Honeybee, page 6
‘Maybe that’s true. I never left. I wonder why anyone would, to be honest. And I could never leave my mum.’
‘Oh, wow. That’s so nice of you. My mum’s a fucking arsehole so I do not relate.’
I can’t believe I just said that. With a big smile on my face too. I sounded horrible. Who says that to a stranger about their own mother? At work. On their first day. Oh God. What must he think of me?
‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says. There’s an awkward pause. ‘Anyway, line 239 if you need anything.’
I watch him walk away. Was he just being nice or was he flirting with me? Either way, he probably won’t bother again after I just slagged off my own mother.
The rest of the day, thankfully, goes off without a hitch. The office is nice. Nestled in a little side street just off Trinity Square. It’s quite small, and up three floors in a lift. The reception area is stylish with a big purple sofa and a coffee table covered in magazines; it’s my job to keep them up to date. I’m to arrange the newspapers on it every morning so that people who come in for meetings have something to read. They’re looking for a new receptionist who will take on these smaller roles, but I’m happy to do them until then. I have no issue with the more menial jobs, they all keep this office running smoothly and that’s the main point of my role. To keep it all ticking along. I can’t deny I’d rather be in the London office but I do love this job. It’s good for me on so many levels. I get to be busy, impress people with my organisational skills and feel like I have a plan to follow. I like plans. Making lists. Being on top of things. I’m a good office manager as I have no interest in sitting in rooms with my colleagues with the pressure to come up with ideas. I’d much rather make sure they all have notepads to brainstorm on. You wouldn’t know it, but for people like me, who live with chaos inside their head, being organised and helping other people stay organised is very therapeutic. The rat sleeps while I’m at work. Not even a scratch. Nothing to drown. I’d come here seven days a week if I could.
In the main area, it’s all open-plan apart from Ben’s office. He’s the boss. He seems like a really nice guy, very calm and charming. Everyone has a lot of respect for Ben, and I suspect that the three women who work here, one of whom is me, have a crush on him. He’s married, though, so it’s a look-but-don’t-touch situation for us all. It’s lovely to be around him, though, he has the kind of manner that makes you want to adjust yourself to be more like him. He started the company in London, apparently, then when they saw an opportunity to open an office in Guernsey, he brought his whole family over because he liked the idea of his kids growing up with beaches instead of underground trains. I bet he’s an amazing father and husband. His wife is so lucky. I can’t deny though, that when I first saw him, I was taken aback. Having been in Nottingham and London I’ve been around a lot more black people than I ever did living in Guernsey, so I feel much more worldly than I used to. But I wonder what it’s been like for Ben here. Not just as the only black person in the office, but one of the few black people on the entire island.
As for the other men in the office, there is Matt, a big guy, plays rugby I think, or maybe he just watches and talks about it a lot. He’s a few years older than me I think, but I don’t recognise him from when we were kids. He definitely wasn’t at the boys’ school, so maybe he went to the grammar before Renée and I went there for sixth form. And there is Phil. We’ve spoken a little more now and he seems really nice. Polite. He is skinny and wears patterned shirts buttoned all the way up. Tidy, more than smart. His job title is ‘brand manager’, which makes him sound very sexy and creative. I don’t think creative people like uncreative people like me. I’m sure we seem so boring in comparison to them, and the way their minds are constantly in action. Dad was creative, it’s what I loved about him. But I think he died before it rubbed off on me. These days I tell myself that creatives need non-creatives to organise everything for them so that their minds are free to conjure amazing ideas. And that is why my role in this office is so important. I facilitate their imaginations. I’m here to go unnoticed, to make things easy, and to ensure they are not distracted. It’s why I am the perfect person for my job. Everything in this office, from the coffee they drink to the chairs they sit on, is under my control.
The other two women who work at Magic Marketing are Georgina, second in command to Ben, and Chloe, the ‘senior brand manager’. Chloe is tall, blonde, and attractive because she has made a lot of effort to be. Her clothes are perfectly curated. She is very thin and apparently goes to the gym most days before work which absolutely baffles me. How can anyone be bothered to do that? She’s cold, almost chilling in her demeanour. Sometimes I shudder when she walks past me, like I imagine I would if a Disney baddie walked into the room. It isn’t that she’s horrible, or mean, just stoic and hard. I can’t imagine she’d be very nice to cuddle.
