better fit. It had the right mix of foreignness and familiarity, of excitement and safety, and it was where I finally settled, or at least stopped running so hard and swinging so wildly from one thing to the next. I found a job that had good prospects for future promotion. I found an apartment that I could see myself staying in for longer than a few months. I found friends who were more than just drinking buddies.
Those first few years have morphed into a decade, ten whole years since that final scene in my father’s office and everything that had gone before. The pain and loss and grief have reduced exponentially with each passing year, and now Clonmegan’s just an ache deep inside me, so far embedded that I’ve learned to live with it and carry it around as I go about my life. Time is like a winter morning’s mist, shrouding my memories of the dormered house where I spent the first eighteen years of my life; the bedroom I shared with Maeve, with its sloping roof and lavender-coloured walls, their exact shade becoming murky with the passing of time; the specific dimensions of the other rooms in the house, the ornaments on the mantelpiece, the pictures hanging on the walls and other small details, hazy and distorted; the smell of rain in the air, the sagging skies, the bright green grass in the garden. But some things I choose not to even try to remember, because I fear that my memories won’t be blurred at all, but all too vivid to cope with.
Strangers often smile and ask where my accent’s from.
‘Ireland,’ I respond with a reciprocating smile yet a touch of brevity in my voice.
Sometimes they persevere. ‘What part of Ireland?’
‘The North.’
At this, the subject is quickly dropped. Australians are too polite to talk about religion or politics, and the North of Ireland involves both.
I walk on, past more pubs and people, and though I’m tired and feeling the effects of all the alcohol, I’m buoyed by a sense of happiness and belonging. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than in this city. I love its diversity, its beat. I love the ever-present and eclectic smells of food, the labyrinth of hidden laneways and alleys, the blend of old and new, east and west. It’s easy to become lost in Melbourne, to be sucked so far into its way of life that you forget who you are and where you come from. And that’s what I like the best.
Chapter 9
I yawn deeply as I wait for the tram. It’s early on Monday morning, only 7 am, but there’s a sizeable crowd waiting at the stop. Most of them are dressed like me in business suits and sunglasses, and hold fresh coffees in their hands. It’s a beautiful morning in St Kilda, neither hot nor cold. The sun is coming up behind the skyline and when its full force is unleashed the temperature will rise to the high twenties.
The tram appears in the distance, covered in advertising pictures and slogans. Coffees are slugged back, empty paper cups tossed into a nearby rubbish bin. Handbags are unzipped and tickets located. The tram rocks in and the crowd, primed and impatient, surges forward to greet it.
I find standing space, smile at a man and woman who are so close it would be rude not to acknowledge them, and the tram takes off, gliding, clunking and squeaking. This never feels like a journey to work. Sometimes I feel like a kid on one of those trackless trains at the zoo, or a tourist, gazing single-mindedly at the passing scenery as though I’ve never seen it before. There’s something very basic and unpretentious about riding on the tram: hanging on to keep your balance, the jerky cornering after smooth stretches, the claustrophobic lack of space. But there’s something cosmopolitan and urbane about it too: whirring through the streets to the heart of the city, standing close to strangers and seeing the colour of their eyes and the pores of their skin, and feeling as though you are part of the city rather than merely an onlooker.
I get off at Collins Street and walk towards my office, falling in step with other striding commuters. The women wear tailored clothes, pencil skirts, fitted dresses and straight-leg trousers, mostly in black. Black is the unofficial uniform, the common denominator, the style not just of the commuters but of the city itself. Today I’m wearing a swishing skirt, a scooped short-sleeved top and stilettos, all black. The only colour in my outfit is my necklace, silver knotted around blue stones, and, of course, my hair.
‘Hey, Caitlin.’ Jo, the receptionist, smiles. ‘Have a good weekend?’
‘Yeah. How about you?’
‘Busy. Too much on. Came to work to recover!’
Jo is joking. There’s no time for ‘recovering’ at the Learning Space reception desk: the phones are relentless. Jo already has a queue of calls, most of them from lost, panicked trainees who aren’t used to finding their way around the city.
She answers the next call in the queue. ‘Yes, we’re on Collins. Near the corner of Elizabeth. Keep walking …’
I continue on to my desk, smiling at people on the way. Learning Space is a friendly company, small enough for everyone to know each other and big enough to be dynamic, exciting and sometimes unpredictable. And there’s something nice about the notion of training, of enhancing someone’s education and skills and sending a better, more knowledgeable person back out into the workforce. Training suggests optimism, an openness to change, the possibility of a different future. It resounds with me, and for that reason I’m very good at selling it.
