by Jane Lambert
It doesn’t require a psychoanalyst to work out the meaning behind this recurring nightmare.
I simply cannot carry on living off the paltry proceeds from the flat Nigel and I shared. This is supposed to be my emergency money, to support me after the course, during those ‘resting’ periods, in between theatre and TV contracts, daahling. Huh.
There’s rent to pay, food, my Visa bill, and drama class fees.
How naive I was to think I could just sail into another job.
This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …
* * *
‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.
‘No.’
‘Excel?’
‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)
‘Minute taking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’
‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.
Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.
I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.
It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?
Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?
I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.
Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook and pen.
Potential Job List:
P.A./Receptionist/ Switchboard Operator?
Waitress?
Shop assistant?
Tour guide?
Cleaner?
Telesales?
Dog walker?
Market researcher?
Hmm. None of the above fills me with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.
‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’
My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sip cappuccino and cluck and coo …
‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’
My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees, to romp around the park with, and to read Peppa Pig to.
Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.
‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’
‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.
Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects, no daily routine …
Wife and mother
High-powered businesswoman
The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.
Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.
I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate for The Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelled waitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?
The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experience the thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.
Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:
RETAIL CONSULTANT REQUIRED
APPLY WITHIN
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …
Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.
‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items are very, very valuable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawlty voice.
‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am … au fait with handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)
‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’
Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.
Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.
There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.
‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.
Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’
I resist the temptation to tell her to stuff her job and her precious things, and head out onto the bustling street. I jump astride my bike, leaving drizzly, grey commuterville behind, and pedal towards the bright lights of Dramatic Ar s Centre.
* * *
The next morning
‘You bastar
d!’ I mutter. ‘How can you let me down like this?’ As fast as I pump the air in, the faster it is released with a loud hisssss. I knew I should have caught the bus this morning. Fired on my first day. Great!
I fumble in my voluminous bag for my mobile and dial Galbraith’s number.
You have used all your calling credit, comes the unsympathetic, recorded voice. Heavy rain starts to pound the pavement. Shit! Right, that’s it! Wielding the pump, I unleash my pent-up anger and frustration on my bike, much to the sly amusement of early morning commuters, as they scuttle to the station, clutching their takeaway coffee, ears wired to iPods and hands-free.
Squelching and wheezing my way up the hill, I make a mental note to a) learn how to mend a puncture and b) invest in waterproofs.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Cutler,’ I pant. ‘I would have got here quicker if I hadn’t had to wheel my bike and I wanted to call you, but my mobile was out of credit and …’
‘You’d better clean yourself up,’ she says, her steely gaze resting on my oil-stained hands. ‘And may I remind you, Emily, you are on probation. If you are serious about working here, then you had better pull your socks up.’
Blimey, I haven’t felt like this since fourth form, when I was hauled up in front of the headmistress for not wearing regulation knickers at gym.
‘The stock room looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ she snarls, giving me a death stare. ‘Health and Safety are visiting next week, so I’d appreciate it if you could tidy the place up, and ensure the fire exits are kept clear.’
‘Sure,’ I say in a sugary sort of way, jaw clenched.
(Another tip gleaned from years spent bowing to the whims of rude passengers: whatever verbal abuse flies your way, DO NOT rise to the bait. Respond in an overly polite manner, and it will annoy the hell out of your antagonist.)
‘“A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?”’ I mutter, giving my best JC impression from the top of the stepladder, as I fight with piles of slippery plastic bags that are refusing to stay on the stock room shelf. Huh! I’ve sold Rolex, Raymond Weil, Piaget, Mont Blanc to Arab kings, I’ll have her know.
‘Emily! A customer!’ comes Miss Cutler’s shrill voice from the top of the stairs, sounding for all the world like Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd.
God, five-thirty and seeing my girls can’t arrive quick enough.
‘Coming!’
* * *
As I chain my bike to the railing, I spy them through the dimpled glass, sitting in our favourite spot, by the open fireplace, and I smile inwardly.
My life may be starting to resemble a black comedy, but with a supporting cast like mine, I can just about deal with the fact that I’ve got Cruella De Vil for a boss, and that my acting dream is fast turning into a horror movie.
With abundant hugs and vats of wine, our gaggle of five have cried, advised, sympathised, and propped one another up through divorce, cancer, and single parenthood, so what’s a mere midlife career crisis and a broken heart in the grand scheme of things?
‘Darling!’ squeals Wendy, jumping up and wrapping me in an Eternity-fragranced hug. ‘We’ve missed you. How are you? You look … fantastic.’
‘I don’t,’ I snort, pulling at my fluorescent-yellow sash, suddenly conscious of my bare, rain-washed face and baggy, unflattering clothes.
‘Come and sit down,’ she says, patting a space on the banquette between her and Céline.
‘Chérie!’ says, Céline, kissing me four times, as is customary in her native Paris. She is French 1960s’ Vogue personified: translucent skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a natural, wide-mouthed smile (something we see little of nowadays).
‘Well, how’s it going?’ asks Wendy eagerly, extricating my arms from my dripping-wet anorak.
‘Fab,’ I say with forced gaiety. They both look at me searchingly. ‘Well, no, actually … awful.’
I feel someone tug my hastily tied, damp ponytail. I spin round, and there, brandishing a bottle of Sauvignon, is Rachel.
‘Hey, how’s our aspiring actress?’ she says, stooping down to kiss me, her silky, chestnut hair tickling my cheek. ‘Let’s take a look at you,’ she says, sloshing wine into my glass, as she studies me with her perfectly made-up eyes.
