...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, somehow flimsy-looking room painted pale green.
Bridget pushed the door open uncertainly: she had an idea that a clattery entrance might immediately elicit the potential employer, and she wasn't ready.
Inside it was very quiet. A low table of faux-granite was surrounded by faux-Louis XIV. The carpet matched the walls, which, Bridget could smell, had been very recently painted. To her right there was a closed door almost camouflaged by the same paint. Yellowish light came from a fluorescent tube. It was so quiet you could hear it hum.
Before making her presence apparent, which appeared to be necessary, Bridget took out her Covergirl compact and was examining her nose when she heard a shuffling noise from behind the pale green door and realised it was about to open. There stood 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 sleeveless cream linen dress, and her black hair was neat in its plump bun.
"Hi?" she said.
"I'm here to see Mr Llewellyn, about the PA job,"
"Tea or coffee?" It was suggested unsmilingly and clearly not to be taken seriously.
"No thank you," Brigid said, but with a smile -probably too much smile.
"He'll be with you very soon," the doll girl promised, before disappearing behind her door-in-the-wall.
Minutes passed in total silence except for a singular masculine shout, "Bec!". This of course was probably Daniel Llewellyn, the lawyer. All the same, many more minutes followed, enough for Brigid to straighten her tights, smooth her hair, and to notice that her smart black jacket was beginning to feel much too hot. Take it off? Her navy smart-casual blouse was from K-Mart: next to (Bec's?) cream linen dress, it seemed both cheap and funereal. Yet if she allowed herself to get much warmer, her make-up would deteriorate. Any second there would be a summons, or at least an event, and Brigid didn't want to be discovered fussing with make-up, but she felt oily and grimy. Why had she worn so much make-up? She was out of practice with it ...but the door was opening again: Bec (presumably Bec) was back, and Brigid positively sprang out of her seat.
"Daniel's very sorry, he will be with you in a minute," Bec promised. "So please continue to take a seat. And," she added, with very perceptible embarrassment, "are you sure you don't want a tea. Or a coffee."
Now unsure as to whether it was desirable that she have a coffee, Bridget hesitated, but just as she was beginning to accept, a youngish man in full business dress appeared in the trick-doorway behind Bec, leaning forward over her small bare shoulders, in the style of a surprise party-planner or some sort of very physical, practical joker.
"Ah-ha, good morning," he said to Bridget. "You're here to see me about a job."
He stepped past Bec and extended a pale, clean, fattish hand. In her nervousness Bridget noticed his roundish face, his affluent pinkish complexion, his thick dark hair, and lively clever eyes.
There was something courtly in the way he shook her hand, and stepped back to let her pass through the door before him. She could just notice combined scents of Imperial Leather soap and an ethyl waft aftershave. And then through the door was Bec's surprising room. Although the fluorescence and mint paint continued, this was most definitely the scene of work, and more than one kind of work. There was a kitchen corner with a sink, a bench with a huge jar of instant coffee, boxes of Lots-of-Noodles, and a portion of something cheesy looking in microwaveable Tupperware.
But overall the room was dominated by files.
These were stacked untidily and precariously on a glass-top table, and staggeringly piled up in towers across the floor. The files were ????-like vinylThere were also reams of unfiled paper, some festooned with yellow post-it notes, and other neater but noticeably more dusty piles.
Bec sat typing quietly and at great speed.
"Bec's space," said Daniel snappily. Underneath the headachey new paint smell, you could smell something burnt and cheesy from the microwave.
"Allow me," Daniel said, and opened a small door next to the kitchen bench, disclosing a passage dark and dusty. He waited for Bridget to join him, adroitly switching on an overhead light while pushing her ahead, his hand on the small of her back, past a Ladies and a Men's, and then into a third room - a surprisingly large room. The hand became slightly firmer and higher, but only so Bridget could be positioned in front of an ergonomic chair, which was deftly rolled towards 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 - the BA Hons, the PhD - came from the "premier" place: his didn't (so bully for you, the PhD'd pauper).
To Daniel's left was almost as much floor as (?) were the usual mucous-coloured vertical blinds, concealing, probably, a sliding glass door. The worst thing about Daniel Llewellyn's ofiice was the wall behind Daniel Llewellyn, which was almost entirely mirror. ???!!?I AM HERE
"First, it's very important that you get a good look at me, right?"
An almost snarlingly "candid" smile, baring very white teeth, accompanied this. Surely it was a joke, but how to receive it? Bridget smiled back shyly, mindful of her own rather yellow teeth.
"Just relax and take a deep breath and take a look at me and take a look around. You'll feel better".
Very few remarks could be calculated to make Brigid feel worse, but capitulation seemed essential. Brigid forced herself to regard him evenly. He was quite young, in his early thirties, which made him at least five years younger than Brigid. His features were Italianate- he reminded her slightly of Al Pacino, except for his almost radiantly pink-and-white skin. It was the sort of complexion Brigid instinctively connected with affluence. His lips were redder than male lips usually are. And while his office was very modest, he obviously spent quite a bit on himself-the suit, rich, dark and subtle, the silky loosened tie, the hair so artfully dishevelled.
After thirty seconds of protracted and silent eye-contact, his encouraging friendly face and teeth became impossible, so Bridget, idiotically at a total loss for words (why had she not planned better?), ended up staring at his hands. The middle finger of his right hand was a startling red colour - a birthmark, she released quickly, and looked away, hopefully fast enough (though the deformity, she noticed, had not prevented him from wearing a bigger-than-usual man's ring-but it was probably his wedding ring, of course.
In the meantime he was talking.
"Okay, okay ... Okay. I see from your CV that your office experience isn't huge...?"
He made a question of it, and 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 was 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 innocent.
"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. "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?"
