The interview: me, another girl, two boys, one cute, one a geek. Sarah had put me through a gruelling rehearsal of answers, and I was hoping that a combination of that with my natural charm and wit would make me successful. It did. The cute boy gave me his phone number and I was called back for a second interview.
Three months after leaving university, when I was offered my first job I thought I might just become a career woman. Sarah, Jess, Sophie and my other girlfriends from university might just have been right: this was fun, this was the start of my new, exciting life. When I found out that the job I had been offered was for a trade publication called Nuts and Bolts Monthly, I felt differently. My salary was eleven thousand pounds plus commission, and I wanted university and Ben back more badly than ever. Before taking the drastic step of accepting, I spoke at length to a number of people.
Sarah: ‘It’s only the first step, take it.’
Jess: ‘Well, we can’t all work in PR.’
Sophie: ‘It’ll be lovely to have you living with us.’
My parents: ‘We can always tell people you’ve got a great job in publishing.’
Thomas: ‘Is it a porno title?’
I decided, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage my sanity, to talk to Lipstick Sally the recruitment consultant. I asked her what my chances were with Cosmo.
Sally: ‘Ha, ha, ha, ha.’
I took the glamorous job of sales executive on Nuts and Bolts Monthly (the leading publication in its field), and I felt that my life had ended. Although reason and the advice of friends and parents pointed to my having to start this sales job, I still explored on my own a number of options to get me out of having to work. The first involved Ben, on a white horse, arriving just in the nick of time to rescue me. Every time I heard a horse going by, which didn’t happen often, I thought it was him. It never was.
Then real fantasy took over: I’d be a rock chick Simple, find a rich, successful rock star, become his girlfriend, travel the world with him and never have to work again. Now, that idea appealed to me, apart from the fact that I didn’t know any rock stars.
I also thought about becoming a new-age traveller. I could take to the road in a bus that doubled as my home and I’d only have to work when we protested about trees and stuff, and as I believe very heavily in preserving the environment I thought I’d fit in quite well. I could find my male companion and we’d live happily ever after in our bus (it had to be a bus: I couldn’t possibly live in a caravan). I discussed the idea with Jess, because I really thought I had something, but she pointed out that I wouldn’t be able to count on the mod cons I loved so much (hair-dryer, shower), I’d never be able to wear mules again and I’d be poor. She said other horrible things about parasites using the environment as an excuse not to get a job, but as that was the reason I was considering it I decided not to argue and I struck it off my list. I hadn’t realised that buses don’t come with central heating and power-showers.
Perhaps I could advertise for a husband. ‘Young twenty-one-year-old, eager to learn to cook, quite intelligent, seeks young man for marriage, preferably with money.’ Yes, I could just imagine the perverted responses I’d get. Again, I came back to the fact that dependency was something I’d always been good at; independence was what I feared. But now it seemed inevitable: with no Ben to hide behind and parents who were looking forward to me making them proud, I was left with no alternative. Of course, most people in my position would start a career with a smile on their faces and decide to make the most of their lives, but not me. If, for some reason, Ben didn’t come back, I’d have to find someone else. Being independent is not all it’s cracked up to be.
I considered not moving to London, but going to Scotland or Wales, somewhere remote where I’d work in a post office or be a goat-herder. Anything would be better than starting work on a magazine about nuts and bolts or whatever. I was told numerous times that this was a stepping stone. Nuts and Bolts was owned by a large publishing house and getting into a company like that might be advantageous to me, if I made my own opportunities. Sometimes I felt as if I was surrounded by people quoting from the same book: How to succeed in 1999. I did not see it as a great opportunity. I saw it as the thing I had to do to get to London to be with my unsympathetic and interfering friends. Perhaps goat-herding was the best option, after all. No, London was my only option, and the only hope I had was that London would be filled with men who would love to marry me and take care of me. And one of those men would be, if not quite Ben, my nearly Mr Right.
Chapter Two
A little man approached me. He was very fat and very red. He introduced himself as the Devil. He asked me if I would sell him my soul. I said OK. He asked how much money I wanted, but I said he’d have to make me an offer; I didn’t know what the going rate for souls was. He said he’d give me two million pounds. It was a lot of money. We struck a deal. I can’t tell you what life is like without my soul, because I can’t remember what it was like with it.
***
I sat on the train having had a tearful farewell with my parents. I knew that somehow, albeit reluctantly, my life was moving on. I thought, I might replace Ben, but then I thought, Ben will come back for me. I thought, I might enjoy my job, but then I thought, I’ll hate it. I couldn’t think in a straight line, my mind was in knots. I don’t know what I expected out of London, if I had any expectations at all. I was in such a state of confusion and contradiction that nothing was clear.
Once, people had been drawn to London in the belief that the streets were paved with gold. Even now it is seen as the city of opportunity, although the streets are paved with litter and homeless people. My impression of London when I first came here was somewhat confused. I was terrified by the idea of London and terrified by its enormity, but the tingle of excitement I felt when I first entered it was unmistakable and unexpected. I couldn’t help but feel I had entered a whole new world and that in this world a number of treasures awaited me.