I overheard Matt talking about her this morning. He and Phil were in the kitchen, and I came in as he was saying she would be like ‘fucking a tree’. And that she ‘looks pretty but would hurt your dick because of the friction’. I had to pretend not to hear him, it was such a gross thing to say. I was pleased Phil just seemed to listen and not join in. But it did make me wonder what Chloe would be like in bed. Could someone like her be as useless at sex as someone like me? Maybe. It also made me wonder if the guys in the office will start gossiping about me. Will they make jokes about what I would be like in bed? I hope they don’t. The idea of anyone imagining me in bed terrifies me nearly as much as the sex itself.
And then there is Georgina. She is about five feet six, size 16 if I were to guess. Her clothes are basic: black trousers and a simple, shapeless shirt. She isn’t very pretty, which I hate myself for thinking because women shouldn’t have to be pretty, but you can’t not notice when you’re faced with it. Her hair is curly and could do with a wash. She doesn’t wear any make-up at all despite having quite a few blemishes and spots. Compared to the other women in this office, including me, her appearance seems to be the last thing she worries about. And what is most surprising about that is that from the second you meet her, you can tell she is the most confident out of all of us.
There is something I envy about Georgina. The way she seems so open about who she is. How her flaws are played out for all to see. It’s like she’s freed her mind of them, so she has brain space to think about other things. Like being extraordinarily nice, which she really has been towards me. She has asked me if I’m OK and if there’s anything I need about six times today. And she just seems so un-anxious. Whereas almost everyone else seems self-aware and worried about something, Georgina doesn’t, she’s so calm. Her demeanour almost makes her attractive.
I wonder if maybe I should let myself go. I could stop shaving my legs and my armpits. I could drop down to two showers a week, instead of every day. Wash my clothes once a fortnight instead of once a week, stop bothering with trying to wear matching clothes and just put on whatever is clean. I’m hardly high maintenance, but what if I was to do nothing? Would I feel liberated, or gross? There really is something about Georgina that I admire.
At lunchtime, I have a big baguette full of salami and cheese, with a packet of Wotsits and a can of Fanta. While sitting at my desk, feeling repulsive because I overate, Chloe comes over to talk me through the stationery orders. I hold my breath for almost the entire time so my cheesy Wotsit breath doesn’t waft over her bony frame. And yet—
‘Ew, what’s that smell?’ she says, fanning the air. ‘Do you smell that, Flo?’
Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a salad and water for lunch. The idea of letting myself go is suddenly totally out of the question.
Renée
Full steam ahead in finding a job that pays well, saving up, and moving to London. That is my plan. That is all I have to do. And so today I have booked an appointment at a recruitment agency for office work, even though I’ve never done anything but work in pubs, and the very thought of me working in an office is hilarious. But I’m feeling very grown-up about this, I’m doing what needs to be done, not what I want to do. How reassuring it is to know I can make mature and sensible decisions to secure myself a better future. Let’s not worry about the fact that I am late because I went back three times to change my outfit.
I had on a pair of Flo’s black trousers and a navy jumper but felt boring, so I put on a gingham polo neck with the trousers instead. Then I worried the person interviewing me would think I was a raver, because of the gingham. I used to wear it with velvet hotpants. An outfit I can’t imagine wearing here in Guernsey because, along with McDonald’s, fashion has never made its way to the island. In the end I wore the gingham polo under the jumper for a pop of personality. I plan to take it off if the interviewer seems fun.
On the phone, I was told to bring a notepad and a copy of my CV. I haven’t got a notepad, but I do have a pen. Not sure if it works though. I haven’t got any copies of my CV either – mainly because I haven’t created one. It’s too depressing to see my pathetic professional life on paper. I’m winging it, because that’s who I am. I intend to smash this interview by relying on my electrifying personality and natural charm.
