...The Job
To her surprise the office was easy to find. In between a dentist's and an op-shop there was the car park with a gate, and on the gate the sign -
LAWYERS 6/5001
PARKING AT REAR
NO TRESPASSERS
- plus an arrow, to make sure Bridget knew which way was rear.
She yawned and thought, I ought to be more nervous. Already the too-small shoes were acutely painful. She minced towards the gate, expecting problems, but it was neither locked nor latched. The car park was tiny but well-defended by complicated warnings about times and zones and clamps. Bridget tripped through it slowly, on the balls of her feet. 6/5001 was no trickier than the gate. A squat "sexy" car was sexily parked bang in front of it.
She peered through an unpromising glass sliding door and saw, not the expected reception desk, but a small room painted pale green. It looked entirely empty. There was, she soon saw, an external bell or buzzer, and what looked like an intercom speaker, so she pressed. The button or buzzer or whatever it was felt wrong - it was too soft, almost viscous. Had someone just sneezed on it? At any rate it certainly didn't work, but all the same Bridget waited a decent interval before trying the door. It wasn't locked. Bridget slid it open as smoothly as she could . A clattery entrance might immediately elicit the potential employer, and she wasn't ready.
Inside all was quiet and bright, as brilliantly bright as a supermarket, under a humming fluorescent tube. The carpet matched the walls, which, as Bridget could now smell, had been very recently painted. The sole item of furniture was a tiny faux-Regency chair in a far corner. On closer inspection its creamy upholstery looked grubby, and its curly little legs were also rather the worse for wear. Perhaps it was a real antique. No windows or doors, except the one behind her ... whatever this room was, it wasn't the right place. Couldn't be.
A glance at her watch confirmed that it was now five minutes past the appointed time, so she ought to ring them, if she still wanted the job. Or maybe she would just go home: it was unlikely, after all, that she could recover from being late and being in the wrong place.
But surely nearest portion of wall was moving?
Towards her. Bridget bolted back in horror.
"Hi!" she heard, and realised that of course it had just been a door opening. Stricken with adrenaline, Bridget tremblingly turned and saw she a tiny doll of a girl who might have been fifteen or twenty-five. Her bare brown arms and legs looked magazine-glossy against her short, sleeveless white dress. She had the face of a very pretty, solemn baby - plump dusky cheeks and big round eyes. Her black hair was gathered low under one ear, in a heavy chignon. The effect was vaguely Spanish.
"Sorry," the girl said, "We have had break-ins so ..."
"You've got a camouflage-door?" Bridget tried to sound jokey.
"That's right!" the girl smiled. She leaned against the frame, arms folded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as if stretching her legs. This made Bridget notice her tortuously high-heeled ankle boots. In spite of them she still looked only about five feet tall.
"I'm here to see Mr Llewellyn, about the PA job."
"Did you let just yourself in, then?" the girl asked seriously. She had a slight European accent.
(Yes, I let in just myself, just me, were there others?)
But Bridget said, correctly, " Yes, I just let myself in. Hope that was alright ...I did try the bell but ..."
"Oh, no worries!" the girl said, suddenly all smiles. "That's fine. The main thing is that you came ...". She seemed to check herself. "I mean that you got here. I'm Bec, by the way," she said, adding with a small smile, "Coffee?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine," Bridget replied.
"Please take a seat. Mr Llewellyn will be with you very soon," she promised, and vanished behind her magic door.
Obediently Bridget inserted herself into the tight little chair.
Many minutes followed, enough for Brigid to straighten her tights, smooth her hair, and regret wearing so much makeup - in this warmth, it would shine and run. She felt for the powder compact in her bag but dropped it at the sound of a male voice yelling "BECS!"
But nothing more. Time went on. She heard murmurs, between Bec and a man, the man, the one who mattered, the boss. The room bright room was tiring. There was a floater in her left eye, precursor of a migraine. The man kept talking. Bec was moving something. Bridget,closed her eyes and listened. There was only Bec and the man. She was alone.
The door opened. It was still only Bec.
"Daniel's very sorry, he will be with you in a minute," she,announced, becore,yawned hugely. "Are you sure you don't want coffee."
"Becs!" the male voice exclaimed again, but now he was here, in the dusk of the unseen room behind Bec. With a joker's smile, he clapped his big hands down hard on her tiny shoulders
"I'm here now. Well done. Good job. Good girl. Get going. Go."
Presumably he meant this for Bec, although it didn't necessarily sound that way. The pre-migraine aura was already blinding, though: both figures in the door became haloed and vague. Bridget heard the man clear his throat and then, surreally, he quoted, "Do not stay upon the order of your going, but go at once!"
He extended a hand to her, as she sat feeling queasy in her absurd seat.
"Welcome, Daniel Llewelyn, hi." Deftly Daniel Llewelyn helped her up, even bowing slightly. His face was creased in an intelligent sort of way, musing and smiling and very pale. It was the sort of radiant pallor Bridget connected with money.
"Behind the GREEN door ..." he announced humorously, pushing her through it, " ...is the Bec Zone."
The Bec Zone was dark, and smelt even more biliously of paint, with undertones of burnt cheese.
"Please go ahead," he instructed.
But this was difficult, because of the paper swamping the floor, in peaks and troughs and nasty looking thickets.
"Lights!" he intoned, clapping his hands together. A halcyon lamp twitched itself on automatically, not making much difference.
"Pure chaos," he said meditatively. "So doesn't matter where you tread. Just through here, please." Bridget wobbled after him, watching her feet. There was then another room, and an ergonomic chair was kicked in the direction of her bottom. all ready to be sat upon.
The interview was beginning in earnest, apparently.
"Well," Daniel Llewellyn sighed. He had eased himself into his own chair behind a complicated but flimsy desk, which was flush against an equally flimsy wall or rather partition - IKEA, Bridget guessed. This partition seemed a less than optimal spot for blu-tacking one's LLB, but even myopic Bridget could see "Daniel Llewellyn" in big Gothic font. Where had he studied? Not where she had: her bits of paper - her first class BA Hons, her futile PhD - came from the "premier" place. His didn't.
