by Nina Kaye
‘Thanks, Liv.’ Tom’s face breaks into a grin. ‘That’s big of you. I am pretty chuffed.’
‘So you should be. It’s a great opportunity.’ I smile at him, then look around. ‘Where’s Anya gone?’
‘She had to nip off to meet some old uni friends,’ says Tom. ‘She said to tell you she’ll be back by nine.’
I scrutinise Tom for a second. He seems perfectly genuine, but in my current state of hypersensitivity, I detect just the slightest hint of discomfort in his voice. He’s lying to me. Anya’s run away, just like Stella.
‘Sure, no problem.’ I look him straight in the eye, smiling. ‘I’ll catch her later then.’
We’re joined by some colleagues from the Business Development department – a welcome distraction from the growing awkwardness – and the evening starts to liven up even more. Although, in many ways, it’s just another work night out, I can’t shake the developing feeling of being an outsider. Eventually I decide I’ve had enough and make my excuses.
‘Aww, Liv, why are you leaving so early?’ Tom gives me his big puppy dog eyes, but I know he’s secretly relieved.
Anya hasn’t yet reappeared; I’d put money on it that she won’t until I’m gone. And who am I to stand in the path of true love? Anyway, she can’t avoid me forever. I’ll speak to her soon enough.
‘Yeah, sorry.’ I pretend I’m all disappointed. ‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow, so I really must go and do some prep.’
‘That’s great news!’ Tom seems genuinely excited for me. ‘Why didn’t you say before? Whereabouts?’
‘I’ll tell you when I get offered the job.’ I give him a little wink.
‘You sly dawg.’ Tom teases me. ‘Well, keep in touch. Good luck!’
I give him a hug, and diligently make my way round the rest of the group, noting that Stella disappears to the bar the moment she clocks that I’m saying my goodbyes.
As I walk towards Fountainbridge to catch a bus, a cloud of uncertainly hangs over me like an unwanted cloak in the developing dusk. A night of awkward beginnings, middles and ends. Keep in touch? Really? From six different people who I consider to be good friends. That’s something you say to a relative you meet once a year at a family event; someone from your past who you meet in the street and have no intention of ever contacting. It’s what you say to a colleague whom you know, despite your best intentions, you’ll probably never see again.
I’m a colleague. Is that all I am to them? Surely not. We’re all friends. Great friends. It’ll all settle down and we’ll be back to normal – I’ll just have different shop talk to share.
‘You’ll no’ fit in, so don’t bother yer backside tryin’.’
Please… shut… up.
By the time I arrive home outside my Bonnington apartment, I’m starting to shiver from the chill air that’s moved in from the Forth estuary. I let myself in and kick off my high heels, grab a glass of water and my iPad, and collapse on the sofa. For a while I just lie there, going over the evening’s events in my head. It really didn’t turn out how I’d hoped at all: being treated like an absent friend; Stella behaving like a paranoid lunatic; bumping into Sharon, whom I hadn’t expected to even be there; Tom’s news bombshell; and then Anya doing a runner.
The latter, in particular, has riled me. Anya’s my closest friend at work; she’s probably my closest friend full stop. Why the hell has she not had my back more over this? If it had been the other way around, I would have made damn sure she didn’t walk into the same situation without being pre-warned. But she’s only got one thing on her mind right now: Tom. That’s what men do; they mess with your head, even when things are good – which is precisely why I give them a wide berth these days.
I decide, as Anya’s allowed her brain to turn to mush, I need to make the first move and give her an in. She probably didn’t mean to not tell me. I retrieve my phone from my Dior handbag and tap out a text to her.
Hi Anya. Was disappointed I didn’t see much of you tonight. Don’t worry about not telling me about the work updates. I know you’re totally loved up and thinking of nothing else. Not that I understand it. :) When you good for a catch-up? X
I hit send, then unlock my iPad, navigate to the login page for the email account I’ve set up specifically for my job search, and type in my details.