‘Caitlin!’
Jarrod, my boss, has seen me pass his office and summons me inside. I change direction, stifling a sigh. I always prefer to have a settling-in period before fac
ing Jarrod: he’s hard to stomach first thing in the morning.
‘Morning, Jarrod,’ I say brightly.
Jarrod’s face is angular and exact, just like his personality, and his eyes seem to stare rather than see. Even his hair has attitude, short at the sides, spiky at the front. He’s excellent at reading clients and for him, like me, nothing is out of bounds when it comes to keeping the customer happy. Sometimes, though, all that’s required is a smile and it’s a pity he doesn’t seem to realise this.
‘What happened with Derek on Friday?’
Jarrod should really save this question for the sales meeting that’s scheduled in an hour’s time, but patience isn’t one of his strengths.
‘He’s talking about discounts,’ I reply. ‘It’s getting closer.’
‘There’s a board meeting next week. Will I know by then?’
I’ve never been to a board meeting and the thought of Jarrod going in there, making my deal look like his own, is enough to make jealousy ricochet throughout my body. The reality is that I’m a mere sales consultant and he’s the manager. He is the face of sales while I’m background, invisible. I imagine that the board members love him. He takes himself and the business very seriously. He’s articulate, well informed and respectful. The fact that he lacks a sense of humour would be barely apparent to them.
‘That’s cutting it tight,’ I say in a voice which, to my credit, doesn’t betray my feelings. ‘I’m doing the pricing today. I expect some argy-bargy with Derek before he agrees to an order.’
‘Will I call him?’
‘No. If we push too hard, the whole thing could fall through. You know how perverse he can be.’
Jarrod nods: he understands. He won’t make me push. He asked only because sometimes his impatience gets the better of his judgment, but once he realises this he always backs off.
‘Was it a late one Friday night?’ he asks.
His question is not as casual as it sounds. Jarrod has a rather unimaginative approach to entertaining clients, sticking rigidly to expensive meals and wines consumed within the limitations of a self-imposed curfew of 11 pm. He doesn’t approve of my more flexible approach, and is better off not knowing about the beer, bourbon and pool playing that rounded off the night.
‘Not very,’ I reply evasively.
‘Right. Well, show me the pricing when it’s done, okay?’
‘Sure.’ I turn towards the door. ‘Do you want this open or shut?’
‘Shut.’
I leave, closing the door softly behind me. My workstation is in a quiet corner of the fifth floor, next to the window. I smile hello to Zoe in the neighbouring cubicle; she’s already busy on the phone. Switching on my laptop, I swivel my seat to face the window while I wait for it to start up. The view is dominated by the building across the road, a high-rise exhibit of modern architecture with alternating layers of glass and thick concrete. The green area in front of the building is a nice focus for those moments when I need to stare at something other than my screen. This morning there are some bike couriers lounging on the grass, waiting to be radioed to their next job, and the usual smattering of office workers sitting on benches with coffees and newspapers. I turn back to my laptop but the phone rings before I have a chance to type in my password.
It’s Jo. ‘They’re looking for you down on level four.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The usual – food.’
It never ceases to amaze me that with all the different factors involved in the training business, the number one complaint is always food.
‘I’m coming.’
Level four has its own separate reception area, the red feature wall behind the desk distinguishing it from the similarly kitted-out training floors on levels two and three. Nicola, the floor manager, stands against the red backdrop waiting for me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
She rolls her eyes. ‘The Roads and Transport Board have eaten Chambers Bank’s breakfast, that’s what’s wrong! I’ve ordered some bacon-and-egg McMuffins to compensate, but Tanya insisted that you be told.’
Nicola, like me, is in her late twenties. She’s originally from London but her parents are Greek and she has the dark hair, skin and eyes of her heritage. She’s a very competent floor manager, adept at dealing with most crises. Tanya McManus, the complainant, is in the breakout area, her feet planted apart, watching us. Her hands are not on her hips but they might as well be. Tanya is a large woman. Her face is soft and round and she has big soulful eyes, but her cuddly appearance is deceiving.
‘I’ll talk to her.’ I give Nicola a conspiratorial smile and walk over to where Tanya is standing. ‘Nicola just told me what happened,’ I begin in a sombre tone. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Tanya.’