(So bully for you, the PhD'd pauper!)
The worst thing - in a way the only thing about Daniel Llewellyn's office was the wall behind Daniel Llewellyn, which was almost entirely mirror.
Bridget saw herself: skinny as a witch in her black jacket from Kmart, overly made-up, too old. Creased and funereal, old and cheap. That was how she really looked. It was true.
"First, it's very important that you get a good look at me, right?" Daniel Llewellyn threw his head back slightly and snarled. "Just relax and breathe," he crooned, exhaling heavily. His teeth were perfect. His breath was foul. But Bridget forced a smile and looked...
She suspected he was at least her age, although of course he looked younger and better. He'd spent quite a bit on himself. Experts had been involved. The suit was dark and subtle, the shirt was creamy, the wine-colored tie was just right. The whiffs of aftershave and hair gel, and the hair itself. The pallor. The sleepy boarding school eyes. Copper and grease, she thought.
In the meantime he was talking.
"I see from your CV that your office experience isn't huge...?"
Brigid gave the cliched but appropriate answer: not much experience, but very eager to learn.
"Mm. Why should I want someone who's merely 'eager to learn' when I could, I could hire a first class office manager, a virtuoso, with many many years of experience?" His eyes shone. "You tell me."
Later Brigid would realise that Daniel Llewellyn's confidence that virtuosos -in office management, in anything - would be keen to work in his cardboardish, pale-green, migraine-making place of business was probably misplaced. But all she said for now was quite correct.
"I believe I may have certain skills and, um, abilities, which has could compensate, hopefully,for the relatively small experience."
"You mean perhaps you have skills that my experienced office manager would not have?
"I suppose so. Possibly." Bridget realized she sounded almost rudely half-hearted. Grimly, she smiled and eyed Daniel, before continuing:
"This is a legal firm, so I suppose, I assume, that a decent command of English would be valued here. And as you would be able to ...discern ...from my CV, it's fair to say I am very strong in that area."
"More than usual," he said musingly.
"I think so."
"An excellent communicator?"
"Yes," she said, remembering that this was the correct by-word. "I'm a very good communicator in any situation. My previous positions all called for first-rate communication skills. I have always performed effectively as a communicator."
"Mm. Yes." He sighed. "I suppose you mean that you've got this, this, doctorate, in ...?"
"Literature, from ---" (Bridget named the premier local university).
"And you've also lectured there?"
"Lecturing, among other things," Bridget said cautiously. She hadn't used the word "lecturer" on her CV. No-one, especially prospective employers, wanted to know about her ever having been a lecturer. But it was there to be inferred from her CV by sufficiently attentive readers.
"But what use," he smiled, "is a literature lecturer to me?"
"I do realise this is a very different sort of role," she admitted, realizing, with a sense of failing, that this sounded as if there was more to say on the subject of her own usefulness to this person. She tried to think.
"BEC," he screamed suddenly.
They waited in silence as Bec came tripping down the passage.
"Becky," he said when she opened the door, "would you please return to your room and grab Ms Matheson's CV ...oops, pardon me. Doctor Matheson, isn't it?"
"No, Ms is fine," Bridget said, sure she had no chance at all now and already looking forward to getting away. "I don't use the title, not many do."
"What is the point then? Bec, will you please get Ms Matheson's CV."
"No worries," said Bec.
"And Bec," he continued, "a coffee for me please. And for you Bridget?"
"Thanks, but I am fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I mean -no, actually, a coffee would be lovely."
"No worries, " Bec said with warmth.
"Bec?" Daniel prompted, twinkingly.
"Oh, sorry! How do you take it?"
"Black and no sugar, thank you," Bridget replied promptly and untruthfully.
"And the CV too,Bec. Also ... you have a ..." He tapped his nose significantly.
"Oh!" She
"Have a tissue," he proffered, " and hey, Bec, what's something special, do you think, about working here? Just a little example, a little insider knowledge."
Caught between the proffered tissue and the huge mirror, Bec seemed stuck.
"I mean what's something new you've learned here?"
"About ...?"
"That you didn't know about before?"
Bec began walking slowly backwards towards the door, put her right hand somewhere near her left breast, and bowed to Daniel. It was done thoroughly, from the waist down, like a doomed courtier in a mini-series about Tudor tyrants.
Even Daniel paused.
"When court's in session, sometimes Daniel might need you to get something from the car or ..."
"Like it. Good example. Never turn your back on His Honour. No-one's allowed to do that, not even me ... want to run it through for Bridget again?"
Bec ran it through again.
"Good girl. Off you go."
Off she went.
"Bec." Daniel Llewellyn stated. "Bec is an interesting case in point. When she started here she knew nothing. Literally. Almost literally, anyway. She knew how to spend her money - I mean she knew what to do in a shop, presumably - girls usually do. But she did not know what a black coffee was. I taught her how to use a stapler."
The correct face for this was hard to strike. Bridget was also sure Bec could hear him, in which case hopefully Bec would also know that Bridget was not complicit.
"She knew about shopping. She did not know how to use a stapler. She did not know what a black coffee was. She had never seen the Godfather, or Star Wars, or any movies at all. She may have heard of Tom Cruise. But definitely not Risky Business. She had not heard of Communism, or the Holocaust. Possibly ...Hitler? Marilyn Monroe? Far from certain. Christ!"
Bridget was half-preparing something placatory, but there was no need - he was still going, "I mean Christ, as in Jesus Christ ... she'd have heard of him. Heard the name at least, she's Italian and I hired her straight out of, uh, Catholic school. Some Catholic school. Not a big deal Catholic school. But definitely Saint Something of the ..Blessed Sacred Blood. Can't remember its name now ... also, as a side note, at first Bec was perhaps not always appropriately dressed."
Not that," (wink) "I am in the habit of making comments about my female employees' ensembles. But I notice."
He sighed.
