...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. Gross. 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 it was very quiet. The carpet matched the walls, which, as Bridget could now smell, had been very recently painted. There were no inner doors, nor windows. 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...unwise to sit on it, she decided.
A glance at her watch confirmed that it was now five minutes past the appointed time, so (fuck! ) somehow or other she would have to make her presence known. Yelling or calling out was untenable - perhaps she could phone? Or maybe just leave? But then something dreadful began to happen: a neat 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 was right - there was now an opened door, disclosing a tiny doll of a girl (Christ alone knew why the door was painted the same as the walls ... ) 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 exclaimed. 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.
"Yes, I 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 you came in! Now, can I make you a tea or coffee?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine," Bridget replied.
"Oh. Okay. Please take a seat. Mr Llewellyn will be with you very soon," the doll girl promised, before disappearing behind her magic door-in-the-wall.
(EDITED up to HERE, continue editing BELOW...)
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 looked 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, 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. (MORE 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 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 the letter "i" 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...
.
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. Gross. 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 it was very quiet. The carpet matched the walls, which, as Bridget could now smell, had been very recently painted. There were no inner doors, nor windows. 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...unwise to sit on it, she decided.
A glance at her watch confirmed that it was now five minutes past the appointed time, so (fuck! ) somehow or other she would have to make her presence known. Yelling or calling out was untenable - perhaps she could phone? Or maybe just leave? But then something dreadful began to happen: a neat 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 was right - there was now an opened door, disclosing a tiny doll of a girl (Christ alone knew why the door was painted the same as the walls ... ) 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 exclaimed. 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.
"Yes, I 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 you came in! Now, can I make you a tea or coffee?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine," Bridget replied.
"Oh. Okay. Please take a seat. Mr Llewellyn will be with you very soon," the doll girl promised, before disappearing behind her magic door-in-the-wall.
(EDITED up to HERE, continue editing BELOW...)
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 looked 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, 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. (MORE 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 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 the letter "i" 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...
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