Surely there must be something there by now. I applied for the first lot of jobs a week ago: both online and through recruitment agencies, and not a word from any of them yet. Why is it taking so long to get even an acknowledgement?
As my inbox loads, I see that I have three new emails. Result! I feel a wave of relief. I don’t like stringing my friends along, letting them think that I’ve made more progress than I actually have. That said, they haven’t been particularly forthcoming themselves. I click into the first response from a recruitment agency I submitted an application through.
Dear Ms Hamilton,
Thank you for taking the time to apply for the role of Senior Manager, Internal Communications. Unfortunately, after careful consideration, our client has decided not to take your application any further, as there are other candidates with more suitable skills and experience.
Best of luck with your ongoing job search.
Sorcha Nazim
Lead Recruitment Consultant
A rejection? What the hell? I expected at least an interview for that role. It might be a step up from what I’ve been doing at McArthur Cohen – more aligned to the level I was expecting to be promoted to. But still, it was clear from the advert it’s for a much smaller company, and I definitely met almost all of the criteria for the role. Flustered, I click onto the next email.
As I read through it, my jaw almost hits the floor. Another rejection? This is so not what I expected. I massage my forehead in a bid to get my head around these revelations. What’s going on? The last time I was job-hunting, I was snapped up so quickly. And the time before. Always for roles above my current post. Have things changed? Or is it because of the level I’m applying for?
I suddenly remember what Dylan said about his friend; about the job market and the sheer numbers of applicants companies are getting now. Could he actually have been right? I take a deep faltering breath and let out a cry of frustration: does this mean I’m going to have to apply for jobs at the level I’m currently at? I worked so hard; coming so close. Now I may have to take a sideways move that will set me back months, even a year or two, all because my face didn’t fit. It will be so embarrassing having people find out that I’ve floundered – probably just as some of them expected.
‘When you gonna accept that this just isn’t you?’
‘Shut. Up. Dylan,’ I hiss out loud, as my cursor hovers over the third email.
I almost can’t bear to open it, unsure that I’m in the frame of mind to deal with a hat-trick of rejections after my crappy night out. But I know I’m kidding myself. I click to open it and close my eyes for a second. When I open them, my eyes dance over the page, taking in just the key words.
Thank you, man upstairs! It’s an invite to an interview. That’s more like it. And this one’s a direct application: not through an agency, which is even better. It’s a company within a different industry to mine, but that could be a good thing: to add diversity to my CV.
I quickly log into the company’s recruitment portal via the link in the email and select my interview slot. There – first one scheduled. Maybe I won’t need to apply for jobs at my current level after all. It was probably just a slow start. Rejections will always come first – and there were always going to be some. From here on in, the only way is up.
Chapter 4
3 months later
‘Thank you, Liv. That’s all the questions we had for you. From your CV and what you’ve indicated today, you appear to have considerable experience. Obviously that level of expertise would be greatly welcomed here. However, do you think you would find it rewarding enough?’
Here we go again.
‘Absolutel
y.’ I plaster on a convincingly enthusiastic smile. ‘I love this kind of work. There’s nothing more rewarding than getting people on board and seeing an organisation really start to blossom.’
‘That’s great.’ Jan, the lead interviewer, gives an impressed nod. ‘Any questions before we finish up?’
‘When will you be making a decision?’
‘You’re our last interview,’ says Jan. ‘So, we hope to be back in touch by the end of the day. We need to move fast on this one.’
‘OK, thank you.’ I sit back so they know I’m finished.
A few hours later, while wandering aimlessly along Rose Street, unsure of what to do with myself, my phone starts to ring. I grab it from my handbag and dive into an alleyway to get some quiet.
‘Hello, Liv speaking.’
‘Liv, hello again. This is Jan from LPC Telecommunications. I’m calling, as you know, to follow up on your earlier interview.’
‘Of course.’ I ensure my tone is enthusiastic.