"I have to notice. Especially when, like ..." He frowned and sighed again. "Actually I won't go there right now, its important, but the main thing is Bec's grown. She's still growing. She's not first class, not quite yet, but getting bloody close, and she's going to keep kicking goals. I trained her. I'm not like, uh, the lazy boss who lets shit slide because he's wants things quiet and he wants it all nice. No way. I don't do mixed messages. I don't do good manners - excellence and efficiency are not your best mates up the road. You leave your ego at the door. I lead by ..."
He probably said "example", but Bridget missed it, because Bec re-appeared with Daniel's coffee, and, Bridget supposed, her problematic CV, which was sheathed in pale pink vinyl.
"...starting on the front foot," Daniel said conclusively, picking up his mug (after so much publicity, Bridget's coffee seemed to have been cancelled after all), "but we've also had a hell of a lot of fun here, right Bec?"
Bec merely giggled.
"But there's also been misunderstandings and mistakes along the way for Bec, and me too. Yes, I'm not perfect either. " He scratched the back of his head, feckless, bemused, wondering. He opened a draw and closed it again. "You will find that out about me, Bridget. I am not perfect."
"I suppose nobody is, really," Bridget heard herself saying, and thinking, Shit, am I actually being offered the job? Shit.
"Stop there!" Daniel said vibrantly. "There are people who are perfect. Why should anyone not aim for perfection." This was a statement, not a question. "You ought to want to be the best you can be. Correct?"
"Oh yes. Of course," she heard herself replying.
"Seriously, it's important ... going forward, towards perfection! Go Forward. I went to G----- Grammar. The Eton of the Antipodes. That was our motto, Go Forward ... and this -" he flung Bridget's CV across the desk - "you may have back."
"Okay, of course, and thank you for your time," Bridget said. For this relief much fucking thanks, Horatio! She would have a beer now. Thank God.
"Ah, one moment, though! You're going to walk out that door feeling like you've failed. I don't want you to feel that way. That's why ... I'm going to suggest a little trial. Right now. This afternoon."
Bridget's relief was converted to vertiginous panic.
"A little "trial", he repeated. It occurred to Bridget that he was making a lawyerly pun. She hated puns.
"Um, well ..." she began, mentally trawling for fast but plausible excuses.
"At the very least it would be work experience in the field, which you could use. Correct?"
Was there a polite way of asking whether or not he would pay her?
"It will help me make a decision about you sooner," he added.
Bridget thought about the overdue rent, the stale frozen bread in her freezer, the fact that this weekend was her overnight with Asha, and that Ash would be thrilled, amazed and impressed if suddenly Mummy could take her somewhere.
"Yes, thanks! I'd love to have a go," she said, stuffing eagerness into her tone.
"Good for you," he said, smiling ironically. Her reticence had been unmistakable. He disapproved, of course he did.
"BECS!"
Bec returned.
"Becs, perhaps you could start by showing Bridget how to use a fax machine."
"Actually, I can use a fax machine," Bridget said tremulously.
"In this office, we have our own unique way of getting things done," he said sternly, "and no detail is too small. Let's get you started on the front foot."
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Chapter 2
At eight o'clock that evening, Bridget let herself into her flat. As usual, Bridget's obese tabby cat, whose name was Sonya, started bleating despairingly as soon as the door opened, frantically crashing her big brindled person against Bridget''s legs.
"Fuck off," Bridget murmured, and tried to nudge Sonya out of the way with her foot, but Sonya, being Sonya, grimly kept it up, until inevitably Bridget trod on one of her paws. Sonya screamed dismally, Bridget shouted, Sonya tried to run, Bridget swerved to get out of the way and ended up slipping on the lino and crashing to the ground.
"FUCK!" she howled.
From a distance Sonya eyed her.
"Just wait," Bridget murmured. She sat herself up on the ground and thought: first take off the shoes.
For in the confusion following her afternoon of trial employment, Bridget had got off her bus one stop too late, and during the two mile walk home that ensued, the blisters from the too-small shoes had burst.
She now took them off, and regarded her stockinged feet. They were encrusted with blood and plasma. The new stockings were ruined. But fuck it. At least the shoes were off.
Ignoring Sonya, Bridget emptied her hand bag on the floor - the quickest way of locating her horrible cheap little phone. She kept losing them. This was her third cheap phone in about six weeks. But it was still there - thank Christ.
Under "contacts" there was one number - her daughter's new mobile phone number. It was nearly 7.30, and a Friday night. Bedtime for Asha at Greg's place was very early indeed, even for an eight year old, but weekends must be different. Might be different.
Now slumped on the couch in her creased sombre clothes, Bridget lit a cigarette and listened to the phone ring and ring and ring, until the Vodafone gal came on with her vibrant, hyper-Australian-accented voice, spouting her usual useless shit ...
Sorry! The person you are calling is not available. But it's all good! To notify them of your call ...
... Bridget hung up, not interested in having her number "sent as an SMS". Such things never worked. Or not with eight year olds. Oh fuck it, she'd ring Greg himself, on the landline ... maybe he'd put Ash on.
It seemed to ring for a very long time indeed (or was she just tired?)
Hi," he said confidently. In a rush she began, "Greg, please don't hang up..." before realizing that this wasn't Greg per se, but a brand new (and misleadingly friendly) recording of Greg's voice.
Nothing, nothing ever came of leaving messages for Greg. So she hung up again.
But then again, Greg would still know she had tried. Would Ash, though?
Through a haze of nebulous pain, psychic and physical (headache, bruised arse, shitty, lonely, angry) she deftly composed a very affectionate message for Asha, then a pretty desperate one for Greg, and sent both messages to Greg's mobile.
There was almost zero chance of Ash being allowed to see, let alone respond, But at least no stone had been left unturned....
And now I want a drink.
She poured herself a tumbler full of "Mellow Red", dumped dry cat biscuits into Sonya's capacious bowl and positioned Sonya in front of it. After several seconds of silent, incredulous disgust, Sonya did begin to eat, albeit reproachfully and without much enthusiasm.