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, somehow flimsy-looking room painted pale green.
Bridget pushed the door open uncertainly: she had an idea that a clattery entrance might immediately elicit the potential employer, and she wasn't ready.
Inside it was very quiet. A low table of faux-granite was surrounded by faux-Louis XIV. The carpet matched the walls, which, Bridget could smell, had been very recently painted. To her right there was a closed door almost camouflaged by the same paint. Yellowish light came from a fluorescent tube. It was so quiet you could hear it hum.
Before making her presence apparent, which appeared to be necessary, Bridget took out her Covergirl compact and was examining her nose when she heard a shuffling noise from behind the pale green door and realised it was about to open. There stood 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 sleeveless cream linen dress, and her black hair was neat in its plump bun.
"Hi?" she said.
"I'm here to see Mr Llewellyn, about the PA job,"
"Tea or coffee?" It was suggested unsmilingly and clearly not to be taken seriously.
"No thank you," Brigid said, but with a smile -probably too much smile.
"He'll be with you very soon," the doll girl promised, before disappearing behind her door-in-the-wall.
Minutes passed in total silence except for a singular masculine shout, "Bec!". This of course was probably Daniel Llewellyn, the lawyer. All the same, many more minutes followed, enough for Brigid to straighten her tights, smooth her hair, and to notice that her smart black jacket was beginning to feel much too hot. Take it off? Her navy smart-casual blouse was from K-Mart: next to (Bec's?) cream linen dress, it seemed both cheap and funereal. Yet if she allowed herself to get much warmer, her make-up would deteriorate. Any second there would be a summons, or at least an event, and Brigid didn't want to be discovered fussing with make-up, but she felt oily and grimy. Why had she worn so much make-up? She was out of practice with it ...but the door was opening again: Bec (presumably Bec) was back, and Brigid positively sprang out of her seat.
"Daniel's very sorry, he will be with you in a minute," Bec promised. "So please continue to take a seat. And," she added, with very perceptible embarrassment, "are you sure you don't want a tea. Or a coffee."
Now unsure as to whether it was desirable that she have a coffee, Bridget hesitated, but just as she was beginning to accept, a youngish man in full business dress appeared in the trick-doorway behind Bec, leaning forward over her small bare shoulders, in the style of a surprise party-planner or some sort of very physical, practical joker.
"Ah-ha, good morning," he said to Bridget. "You're here to see me about a job."
He stepped past Bec and extended a pale, clean, fattish hand. In her nervousness Bridget noticed his roundish face, his affluent pinkish complexion, his thick dark hair, and lively clever eyes.
There was something courtly in the way he shook her hand, and stepped back to let her pass through the door before him. She could just notice combined scents of Imperial Leather soap and an ethyl waft aftershave. And then through the door was Bec's surprising room. Although the fluorescence and mint paint continued, this was most definitely the scene of work, and more than one kind of work. There was a kitchen corner with a sink, a bench with a huge jar of instant coffee, boxes of Lots-of-Noodles, and a portion of something cheesy looking in microwaveable Tupperware.
But overall the room was dominated by files.
These were stacked untidily and precariously on a glass-top table, and staggeringly piled up in towers across the floor. The files were ????-like vinylThere were also reams of unfiled paper, some festooned with yellow post-it notes, and other neater but noticeably more dusty piles.
Bec sat typing quietly and at great speed.
"Bec's space," said Daniel snappily. Underneath the headachey new paint smell, you could smell something burnt and cheesy from the microwave.
"Allow me," Daniel said, and opened a small door next to the kitchen bench, disclosing a passage dark and dusty. He waited for Bridget to join him, adroitly switching on an overhead light while pushing her ahead, his hand on the small of her back, past a Ladies and a Men's, and then into a third room - a surprisingly large room. The hand became slightly firmer and higher, but only so Bridget could be positioned in front of an ergonomic chair, which was deftly rolled towards 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 - the BA Hons, the PhD - came from the "premier" place: his didn't (so bully for you, the PhD'd pauper).
To Daniel's left was almost as much floor as (?) were the usual mucous-coloured vertical blinds, concealing, probably, a sliding glass door. The worst thing about Daniel Llewellyn's ofiice was the wall behind Daniel Llewellyn, which was almost entirely mirror. ???!!?I AM HERE
"First, it's very important that you get a good look at me, right?"
An almost snarlingly "candid" smile, baring very white teeth, accompanied this. Surely it was a joke, but how to receive it? Bridget smiled back shyly, mindful of her own rather yellow teeth.
"Just relax and take a deep breath and take a look at me and take a look around. You'll feel better".
Very few remarks could be calculated to make Brigid feel worse, but capitulation seemed essential. Brigid forced herself to regard him evenly. He was quite young, in his early thirties, which made him at least five years younger than Brigid. His features were Italianate- he reminded her slightly of Al Pacino, except for his almost radiantly pink-and-white skin. It was the sort of complexion Brigid instinctively connected with affluence. His lips were redder than male lips usually are. And while his office was very modest, he obviously spent quite a bit on himself-the suit, rich, dark and subtle, the silky loosened tie, the hair so artfully dishevelled.
After thirty seconds of protracted and silent eye-contact, his encouraging friendly face and teeth became impossible, so Bridget, idiotically at a total loss for words (why had she not planned better?), ended up staring at his hands. The middle finger of his right hand was a startling red colour - a birthmark, she released quickly, and looked away, hopefully fast enough (though the deformity, she noticed, had not prevented him from wearing a bigger-than-usual man's ring-but it was probably his wedding ring, of course.
In the meantime he was talking.
"Okay, okay ... Okay. I see from your CV that your office experience isn't huge...?"
He made a question of it, and 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 was 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 innocent.
"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. "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?"