‘It’s been a tough process, Liv. There were some really strong candidates – yourself included…’
‘Thank you.’ I wait for Jan to continue.
‘After poring over this for the last couple of hours, John and I have come to a decision, and I’m afraid it’s not good news. It was down to you and one other candidate, and we just felt that the other person would be a better fit. We also wondered if the role would have been enough for you, given the experience you have.’
I rub my face, exhausted, disappointed, downhearted, but not surprised.
‘No problem at all,’ I hear myself say automatically. ‘I understand. Thanks anyway, for the opportunity.’
‘Sorry it wasn’t better news.’ Jan does sound genuinely apologetic. ‘We were very impressed by you. Bye, Liv.’
I say goodbye and end the call, then crouch down in the alleyway, my head in my hands, feeling sick with despair.
That’s it. That was the last glimmer of hope on the immediate horizon. There’s been nothing else suitable for a few weeks now. The job market has completely dried up. And even if it hadn’t, I almost can’t bear to keep going through this. Fifteen interviews and not a single offer.
I sit for several minutes on the cold pavement, unable to muster the motivation to move. It’s only when I attract a sympathetic glance from a passer-by that I eventually haul myself to my feet and drag myself out of the alleyway.
I trudge dejectedly along Rose Street and onto Princes Street, passing one brightly lit shopfront after another: windows bursting with colour and style, all trying to lure me inside; but I’m immune to them. It’s unseasonably cool for the beginning of September. The sky is heavy; dark clouds roll threateningly across the horizon, making Princes Street Gardens and the castle seem uncharacteristically uninviting, almost ominous. A chill wind picks up, causing me to shiver slightly, and within a few minutes, cold wet droplets begin to splatter me in the face.
Realising I don’t have an umbrella, I decide I need to find cover fast. I look around and spot a Costa just across the road on Hanover Street. Suddenly the rain is pouring down heavily, huge droplets bouncing off the pavements like tiny missiles, soaking me through in seconds. I rush across the road towards the doorway, earning myself a blast of the horn from a black cab driver as I do.
Once inside, I order a medium cappuccino, and slump into a seat at the back of the café, close to the toilets. It’s very quiet, but I can see that a few other soaked shoppers are following my lead.
I sit for quite a while, teaspoon in hand, playing miserably with the froth on my drink; uncomfortable in my wet clothes, listening to the now lashing rain and wind battering the windows. The weather matches my mood.
How have I got to this point? Just three and a bit months ago, I was unstoppable. My career was unstoppable. I was exactly where I wanted to be: my five-year plan on track. Now… now I’m unemployed with an ever-growing gap in my CV, which is making it more and more difficult to get a job. I can’t even seem to make a sideways move, let alone secure the step up I was after. I wasn’t prepared for this.
In my bag, my phone sounds the arrival of a new text message. Guessing who it’s from, I don’t even bother to look. I can’t face telling Dylan I’ve missed out on yet another job. He’s been on my back constantly to take some other kind of work and this won’t make it any better. It beeps again almost straight away.
‘Get lost, Dylan,’ I mutter.
As I continue to play with – rather than actually drink – my cappuccino, I don’t even notice that the café has filled up, until someone approaches me.
‘Liv? Is that you?’
I look up, and at first, I don’t recognise the person standing in front of me.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’
‘Err… yes…’
Confused and slightly on my guard, I take in the man towering over me. He’s probably just shy of his mid-thirties, very tall and slender, with a cleanly shaven face and thick, dark-framed glasses framing his forest green eyes. His short, dark brown hair has a hint of salt and pepper, and he’s wearing a black suit with a shiny tie, slightly awkward in his demeanour. Suddenly, it clicks.
‘Aaron?’
‘Correct.’ He gives me an awkward grin. ‘It’s been a while. Ten, maybe twelve, years?’
‘Something like that,’ I mumble.