Tanya looks down at me over folded arms. ‘Sorry is not good enough. This is meant to be a professional organisation … things like this simply shouldn’t happen … the food should be closely supervised by your staff …’
Tanya is the learning and development manager for Chambers Bank, one of my most important clients. The bank’s training needs are ongoing and they’re one of the few clients who have permanently dedicated rooms. This is why Nicola called me down: Tanya’s complaints, no matter how trivial, must be seen to be taken seriously.
‘My people need to be fed and watered to keep their energy levels up …’
Tanya likes to over-enunciate certain words, which makes her speech pattern very uneven. I nod and make all the right placatory noises, though I suspect her gripe is driven more by her own sustenance needs than those of her trainees.
‘The training program is gruelling, and they need to be physically and mentally alert …’
With some effort I keep a straight face until the McMuffins arrive and Tanya goes to load her plate with three of them.
‘Caitlin, I’m really sorry.’ The training coordinator for the Roads and Transport Board comes to take Tanya’s place by my side. ‘My guys should have looked at the name card. They thought all their Christmases had come at once!’
Being a government department, the Roads and Transport Board’s food budget is basic: sandwiches and fruit at lunch, no morning or afternoon teas, and certainly no bacon-and-egg breakfasts!
‘Don’t worry.’ At last I can genuinely smile. ‘It was an honest mistake. I hope they enjoyed it.’
Back upstairs, I read and respond to emails until it’s time to leave my desk again for the biweekly sales meeting. The only good thing about the sales meeting is that it isn’t on every week. My male colleagues, Gary, Chris and Nathan, have adapted their styles to suit Jarrod’s, discarding any sense of humour in the process, and are extraordinarily dull to listen to. Zoe is a relatively recent and much more interesting addition to the team. It’s rather nice having another female around, and even nicer that she can be relied on to view things from a completely different angle to everyone else. She’s the only bright spark in the entire two-hour-long meeting.
Finally I escape and return to the sanctuary of my desk, free at last to work on the Telelink proposal. The spreadsheet already has preliminary figures and key assumptions, some of which I now update. I detail the timelines, room availability and technology, working across a number of linked worksheets. When everything is complete, I run a sensitivity analysis to see how much negotiating space I have with the discount. I love this part of my job, playing with the numbers, coming up with a proposal that can’t be knocked back by either Jarrod or Derek, the grudging admiration that comes over their faces as they see the extent of my work and the depth of my knowledge.
I continue until a feeling of light-headedness reminds me that it’s lunchtime. Somewhat reluctantly, I save the file and close it down. Grabbing my bag, I pass by the ladies room on my way out. My hand has a slight tremor as I apply some lip gloss. I smooth down my hair, prick my skin in its usual spot and leave the light-bulb brightness of the toilets for the sunshine outside.
‘Chicken on brown with Diet Coke?’ The girl
at the deli knows my order but not my name.
‘Yes, thanks.’
While I wait for the food, I’m still thinking about the discount and where I should initially pitch it. I’ll finish the proposal this afternoon, mull on it overnight and then get Jarrod’s seal of approval before sending it to Derek tomorrow. Derek will respond in a few days’ time with some nitpicks. I’ll take him out for dinner and drinks and he’ll hold out until the end of the night before stating what he really wants: a larger discount. With a great show of reluctance, I’ll meet him halfway, we’ll shake on it, and then I’ll finally get the order. Five million dollars! My sales target will be blown through the roof. But it isn’t just about the target, or even the commission cheque that will follow. There’s more to it than that. Much, much more.
It’s taken me a relatively long time and a lot of hard work to become established in my career. My ascension up the corporate ladder has not occurred in leaps and bounds; it’s been a slow and sometimes difficult progression. I’m good in interviews – friendly and outgoing and charismatic, the right personality for a career in sales – but employers want letters after the names of their employees, particularly for roles that have a measure of responsibility or autonomy, and so my abandoned degree has come back to haunt me over and over again. Whenever I’m ready to change jobs, I resolve to look into how I can complete at the University of Melbourne what I started at Queen’s University, Belfast. In moments of honesty and clarity, however, I doubt I have it in me to study again. Do I have the focus, the concentration required? Could I tolerate the solitude, the silence, the gush of memories? The career crisis always passes and I eventually make whatever move I sought to make and at the same time return the idea of finishing my degree to the too-hard basket.
Still, I’ve come into my own with this job at Learning Space. My four-year tenure makes up for my lack of qualifications, gives me a certain credibility, influence and status in the company. If Jarrod were ever to leave, I feel I could legitimately put my hand up for his job and be taken seriously as a worthy candidate. And I will be in a stronger position again when Telelink signs on the dotted line.