London looks as though it deserves its status as capital of our country. It commands respect; it has an arrogance and confidence about it that are both intimidating and comforting. It is a city of contradictions. It cries out to you yet defies you to understand it. I sometimes feel I never will, but it challenges you all the same. It’s breathtaking one minute, ugly and cruel the next. Streets that house the rich and estates that house the poor sit next to each other, showing the contrast, the divide. Shops that are famous, intimidating, and streets so full that it takes hours to walk down them dominate the centre.
I live in a twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week city. It never stops, it doesn’t relax, so you don’t either. Its personality is complex, attractive and frightening. London is the man your father never wanted you to meet. You will be exposed to its evils, it won’t protect you. But when you see its beauty it captivates you. It is beautiful when it shines its lights and sparkles like the most precious of crowns, but ugly when stripped of these jewels, its warmth and its love.
You could never live in London and not notice both the beauty and the ugliness, but in the grip of its ugliness you may be blind to its beauty. You find its soul in markets that have been around for years, but it is also soulless; it doesn’t always smile. The city is always in a hurry, bustling you along, not always giving you time to look. And it gets cross. But if you catch it at that magical moment, it fills your heart. It is your best friend and your cruellest lover. It is the family that neglects you then tells you it loves you. It takes from you and it may not give anything back. Living in London, that’s the chance you have to take.
The chance I had to take. London was my new home. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find there, or even what I was looking for. But I did know that I had entered the brave new world. I settled into the house, got used to being with my friends and tried to prepare for my new job. But I was still devastated about Ben. In fact, I was pretty much devastated by everything. My friends and family had long since given up their words of comfort (and who could bla
me them? There’s only so much ranting from a mad person that anyone can take), apart from Sophie. Poor, sweet Sophie kept trying to help but I think she was running out of ideas. Because she was the only person who didn’t tell me to pull myself together I used to trail after her when we were at home and talk about my broken heart. She would respond with cliché after cliché, which I didn’t mind because at least she was showing me kindness. The day before I started my new job, I was lamenting my lost love and Sophie said, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ which summed up the dramatic sorrow I was looking for.
Until Sarah interfered. ‘No, it’s not.’
We both looked at her. ‘It’s not what?’
‘It is not better to have loved and lost. You’re a perfect example of that. I’ve never been in love and I’m happy and you’re not.’
Sarah could be so heartless. Sophie didn’t know what to say so she left the room. I looked at Sarah. ‘You haven’t had the joy I had with Ben, the unadulterated happiness. I may be sad now, but I was happy.’
‘No, you weren’t.’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Ru, you spent most of the time you were with Ben crying, moaning about him, calling him a bastard. You stayed with him forever, but I don’t think he made you happy.’
Sarah was now trying to be reasonable, and I hated it. ‘That is not true. I have lost the one true love of my life and he did make me happy.’ I pulled my childish indignant face.
‘Whatever. Anyway, Ru, there’s more to life than men and love. You should concentrate on yourself for a bit, I’m happy and I’m alone and I have no intention of being any other way.’
‘But I’m not you. I need Ben or someone – No, I need Ben. He’s gorgeous, I love him sooo much.’
At this Sarah shook her head and left the room. Which people seemed to be doing around me a lot. I knew that I should stop making people leave rooms. I knew I was putting my friends through hell. I knew that if I didn’t stop they might even grow to hate me and I knew that they were wonderful friends because they didn’t hate me already. I was becoming a monotonous bore, or I was already one.
But I didn’t stop. I had to act out the drama and I had to milk my unhappiness for all it was worth. I was not in the situation I wanted to be in and because of that my progress was blocked. I’ve always been like that. You see, the main problem is that if I became happy again I would be betraying my pain and betraying the life I loved. In my heart of hearts, I knew that I loved Ben and I knew that he had made me happy. I knew he was my Mr Right and that I would never, ever get over him. You know how reason had left me? Well, it seems that it had forgotten to return.
I felt I was on the outside looking in. My friends had said goodbye to our old life so easily. I found it really hard. For three years all we had worried about was getting up in time for Neighbours and if we had enough clean knickers. Now all that was gone and had been replaced by structure: getting up, going to work, doing well, the future, we had to worry about all that and more. Oh, and if we had enough clean knickers. It was enough to give you a headache.
I started my sales job on the Monday. I didn’t sleep much on Sunday night – I was so terrified. I got up on Monday and the house was a hive of activity. Jess and Sarah were running around getting ready for work, Sophie was drinking coffee and I was lost. I put my suit on, I did my make-up and I left the house. I felt as if I was in a daze. I didn’t really know where I was going, or what would happen to me when I got there, but I went anyway.
When I arrived, I recognised Steve, the unfortunate-looking sales manager who had interviewed me. He welcomed me, introduced me to everyone and showed me to my desk. For a moment I felt excited. Everyone was friendly, I had a desk and a computer and, well, it seemed quite nice. The office was open-plan, the desks arranged in twos, there was a water machine, plants dotted around and a big collage made out of nuts and bolts on the wall. It was quite funky. Someone gave me coffee and someone else explained a bit about the magazine, then Steve announced that I and a guy called John, who had started with me, were going to spend the first week training. That didn’t sound too bad.