Bridget lay down on the sofa with her tumbler, staring at her terrible feet.
The job. It was insufferable. If she were asked back, she would not go.
The faxing had been all she was suffered to attempt over the course of nearly six hours of labouring for Llewellyn gratis. Daniel Llewelyn himself was not "too proud" as he put it, to take her through his unique faxing system, which turned out to not be unique in the least.
For instance, Bridget knew that "a fax cover sheet must always, absolutely always be used."
She knew when and where to use block capitals on such cover sheets.
She also knew that when writing in the lower case, she should desist from dotting her "i"s with love hearts or smiley faces.
But she got the benefit of Daniel's wisdom all the same, on these and other bleeding-obvious questions, such as which buttons on the fax machine said "start", "send" and "end", where to put the paper in, and how to take the lid of off a pen.
It was just as well these things were obvious, since Bridget missed most of Daniel's not-too-proud fax lessons because she was forced to stand behind him for all of it, and couldn't see what he was doing to fax machine, or why.
For a medium sized man, he seemed to take up more space than he ought to.
The shit could've hit the fan, theoretically, when Bridget ran out of fax cover sheets. It turned out there had only been six fax cover sheets left in the office. Bridget ought to have photocopied. Perhaps she would've, had she known, but she didn't, since the fax cover sheets were dispensed by Bec, from Bec's desk, and were still very much Bec's thing, not Bridget's.
But Daniel took it well.
"This," he said kindly, "is a situation where being switched on is clearly crucial. These days Bec always knows when photocopying needs to happen ..."
He added with a fooler's smile that PhDds were not what they used to be ...
No, she would not do it.
Anyway, it was unlikely she would be asked back. Daniel ought to be shot, and Bec ...pretty, sullen Bec, with her glossy hair and her classy dress and her overly sexy boots ...she was suspect too...
Of course Bec was leaving, that was the whole fucking premise, but Daniel had reassured Bridget that Bec would not leave the new person (be it her, be it someone else) floundering all alone in a new "workplace environment". Novelties and trials, laughter and tears, were surely in store for Bec's replacement, but Bec herself would mitigate these by "transitioning" her successor, before making her conclusive, triumphant exodus ...probably in a mist of her own laughter and tears ... but gladder and wiser about jazz, coffee, Jesus, staplers ....
Bridget got drunk so fast these days...
Chapter 3
(First day/first draft)
The bold inner declaration of her own rights (I will not go!) was not convincing, she realized, as she carefully, ominously undertook a much more detailed toilet than usual (washed hair, shaved armpits, plucked eyebrows). It was not just the poverty problem that would make her say yes, as large as this problem was. She was, she knew, fully capable of saying yes to a job with Daniel Llewellyn for the same reason she had said yes to a day of unpaid fax-handling: a phobia of resisting ideas others might want to pursue on her behalf.
When she had still been going to AA meetings, Bridget had often heard the term "people-pleaser". Her own people-pleasing was complicated because the people she was so keen to please were not so much those who might need her, but rather those who believed she needed them. Denying another person's right to please her, was probably (she suspected) the most difficult act of assertiveness possible.
Bridget took out her yellow exercise book and wrote "Asha", followed by the requisite twelve kisses, and then kissed the page herself. She turned off her lamp, and, with her rosary beads, got into bed, thinking she might say at least a decade.
In bed there were crumbs from last night's toasted sandwich. The moon was too bright through the thin curtains, and the hot November wind was tearing around the corners of the building. Nothing could be done about any of it. On the third Hail Mary, the cheap phone announced, with a laconic blip, the arrival of a text message. With a bolt of horror, she raised herself on one elbow to confront the little monster. An unfamiliar number: she opened it and read "congrats you got the job 2mrw 9 am SHARP please." Of course.
Bridget got out of bed and staggered to the lounge room so she could have a cigarette to appease her crashing heart.
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She was fully one half hour early, having risen at five am after a broken sweaty sleep. On the train she stupidly realized she had no key to let herself into the office, but when she arrived at the glass sliding door it was once again open. Bec was earlier, even, than her.
Today Bec was wearing a smart black and white dress, and her hair, which had yesterday been slick and understated, was now loose to her waist and perfectly waved.
After they had greeted each other, Bridget asked Bec if she wanted a coffee. She was determined to have one herself at any price.
"Oh, no. I never drink it," Bec averred firmly.
Yesterday caffeine had been smilingly proffered: today Bridget felt almost illegal as she put on the kettle and pushed aside Lotsa-Noodles and muesli bars to find a dusty mug.
"Well, Bridget began awkwardly, coffee in hand, "is there anything in particular I can do?"
Bee was very self-sufficient and conscientious, her desk dimly discernible among the dusty the wastes of paper.
"Um, not really ..." she muttered, her eyes riveted to her screen.
"Perhaps some filing?" Bridget suggested.
"I guess so."
Bridget carefully put down her coffee and knelt down on the floor, tentatively picking up documents in no particular order, to prove she was industrious.
"There is the Flease file," Bec said at length. "In the other room. In Daniel's room." She made a typo and clicked her tongue irritably.
Daniel's room, vacated of Daniel, was exactly as it had been yesterday, except for a vigilant atmosphere. There were no files of any sort, nor even a piece of paper, and Bridget was beginning to feel positively angry with unhelpful Bec, when she sighted a pale blue plastic corner protruding from the floor beneath the desk. She dragged it out. Stuck on the cover was a post-it note, on which was written
RECONSTRUCT FOLDERS 1 thru to 5 (!)
She looked under the desk and saw another pale blue folder, and another, and another, until there were five pale blue plastic folders on the carpet in front of her. Things were going rather well, then.