Great. Of all the days to bump into my ex-boss from my university days. From a different time, when I was waiting tables, supervising the breakfast and dinner shifts in the restaurant of the Old Town Hotel. Ordinarily I’d be thrilled to bump into him, and to be able to share how I’ve progressed since then – in some part thanks to him. He played an important role in my life at that time. But not today. Today I can’t face speaking to anyone.
‘What are you up to these days?’ Aaron asks.
There it is. The question that, for the last three months, I have dreaded every time I meet someone new, or someone I haven’t seen for a while. What do you do? What are you up to these days? Translation: where have you got to in life; are you successful; and sometimes, are you as successful as me?
‘Not much, really.’ I try for evasive, remembering he’s a bit awkward socially, so that should be enough to put him off.
Aaron isn’t remotely fazed. ‘You were always on about wanting to work in PR and communications before,’ he says. ‘How did that work out?’
‘You have a good memory.’ I try again to evade the question.
‘I remember everything.’ Although he’s obviously joking, Aaron’s words hang in the air, almost ominously.
‘Err… right. Well, it’s worked out fine. I’ve been working in that area for nearly ten years now. Got a graduate role straight out of uni and went on from there.’
I hope that putting the focus on the past will deter any chat about the present, and help to wind up the conversation.
‘Well done you.’ Aaron plonks himself down on the chair opposite, as if answering with more than one sentence is an invitation to join me.
Company is definitely the last thing I want right now; I’m unsure what to do. Since he has failed to pick up on my reluctance to engage with him, I consider just being honest and asking him to leave me alone. But I can’t do that. It’s Aaron. The man who saved me from falling down the slippery slope back to Ridgemore estate all those years ago.
The now pounding thunder and lightning outside, torrential rain battering the shopfronts, and bins and other debris being blown down the street all make escape a non-option. We sit and look at each other mutely for a few moments. Then I have an idea.
‘Do you have the time?’ I ask Aaron.
He looks at his watch.
‘It’s five-forty.’
‘Already? He’s late! Again.’
‘Who’s late?’
‘Dylan. He’s always turning up way past the time we agree to meet.’
I look expectantly at Aaron, thinking he’ll make his excuses and go. For all he knows Dylan is my built-like-a-bri
ck-shithouse boyfriend who doesn’t at all appreciate other people speaking to his woman.
‘Is that the same Dylan you just told to get lost?’
‘Um… maybe.’ I feel my cheeks flush, realising he heard me.
‘If he’s late,’ says Aaron, ‘then I’ll keep you company till he arrives. I don’t need to be in work for a bit and there’s no point in going anywhere in that weather.’
I look at Aaron in desperation. Is he kidding me? Now I’m going to be stuck here for hell knows how long, making crap chat and waiting for a friend who’s never going to arrive. Come on, Liv, you know how to get out of a situation like this. You managed this stuff all the time at work.
But you’re not that hotshot professional anymore, are you? You’re unemployed and unemployable.
The familiar voice goads me with new rhetoric. I shake my head, in a bid to banish it from my mind.
‘So, you were saying,’ Aaron prompts me, ‘PR and communications. Where do you work now?’
‘I… err… I’m in between jobs.’
There. That should put him off.
‘You mean, you’re unemployed?’ Aaron cocks his head to the side, as if to examine this odd species he’s stumbled across.
‘Yes.’ My voice is flat; I look at the floor. ‘I guess that’s what I mean.’
‘Liv. How? You were one of the best employees I ever had. So sharp. Such a good worker.’
‘Don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it.’ I’m beside myself with humiliation, unable to even look Aaron in the eye.
‘That’s not an option.’ Aaron starts to get up, and for a moment, I optimistically think he might leave. ‘I’ll get us some refills and then you can tell me what’s been going on. Let’s see if I can help.’
‘But I don’t want—’
‘Liv. Don’t argue.’ Aaron silences me. ‘You were a good worker, but you were always so prickly.’
‘Dylan’s going to be here any—’
Aaron looks at me appraisingly. ‘Liv. I know you’re not meeting anyone. Do you think I’m that gullible?’