Forgetting myself and distracted by my efforts to be dazzling, I slam the front door shut behind me. It’s so loud it even makes me jump. I stop and scrunch up my face, waiting for drama.
‘Please, will you try a little harder not to slam the door! It scares me and I could slip?’ the old lady downstairs shouts. Today she’s wearing a bright green cashmere jumper with a chunky necklace and high-waisted, wide-legged trousers with pleats on the front. It’s the nicest outfit I’ve seen since I got back to Guernsey – why on earth is she wearing it? She looks cross again. All I did was slam a door, hardly the crime of the century.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, as nicely as I can. ‘I forgot that I have to close the door gently behind me. I’m on my way to a job interview.’ She looks me up and down disapprovingly.
‘Where is the job?’
‘Oh, it’s an agency. I need a job. I have never really worked anywhere other than pubs and bars so I’m not sure how it will go, but you have to try, right?’
‘You’re wearing that?’
‘Um, yes.’ We both take a minute to scan my outfit. ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to be late.’
She huffs and goes back inside. Who the hell does she think she is? I never want to end up like that. An angry, bitter old lady who lives alone and feels angry with the world around her for not being just as she wants it. What a depressing way to live.
I walk down Mill Street, past the market and through the arcade. The feeling of familiarity is almost overwhelming. There are memories on every corner. After-school chips, mayonnaise and hot chocolates in Dix Neuf, countless baskets of strong-smelling toiletries topped with tight cellophane from the Body Shop for almost anyone who had a birthday. I got my ears pierced in a little place that’s now selling digital cameras and got fingered by a twenty-year-old in the doorway of the tobacco shop at around 2.30 a.m. one Sunday morning. Memories everywhere.
The recruitment place is on Smith Street at the top of a hill. By the time I reach the office, I have broken the sort of sweat that tells me I need to sort my life out. And then I have to climb to the fifth floor for ‘Pink Apple Recruitment’. ‘Hello, I’m Renée. I have a three o’clock appointment,’ I say to the girl behind the reception desk. When she raises her head, I want the ground to eat me alive. Why can’t this island swallow my past and stop chewing it up and spitting it in my face?
‘Renée, I thought it must be you. Not many Renée Sargents about!’
‘Hi Nancy, what chance.’
I went to school with Nancy at Tudor Falls. She was a bit of a hippie, I think. Always smelled of incense. She wanted to move to Peru and live in a forest, or some shit like that. I suppose her dreams didn’t come true either.
‘I wasn’t a hundred per cent, though, because the Renée I knew would never want an office job, but I suppose we all change, don’t we?’
‘Oh no I haven’t changed,’ I say, feeling aggressively defensive of my personality. ‘I just need to make some cash; I’m moving to London to be a writer. Just back on the island as a little stopgap and I don’t want to work in pubs any more.’
‘OK, well maybe pretend to want the job when you meet Mel? Just an idea. You look the same.’
‘I am the same. I mean, I’m the same, but different. You know? You must be too? Same old us, lots more experience. I have a lot of experience, Nancy. Not in offices, but of life. My dad doesn’t love me, that teaches you a lot.’
She stares blankly at me, and with sympathy. ‘Yeah, I remember that.’
Ouch, she remembers my dad didn’t love me? Was it always that obvious?
‘Here, take a seat and fill in the first three pages of this then give it back to me. Mel will be ready for you soon. It’s good to see you, I’m sure Pink Apple can help you get back on your feet.’
‘I’m on my feet, Nancy. I just need to get paid.’
‘I get it. Hope we can help. If you don’t have an answer for one of the questions, just leave it blank.’
This is one of those terrible situations where I don’t understand what’s happening. Am I being defensive or is she being mean? I sit down with the forms. I hate forms. Especially ones with questions asking about my work experience. I have no experience other than using tills in pubs, there’s no way I can fill this form in and sound qualified for anything. Aunty Jo always told me that if I showed off my personality instead of my brains, I’ll win. She thinks that, ultimately, even when it comes to employment, people want to be around people they like. This comes from a woman who describes herself as ‘allergic’ to office culture and who now runs a garden centre. But right now, it’s the best advice I have. It’s time to let my personality shine through because, in this instance, my brains won’t get me anywhere.