She returned to the first folder and opened it. bit of foolscap, someone had scrawled in bullet points:
APPLICANT
FIRST RESPONDENT
SECOND RESPONDENT
CORRESPONDENCE
DEPT CHILD WELFARE DOCS
BILLING
MISC
To her surprise the office was easy to find. In between a dentist's and an op-shop there was the car park with a gate, and on the gate the sign -
LAWYERS 6/5001
PARKING AT REAR
NO TRESPASSERS
- plus an arrow, to make sure Bridget knew which way was rear.
She yawned and thought, I ought to be more nervous. Already the too-small shoes were acutely painful. She minced towards the gate, expecting problems, but it was neither locked nor latched. The car park was tiny but well-defended by complicated warnings about times and zones and clamps. Bridget tripped through it slowly, on the balls of her feet. 6/5001 was no trickier than the gate. A squat "sexy" car was sexily parked bang in front of it.
She peered through an unpromising glass sliding door and saw, not the expected reception desk, but a small room painted pale green. It looked entirely empty. There was, she soon saw, an external bell or buzzer, and what looked like an intercom speaker, so she pressed. The button or buzzer or whatever it was felt wrong - it was too soft, almost viscous. Had someone just sneezed on it? At any rate it certainly didn't work, but all the same Bridget waited a decent interval before trying the door. It wasn't locked. Bridget slid it open as smoothly as she could . A clattery entrance might immediately elicit the potential employer, and she wasn't ready.
Inside all was quiet and bright, as brilliantly bright as a supermarket, under a humming fluorescent tube. The carpet matched the walls, which, as Bridget could now smell, had been very recently painted. The sole item of furniture was a tiny faux-Regency chair in a far corner. On closer inspection its creamy upholstery looked grubby, and its curly little legs were also rather the worse for wear. Perhaps it was a real antique. No windows or doors, except the one behind her ... whatever this room was, it wasn't the right place. Couldn't be.
A glance at her watch confirmed that it was now five minutes past the appointed time, so she ought to ring them, if she still wanted the job. Or maybe she would just go home: it was unlikely, after all, that she could recover from being late and being in the wrong place.
But surely nearest portion of wall was moving?
Towards her. Bridget bolted back in horror.
"Hi!" she heard, and realised that of course it had just been a door opening. Stricken with adrenaline, Bridget tremblingly turned and saw she a tiny doll of a girl who might have been fifteen or twenty-five. Her bare brown arms and legs looked magazine-glossy against her short, sleeveless white dress. She had the face of a very pretty, solemn baby - plump dusky cheeks and big round eyes. Her black hair was gathered low under one ear, in a heavy chignon. The effect was vaguely Spanish.
"Sorry," the girl said, "We have had break-ins so ..."
"You've got a camouflage-door?" Bridget tried to sound jokey.
"That's right!" the girl smiled. She leaned against the frame, arms folded, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as if stretching her legs. This made Bridget notice her tortuously high-heeled ankle boots. In spite of them she still looked only about five feet tall.
"I'm here to see Mr Llewellyn, about the PA job."
"Did you let just yourself in, then?" the girl asked seriously. She had a slight European accent.
(Yes, I let in just myself, just me, were there others?)
But Bridget said, correctly, " Yes, I just let myself in. Hope that was alright ...I did try the bell but ..."
"Oh, no worries!" the girl said, suddenly all smiles. "That's fine. The main thing is that you came ...". She seemed to check herself. "I mean that you got here. I'm Bec, by the way," she said, adding with a small smile, "Coffee?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine," Bridget replied.
"Please take a seat. Mr Llewellyn will be with you very soon," she promised, and vanished behind her magic door.
Obediently Bridget inserted herself into the tight little chair.
Many minutes followed, enough for Brigid to straighten her tights, smooth her hair, and regret wearing so much makeup - in this warmth, it would shine and run. She felt for the powder compact in her bag but dropped it at the sound of a male voice yelling "BECS!"
But nothing more. Time went on. She heard murmurs, between Bec and a man, the man, the one who mattered, the boss. The room bright room was tiring. There was a floater in her left eye, precursor of a migraine. The man kept talking. Bec was moving something. Bridget,closed her eyes and listened. There was only Bec and the man. She was alone.
The door opened. It was still only Bec.
"Daniel's very sorry, he will be with you in a minute," she,announced, becore,yawned hugely. "Are you sure you don't want coffee."
"Becs!" the male voice exclaimed again, but now he was here, in the dusk of the unseen room behind Bec. With a joker's smile, he clapped his big hands down hard on her tiny shoulders
"I'm here now. Well done. Good job. Good girl. Get going. Go."
Presumably he meant this for Bec, although it didn't necessarily sound that way. The pre-migraine aura was already blinding, though: both figures in the door became haloed and vague. Bridget heard the man clear his throat and then, surreally, he quoted, "Do not stay upon the order of your going, but go at once!"
He extended a hand to her, as she sat feeling queasy in her absurd seat.
"Welcome, Daniel Llewelyn, hi." Deftly Daniel Llewelyn helped her up, even bowing slightly. His face was creased in an intelligent sort of way, musing and smiling and very pale. It was the sort of radiant pallor Bridget connected with money.
"Behind the GREEN door ..." he announced humorously, pushing her through it, " ...is the Bec Zone."
The Bec Zone was dark, and smelt even more biliously of paint, with undertones of burnt cheese.
"Please go ahead," he instructed.
But this was difficult, because of the paper swamping the floor, in peaks and troughs and nasty looking thickets.
"Lights!" he intoned, clapping his hands together. A halcyon lamp twitched itself on automatically, not making much difference.
"Pure chaos," he said meditatively. "So doesn't matter where you tread. Just through here, please." Bridget wobbled after him, watching her feet. There was then another room, and an ergonomic chair was kicked in the direction of her bottom. all ready to be sat upon.
The interview was beginning in earnest, apparently.
"Well," Daniel Llewellyn sighed. He had eased himself into his own chair behind a complicated but flimsy desk, which was flush against an equally flimsy wall or rather partition - IKEA, Bridget guessed. This partition seemed a less than optimal spot for blu-tacking one's LLB, but even myopic Bridget could see "Daniel Llewellyn" in big Gothic font. Where had he studied? Not where she had: her bits of paper - her first class BA Hons, her futile PhD - came from the "premier" place. His didn't.