I recognised John as the geek from my interview. I also made a mental note to think about calling the cute guy. John looked so awkward and excited in his first suit and tie, which really didn’t do a lot for him. The grey flannel, the ironed white shirt and the navy blue tie made him look boring and even more geek-like, so I decided I’d try to be nice to him. He and I went into a room and for the rest of the day were told about the magazine, the sales techniques used and the art of selling. John asked lots of boring questions, and by the time we left at five, my head hurt. But the point was that it was OK. I didn’t have to do anything and the selling thing didn’t sound too difficult. Steve the boss seemed nice, even though he was unfortunate-looking, and John the geek, well, he was my main competition and he was a geek. I went home feeling that it wasn’t going to be as bad as I had first thought. The rest of the week carried on in much the same vein. I didn’t love getting out of bed in the morning, I hated wearing suits, but as the day was really quite easy I didn’t mind it half as much as I’d thought I would. All in all it was OK. I had become a working woman and without even realising I was a modern woman, or almost a modern woman, a temporary modern woman. It still wasn’t a long-term plan.
I knew what I wanted. The same as everyone. Happiness. But I had a vision of what would make me happy. I could see it, I could feel it, I longed to touch it. I was clear-minded enough to know that if I achieved my vision, it might not make me happy. That was a risk I was willing to take. But the reason for my life, and I believed very deeply that I needed to have a reason, was that I believed I’d achieve happiness. I wasn’t unusual in that. I had a plan and my plan was that I’d never climb any ladders – I’d do something, but I’d never make my mark on the world. My children would not have a mother with a cool job and my husband would have a wife who cared for him, cooked for him and was at home. That view of my future was what I was striving for. I wanted it so badly that that was my career. That was my world. And I knew I was young and might not find anyone to take care of me for years and I was certainly not ready to have children and I couldn’t even cook very well. But one day I’d have it. Until then I would work to pay the rent and buy my clothes and wine. I’d have as much fun as I could and be as unstressed as I could. It was simple, but it was my view of the world in which I lived.
My parents were so relieved. I had forgotten to spend my telephone conversations with them telling them I was miserable and it was all their fault. My friends were relieved – I had forgotten to moan at home. I was more like the old Ruth and everyone, including me, was pleased. On the first Friday of my first week as a working woman, Sarah had decided we would celebrate. I was the centre of attention again and I loved it. Sarah told Jess and Sophie that we were celebrating my first working week on Friday. Jess was enthusiastic but Sophie went a little bit quiet.
‘What’s wrong, Soph?’ I asked.
‘Um, I’m really pleased for you, and I really want to celebrate, but I’ve got a date.’
Wow, all of a sudden I was no longer the centre of attention. Questions flowed.
‘Who is he?’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘His name is James and I met him at the Atlantic bar last night after my modelling job. I was there with Lia— you know Lia? So we were in this amazing bar full of trendy people. It was a really scary place, the sort of place where no one smiles at you because they’re too cool and you’re not. Lia and I were nursing a glass of wine and moaning about the job we’d been doing and this amazing guy, or two guys but one was amazing, came up to us and asked if they could buy us champagne. Imagine, champagne!’ Sophie was animated and pink, and I was impressed. I mean, the guys we were used to meeting would maybe stretch to buying us a bottle of Beck’s if we were lucky, but champagne, no way. Sophie continued, ‘Lia talked to Jonathan while I talked to James
, who was amazing. He’s tall, blond and so good-looking. And he was so smart and funny. Then they bought us dinner and afterwards James put me in a cab and asked for my number and, wow, he was such a gentleman.’
Now I was even more impressed. I thought it said in magazines that guys like this were extinct. Trust Sophie to have found one. ‘Soph, that’s great! You go. We’ll celebrate some other time.’ She hugged me and thanked me and I felt good again.
Until I started living in London, I hadn’t thought about dating. At university we didn’t date. You met someone in a college bar, got drunk, kissed them and either saw them again or decided to forget it. Simple. We didn’t need to phone anyone, we all lived in close proximity. Relationships were easier to find, fall into or fall out of than in the real world. Dating therefore was an alien concept to me. As you know, I was a little slow off the starting-block in moving to London, so Sophie, Sarah and Jess seemed to understand it.
Sophie admitted she was a little uncool about the phone business: she had driven herself mad waiting for this guy to call and she was also a little uncool about the actual date, wailing about having nothing to wear, worrying about her hair and make-up. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her in such a state.
When she had gone, I asked Jess and Sarah why things had never been like this at university. Your favourite jeans and a bit of lipstick were the first-date uniform, and, as you knew so many people, it wasn’t nerve-racking at all. I had never imagined it would be like this. I mean, the whole thing took so long and looked so painful. Was this really how grown-up dating would be?
‘Ru, this isn’t university, this is real life. Kind of like dating for grown-ups,’ Jess explained. ‘You’ll understand when you get your first date, darling.’
Rubber Gloves or Jimmy Choos? Page 4