* What office experience have you got? – This is a very personal question! But if you must know, I’ve only ever done it in one office. Cars on the other hand … and don’t get me started on bike sheds …
* List the Microsoft programmes you have experience with – I don’t really watch Microsoft programmes, I’m more of an EastEnders girl.
* List your qualifications – Costa del Sol Beach Karaoke winner, 2003. Puerto Banús Yard of Beer Champion two weeks running. I mean, I could go on …?
* Where do you want to be in five years? – Not unemployed and with a regular and satisfying sex life (I’d also like a successful writing career and to move to London).
I worry that one was going too far. I’ve made quite a few references to my sex life. I’m about to rub it out when—
‘Renée?’ says Nancy. I get a whiff of incense; maybe she hasn’t changed that much after all, she’s the same her, in the wrong place. ‘Mel is ready for you. Just take your forms with you, second door on the left.’
No time for edits.
Mel is about five feet nine, size 12, with big boobs and long brown hair. She looks similar in age to Aunty Jo, but the version who’s had to present herself well every day for the last twenty-five years, as opposed to Aunty Jo who has a clean pair of wellies that she wears to the shops. Mel’s nails are purple, her skin bronze, and she is wearing a tailored suit. I notice a wedding ring and a picture of two girls around my age on her desk. She looks at me as if I’ve taken her breath away. I look nice but not that nice.
‘Are they your daughters?’ I ask, referring to the picture.
‘Yes, both at uni now. I don’t know where the time went. Do you have any?’ she asks, casually. I laugh. I have never been asked if I have kids before. I would say it’s screamingly obvious that I don’t.
‘Absolutely not,’ I say, sitting down, shuddering at the thought of adding a child to the list of things that makes my life complicated. She clocks my shudder and smiles, before looking at the forms I just handed her. Her eyebrows keep shooting up and down, as if she’s an actor playing out the direction ‘respond to surprising content’. I feel like a total dick for trying to be funny, then all of a sudden, she bursts out laughing.
‘I mean, the one about the bike sheds is my favourite, what the hell?’
Phew.
‘So, the truth is I have sod-all office experience. I thought I’d make you laugh instead of impress you.’
‘Well, you made me laugh, that’s for sure. What is it you want to do? You know this is an agency for receptionist, office manager and other non-creative roles? I presume you don’t want to be a banker?’
‘No, I want to move to London and be a writer. But I’m back here because I’ve got no money and no idea where to start. I thought I’d better temp while I get myself together. I’ve probably blown it, though. Does this go down in history as the most unimpressive interview of all time?’
‘Kind of. In one way. Most people come in here sounding like they have a degree in spreadsheeting. Do you even know what a spreadsheet is?’
‘Of course, I do. It’s a flat sheet. You have to do hospital corners to make it stay on the mattress?’ I say, pleased that some of my best material is coming out in this interview.
She laughs again. And I feel proud of myself for sticking with it. I’m being myself. If I get a job out of it, great. If I don’t, it’s back behind a bar for me.
‘I want to write. That’s what I want to be doing in five years. I have no idea how to achieve this dream, but that’s what I am hoping will happen. I just need money in the meantime, and if I’m honest, I’m sick of working in bars. Drunk people are so annoying.’
‘Well, that sounds fair. OK, look, your options are quite limited because there isn’t much you can do. And don’t tell anyone I said this, but it sounds like you’d be suited to a job that allows you to use your personality, but gives you a bit of spare time to do some writing? My husband is a writer. What that actually means is that he’s never really worked because he refuses to do anything but write and I’m not sure he’s very good at it. It was useful when the kids were small, I could build the business and he sorted them out, but still, I wonder if this dream of his will ever happen. I’d quite like to be the one at home one day.’ She stops, as if surprised by how much she’s revealed. ‘Anyway, sorry, not sure why I told you that.’