(So bully for you, the PhD'd pauper!)
The worst thing - in a way the only thing about Daniel Llewellyn's office was the wall behind Daniel Llewellyn, which was almost entirely mirror.
Bridget saw herself: skinny as a witch in her black jacket from Kmart, overly made-up, too old. Creased and funereal, old and cheap. That was how she really looked. It was true.
"First, it's very important that you get a good look at me, right?" Daniel Llewellyn threw his head back slightly and snarled. "Just relax and breathe," he crooned, exhaling heavily. His teeth were perfect. His breath was foul. But Bridget forced a smile and looked...
She suspected he was at least her age, although of course he looked younger and better. He'd spent quite a bit on himself. Experts had been involved. The suit was dark and subtle, the shirt was creamy, the wine-colored tie was just right. The whiffs of aftershave and hair gel, and the hair itself. The pallor. The sleepy boarding school eyes. Copper and grease, she thought.
In the meantime he was talking.
"I see from your CV that your office experience isn't huge...?"
Brigid gave the cliched but appropriate answer: not much experience, but very eager to learn.
"Mm. Why should I want someone who's merely 'eager to learn' when I could, I could hire a first class office manager, a virtuoso, with many many years of experience?" His eyes shone. "You tell me."
Later Brigid would realise that Daniel Llewellyn's confidence that virtuosos -in office management, in anything - would be keen to work in his cardboardish, pale-green, migraine-making place of business was probably misplaced. But all she said for now was quite correct.
"I believe I may have certain skills and, um, abilities, which has could compensate, hopefully,for the relatively small experience."
"You mean perhaps you have skills that my experienced office manager would not have?
"I suppose so. Possibly." Bridget realized she sounded almost rudely half-hearted. Grimly, she smiled and eyed Daniel, before continuing:
"This is a legal firm, so I suppose, I assume, that a decent command of English would be valued here. And as you would be able to ...discern ...from my CV, it's fair to say I am very strong in that area."
"More than usual," he said musingly.
"I think so."
"An excellent communicator?"
"Yes," she said, remembering that this was the correct by-word. "I'm a very good communicator in any situation. My previous positions all called for first-rate communication skills. I have always performed effectively as a communicator."
"Mm. Yes." He sighed. "I suppose you mean that you've got this, this, doctorate, in ...?"
"Literature, from ---" (Bridget named the premier local university).
"And you've also lectured there?"
"Lecturing, among other things," Bridget said cautiously. She hadn't used the word "lecturer" on her CV. No-one, especially prospective employers, wanted to know about her ever having been a lecturer. But it was there to be inferred from her CV by sufficiently attentive readers.
"But what use," he smiled, "is a literature lecturer to me?"
"I do realise this is a very different sort of role," she admitted, realizing, with a sense of failing, that this sounded as if there was more to say on the subject of her own usefulness to this person. She tried to think.
"BEC," he screamed suddenly.
They waited in silence as Bec came tripping down the passage.
"Becky," he said when she opened the door, "would you please return to your room and grab Ms Matheson's CV ...oops, pardon me. Doctor Matheson, isn't it?"
"No, Ms is fine," Bridget said, sure she had no chance at all now and already looking forward to getting away. "I don't use the title, not many do."
"What is the point then? Bec, will you please get Ms Matheson's CV."
"No worries," said Bec.
"And Bec," he continued, "a coffee for me please. And for you Bridget?"
"Thanks, but I am fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I mean -no, actually, a coffee would be lovely."
"No worries, " Bec said with warmth.
"Bec?" Daniel prompted, twinkingly.
"Oh, sorry! How do you take it?"
"Black and no sugar, thank you," Bridget replied promptly and untruthfully.
"And the CV too,Bec. Also ... you have a ..." He tapped his nose significantly.
"Oh!" She
"Have a tissue," he proffered, " and hey, Bec, what's something special, do you think, about working here? Just a little example, a little insider knowledge."
Caught between the proffered tissue and the huge mirror, Bec seemed stuck.
"I mean what's something new you've learned here?"
"About ...?"
"That you didn't know about before?"
Bec began walking slowly backwards towards the door, put her right hand somewhere near her left breast, and bowed to Daniel. It was done thoroughly, from the waist down, like a doomed courtier in a mini-series about Tudor tyrants.
Even Daniel paused.
"When court's in session, sometimes Daniel might need you to get something from the car or ..."
"Like it. Good example. Never turn your back on His Honour. No-one's allowed to do that, not even me ... want to run it through for Bridget again?"
Bec ran it through again.
"Good girl. Off you go."
Off she went.
"Bec." Daniel Llewellyn stated. "Bec is an interesting case in point. When she started here she knew nothing. Literally. Almost literally, anyway. She knew how to spend her money - I mean she knew what to do in a shop, presumably - girls usually do. But she did not know what a black coffee was. I taught her how to use a stapler."
The correct face for this was hard to strike. Bridget was also sure Bec could hear him, in which case hopefully Bec would also know that Bridget was not complicit.
"She knew about shopping. She did not know how to use a stapler. She did not know what a black coffee was. She had never seen the Godfather, or Star Wars, or any movies at all. She may have heard of Tom Cruise. But definitely not Risky Business. She had not heard of Communism, or the Holocaust. Possibly ...Hitler? Marilyn Monroe? Far from certain. Christ!"
Bridget was half-preparing something placatory, but there was no need - he was still going, "I mean Christ, as in Jesus Christ ... she'd have heard of him. Heard the name at least, she's Italian and I hired her straight out of, uh, Catholic school. Some Catholic school. Not a big deal Catholic school. But definitely Saint Something of the ..Blessed Sacred Blood. Can't remember its name now ... also, as a side note, at first Bec was perhaps not always appropriately dressed."
Not that," (wink) "I am in the habit of making comments about my female employees' ensembles. But I notice."
He sighed.