‘You look more relaxed than when we last met, not long after you and Ni …’
‘Ahem! To new beginnings!’ Wendy says quickly, raising her glass.
‘New beginnings!’ we chorus, happy to be together once more.
‘You’re missing all the fun, you know,’ says Wendy sarcastically. ‘The new first class service means the darlings can now eat whatever they want when they want; one minute you’re serving Chicken Chasseur to 5B, then 1E is asking you for boiled eggs and toast, whilst the group at the bar are crying out for crème de menthe frappé and canapés. Gaah!’
I pretend to wince, but the way I feel right now, I’d gladly serve a Jumbo-load of raucous, drunk, demanding passengers single-handedly every day until I’m sixty-five, if it meant having my old life back.
‘Now, who’s for some houmous and warm pitta bread?’ says Wendy, heading for the bar.
Turning to Céline, I ask dutifully, ‘How’s Mike?’
‘On a ten-day Sydney/Melbourne,’ she says, letting out a wistful sigh. ‘But he’s coming straight from the airport to stay at the flat for two days when he gets back,’ she adds quickly, face lighting up.
I shoot her a knowing glance over the rim of my glass.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she says in that to-die-for accent of hers.
‘Like what?’
‘That you-are-wasting-your-time look.’
I open my mouth to speak, but close it again and swirl my wine around my glass, eyes down.
‘He’s leaving after Christmas … next year,’ she says, voice falling away.
‘Why not this year, Céline? How many more Christmases must you wait?’
‘The twins have their final exams this year and it’s his wife’s parents’ Golden Wedding next June. So, I must be patient.’ She smiles weakly, fixing my gaze from under the eyebrow-brushing fringe of her sleek, ebony bob.
Mike is a classic case of how a uniform with four gold bands and a peaked cap can transform a balding, paunchy, unsexy, middle-aged man into a fairly attractive, dapper specimen – hardly Mr Darcy material, but a darn sight more pleasing on the eye than off-duty Mike, believe me, with his high-waisted trousers and Concorde novelty socks.
‘It’s just that I know how important a husband and children are to you, and I worry that by the time he leaves – if he leaves – it will be too late.’
‘C’est la vie.’ She shrugs. ‘Nothing in life is guaranteed … rien du tout. You were with a single man and …’ She bites her lip and turns away. She squeezes my hand, shakes her head, and says softly, ‘I am so sorry …’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder. ‘It’s probably for the best,’ I continue over-cheerily, fighting back the tears.
Faye comes over from the far end of the table, perches on the edge of the banquette, swivels round to face me, and says warmly, ‘Darling, it’s so good to see you.’ She brushes aside my wet fringe and plants a warm kiss on my forehead.
‘How’s Tariq?’ I enquire, anxious for news of my beloved godson.
‘He’s started school and loves it,’ she says, beaming, as she always does at the mention of his name.
I can hardly believe it’s only six years ago that we sat here, in this very spot, by the fireplace, toasting Faye’s new, glamorous life in Dubai …
‘You’ve only known him a few months, Faye,’ we’d said with a mixture of excitement and consternation. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘I know it’s a gamble. But it feels right.’ She’d smiled, stroking her little bump, the huge rock on her finger catching the light from the fire. ‘And now Junior’s on the way, I just know it’s fate. I’ve waited a long time for my dashing prince t
o come along, and I’m lucky he found me in the nick of time, before I’m faded and forty-five, and my biological clock comes to a grinding halt.’
‘Ooh, it’s like Lawrence of Arabia and Love Actually all rolled into one,’ I’d said, swooning back into the sofa.
The ‘fairy tale’ began one New Year’s Eve in the Gulf …
Determined not to spend yet another Hogmanay in pj’s and a comfy cardie, getting slowly sozzled, whilst watching repeats of Only Fools and Horses – either that, or at some dire party, being groped at midnight by a total stranger with rubber legs and beery breath – we requested the same trip, packed our sparkly frocks, and headed off to the sun.
So there we were, dressed to kill, huddled around the buffet table by the swimming pool, retching and spluttering into our napkins like a bunch of ladettes, having discovered the grey stuff we’d just devoured was in fact lambs’ brains, when out popped a tall, swarthy, linen-suited stranger from behind the swan ice sculpture.
‘Ladies, ladies, ladies! This is a great delicacy in my country,’ he’d said with mock indignation and a mischievous grin.
We didn’t move or speak for several seconds, so mesmerised were we by this smouldering vision of exotic gorgeousness – think Antonio Banderas.
‘Sahir,’ he’d said in a low voice, bowing slightly, then delicately kissing our hands in turn. His long-lashed, melted-chocolate eyes held your gaze, making you feel like you were the only woman at the party – correction – on the planet. ‘I am the owner of the hotel.’ Signalling the waiter, he then called authoritatively, ‘Champagne for the ladies!’
Up until that moment I had never believed in love at first sight, but as the strains of Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’ floated across the shimmering pool, you could almost hear Cupid’s arrow whistle past and hit its targets, as surely as if Oberon himself had squeezed some magic potion in their eyes.
Backlit by the orangey-red, evening sunlight, Faye positively dazzled. The sequins in her dress and the diamond combs in her golden hair glittered and sparkled, and Sahir fell hopelessly under her spell. He propelled her to the dance floor, and that was it: the start of a glamorous, heart-fluttering, pulse-quickening Mills-&-Boon-style love affair.