"I have to notice. Especially when, like ..." He frowned and sighed again. "Actually I won't go there right now, its important, but the main thing is Bec's grown. She's still growing. She's not first class, not quite yet, but getting bloody close, and she's going to keep kicking goals. I trained her. I'm not like, uh, the lazy boss who lets shit slide because he's wants things quiet and he wants it all nice. No way. I don't do mixed messages. I don't do good manners - excellence and efficiency are not your best mates up the road. You leave your ego at the door. I lead by ..."
He probably said "example", but Bridget missed it, because Bec re-appeared with Daniel's coffee, and, Bridget supposed, her problematic CV, which was sheathed in pale pink vinyl.
"...starting on the front foot," Daniel said conclusively, picking up his mug (after so much publicity, Bridget's coffee seemed to have been cancelled after all), "but we've also had a hell of a lot of fun here, right Bec?"
Bec merely giggled.
"But there's also been misunderstandings and mistakes along the way for Bec, and me too. Yes, I'm not perfect either. " He scratched the back of his head, feckless, bemused, wondering. He opened a draw and closed it again. "You will find that out about me, Bridget. I am not perfect."
"I suppose nobody is, really," Bridget heard herself saying, and thinking, Shit, am I actually being offered the job? Shit.
"Stop there!" Daniel said vibrantly. "There are people who are perfect. Why should anyone not aim for perfection." This was a statement, not a question. "You ought to want to be the best you can be. Correct?"
"Oh yes. Of course," she heard herself replying.
"Seriously, it's important ... going forward, towards perfection! Go Forward. I went to G----- Grammar. The Eton of the Antipodes. That was our motto, Go Forward ... and this -" he flung Bridget's CV across the desk - "you may have back."
"Okay, of course, and thank you for your time," Bridget said. For this relief much fucking thanks, Horatio! She would have a beer now. Thank God.
"Ah, one moment, though! You're going to walk out that door feeling like you've failed. I don't want you to feel that way. That's why ... I'm going to suggest a little trial. Right now. This afternoon."
Bridget's relief was converted to vertiginous panic.
"A little "trial", he repeated. It occurred to Bridget that he was making a lawyerly pun. She hated puns.
"Um, well ..." she began, mentally trawling for fast but plausible excuses.
"At the very least it would be work experience in the field, which you could use. Correct?"
Was there a polite way of asking whether or not he would pay her?
"It will help me make a decision about you sooner," he added.
Bridget thought about the overdue rent, the stale frozen bread in her freezer, the fact that this weekend was her overnight with Asha, and that Ash would be thrilled, amazed and impressed if suddenly Mummy could take her somewhere.
"Yes, thanks! I'd love to have a go," she said, stuffing eagerness into her tone.
"Good for you," he said, smiling ironically. Her reticence had been unmistakable. He disapproved, of course he did.
"BECS!"
Bec returned.
"Becs, perhaps you could start by showing Bridget how to use a fax machine."
"Actually, I can use a fax machine," Bridget said tremulously.
"In this office, we have our own unique way of getting things done," he said sternly, "and no detail is too small. Let's get you started on the front foot."
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Chapter 2
At eight o'clock that evening, Bridget let herself into her flat. As usual, Bridget's obese tabby cat, whose name was Sonya, started bleating despairingly as soon as the door opened, frantically crashing her big brindled person against Bridget''s legs.
"Fuck off," Bridget murmured, and tried to nudge Sonya out of the way with her foot, but Sonya, being Sonya, grimly kept it up, until inevitably Bridget trod on one of her paws. Sonya screamed dismally, Bridget shouted, Sonya tried to run, Bridget swerved to get out of the way and ended up slipping on the lino and crashing to the ground.
"FUCK!" she howled.
From a distance Sonya eyed her.
"Just wait," Bridget murmured. She sat herself up on the ground and thought: first take off the shoes.
For in the confusion following her afternoon of trial employment, Bridget had got off her bus one stop too late, and during the two mile walk home that ensued, the blisters from the too-small shoes had burst.
She now took them off, and regarded her stockinged feet. They were encrusted with blood and plasma. The new stockings were ruined. But fuck it. At least the shoes were off.
Ignoring Sonya, Bridget emptied her hand bag on the floor - the quickest way of locating her horrible cheap little phone. She kept losing them. This was her third cheap phone in about six weeks. But it was still there - thank Christ.
Under "contacts" there was one number - her daughter's new mobile phone number. It was nearly 7.30, and a Friday night. Bedtime for Asha at Greg's place was very early indeed, even for an eight year old, but weekends must be different. Might be different.
Now slumped on the couch in her creased sombre clothes, Bridget lit a cigarette and listened to the phone ring and ring and ring, until the Vodafone gal came on with her vibrant, hyper-Australian-accented voice, spouting her usual useless shit ...
Sorry! The person you are calling is not available. But it's all good! To notify them of your call ...
... Bridget hung up, not interested in having her number "sent as an SMS". Such things never worked. Or not with eight year olds. Oh fuck it, she'd ring Greg himself, on the landline ... maybe he'd put Ash on.
It seemed to ring for a very long time indeed (or was she just tired?)
Hi," he said confidently. In a rush she began, "Greg, please don't hang up..." before realizing that this wasn't Greg per se, but a brand new (and misleadingly friendly) recording of Greg's voice.
Nothing, nothing ever came of leaving messages for Greg. So she hung up again.
But then again, Greg would still know she had tried. Would Ash, though?
Through a haze of nebulous pain, psychic and physical (headache, bruised arse, shitty, lonely, angry) she deftly composed a very affectionate message for Asha, then a pretty desperate one for Greg, and sent both messages to Greg's mobile.
There was almost zero chance of Ash being allowed to see, let alone respond, But at least no stone had been left unturned....
And now I want a drink.
She poured herself a tumbler full of "Mellow Red", dumped dry cat biscuits into Sonya's capacious bowl and positioned Sonya in front of it. After several seconds of silent, incredulous disgust, Sonya did begin to eat, albeit reproachfully and without much enthusiasm.
Bridget lay down on the sofa with her tumbler, staring at her terrible feet.
The job. It was insufferable. If she were asked back, she would not go.
The faxing had been all she was suffered to attempt over the course of nearly six hours of labouring for Llewellyn gratis. Daniel Llewelyn himself was not "too proud" as he put it, to take her through his unique faxing system, which turned out to not be unique in the least.
For instance, Bridget knew that "a fax cover sheet must always, absolutely always be used."
She knew when and where to use block capitals on such cover sheets.
She also knew that when writing in the lower case, she should desist from dotting her "i"s with love hearts or smiley faces.
But she got the benefit of Daniel's wisdom all the same, on these and other bleeding-obvious questions, such as which buttons on the fax machine said "start", "send" and "end", where to put the paper in, and how to take the lid of off a pen.
It was just as well these things were obvious, since Bridget missed most of Daniel's not-too-proud fax lessons because she was forced to stand behind him for all of it, and couldn't see what he was doing to fax machine, or why.
For a medium sized man, he seemed to take up more space than he ought to.
The shit could've hit the fan, theoretically, when Bridget ran out of fax cover sheets. It turned out there had only been six fax cover sheets left in the office. Bridget ought to have photocopied. Perhaps she would've, had she known, but she didn't, since the fax cover sheets were dispensed by Bec, from Bec's desk, and were still very much Bec's thing, not Bridget's.
But Daniel took it well.
"This," he said kindly, "is a situation where being switched on is clearly crucial. These days Bec always knows when photocopying needs to happen ..."
He added with a fooler's smile that PhDds were not what they used to be ...
No, she would not do it.
Anyway, it was unlikely she would be asked back. Daniel ought to be shot, and Bec ...pretty, sullen Bec, with her glossy hair and her classy dress and her overly sexy boots ...she was suspect too...
Of course Bec was leaving, that was the whole fucking premise, but Daniel had reassured Bridget that Bec would not leave the new person (be it her, be it someone else) floundering all alone in a new "workplace environment". Novelties and trials, laughter and tears, were surely in store for Bec's replacement, but Bec herself would mitigate these by "transitioning" her successor, before making her conclusive, triumphant exodus ...probably in a mist of her own laughter and tears ... but gladder and wiser about jazz, coffee, Jesus, staplers ....
Bridget got drunk so fast these days...
Chapter 3
(First day/first draft)
The bold inner declaration of her own rights (I will not go!) was not convincing, she realized, as she carefully, ominously undertook a much more detailed toilet than usual (washed hair, shaved armpits, plucked eyebrows). It was not just the poverty problem that would make her say yes, as large as this problem was. She was, she knew, fully capable of saying yes to a job with Daniel Llewellyn for the same reason she had said yes to a day of unpaid fax-handling: a phobia of resisting ideas others might want to pursue on her behalf.
When she had still been going to AA meetings, Bridget had often heard the term "people-pleaser". Her own people-pleasing was complicated because the people she was so keen to please were not so much those who might need her, but rather those who believed she needed them. Denying another person's right to please her, was probably (she suspected) the most difficult act of assertiveness possible.
Bridget took out her yellow exercise book and wrote "Asha", followed by the requisite twelve kisses, and then kissed the page herself. She turned off her lamp, and, with her rosary beads, got into bed, thinking she might say at least a decade.
In bed there were crumbs from last night's toasted sandwich. The moon was too bright through the thin curtains, and the hot November wind was tearing around the corners of the building. Nothing could be done about any of it. On the third Hail Mary, the cheap phone announced, with a laconic blip, the arrival of a text message. With a bolt of horror, she raised herself on one elbow to confront the little monster. An unfamiliar number: she opened it and read "congrats you got the job 2mrw 9 am SHARP please." Of course.
Bridget got out of bed and staggered to the lounge room so she could have a cigarette to appease her crashing heart.
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She was fully one half hour early, having risen at five am after a broken sweaty sleep. On the train she stupidly realized she had no key to let herself into the office, but when she arrived at the glass sliding door it was once again open. Bec was earlier, even, than her.
Today Bec was wearing a smart black and white dress, and her hair, which had yesterday been slick and understated, was now loose to her waist and perfectly waved.
After they had greeted each other, Bridget asked Bec if she wanted a coffee. She was determined to have one herself at any price.
"Oh, no. I never drink it," Bec averred firmly.
Yesterday caffeine had been smilingly proffered: today Bridget felt almost illegal as she put on the kettle and pushed aside Lotsa-Noodles and muesli bars to find a dusty mug.
"Well, Bridget began awkwardly, coffee in hand, "is there anything in particular I can do?"
Bee was very self-sufficient and conscientious, her desk dimly discernible among the dusty the wastes of paper.
"Um, not really ..." she muttered, her eyes riveted to her screen.
"Perhaps some filing?" Bridget suggested.
"I guess so."
Bridget carefully put down her coffee and knelt down on the floor, tentatively picking up documents in no particular order, to prove she was industrious.
"There is the Flease file," Bec said at length. "In the other room. In Daniel's room." She made a typo and clicked her tongue irritably.
Daniel's room, vacated of Daniel, was exactly as it had been yesterday, except for a vigilant atmosphere. There were no files of any sort, nor even a piece of paper, and Bridget was beginning to feel positively angry with unhelpful Bec, when she sighted a pale blue plastic corner protruding from the floor beneath the desk. She dragged it out. Stuck on the cover was a post-it note, on which was written
RECONSTRUCT FOLDERS 1 thru to 5 (!)
She looked under the desk and saw another pale blue folder, and another, and another, until there were five pale blue plastic folders on the carpet in front of her. Things were going rather well, then.
She returned to the first folder and opened it. bit of foolscap, someone had scrawled in bullet points:
APPLICANT
FIRST RESPONDENT
SECOND RESPONDENT
CORRESPONDENCE
DEPT CHILD WELFARE DOCS
BILLING
MISC
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