by Kiki Archer
“Did you know H.I.P stands for Harriet Imogen Pearson?”
“I did. I really have to go.”
“Channel 4. Nice to meet you. Say hello to Harriet for me if your paths ever cross.”
“Will do, will do.” Camila increased her walking speed to a trot as she rolled her eyes at herself. No, she wouldn’t. What would she say? Hi Harriet Imogen Pearson, a woman I befriended in your carpark because she had a car like mine, whose name I never actually found out, told me to say hi.
“I’m Wendy by the way.” The shout carried across the car park. “Wendy Isabelle Newman. I could be the W.I.N to her H.I.P Marketing. She’s hip, I’m a win-er.”
Camila raised her hand in receipt of the shout but didn’t turn. Gosh, it was happening already and she wasn’t even in the building. Of course a successful business entrepreneur like Harriet had been gifted a great acronym by her parents. H.I.P. She’s hip. Whether Wendy from the car park was indeed a winner would never be known, but at least her acronym was one to be proud of. Spotting the receptionist at the back of the foyer through the huge glass windows, Camila waved as she pressed the intercom button, repeating her name when requested. “Camila Moore.”
Stepping into the huge modern space, Camila walked to the perfectly polished glass reception desk that was once again smear-free. It was something she’d noticed at her interview last week and wondered whether or not she should mention… but she hadn’t and she wouldn’t. Just like she wouldn’t lie about her middle name. Obviously she’d thought about it but the people at H.I.P already had it down on her original application form and, yes, while she understood her mother’s desire to pass on her own mother’s first name, surely at some point one of her parents would have noticed, or commented? Camila smiled. No, they wouldn’t. They were old-school elderly parents. The rudest acronym they’d have heard would’ve been something like B.U.T.T or B.U.M or possibly T.I.T; yes, definitely T.I.T. Camila thought back to that one Christmas where her father had used the word to describe one of the birds pecking heartily on a fatball on the feeder only to have his three children fall about laughing because it was the most obscene sentence they’d ever heard their father say.
Would either of her parents have had a problem passing on the name Uma? No, of course not. Was it a problem for her growing up? Yes, always. A boyfriend suggesting he buy her one of those lovely necklaces made from an outline of her initials. No thank you. C.U.M was not something she wanted dangling around her neck. Or the girls on their post A Level holiday suggesting they all get tattoos of their initials below their belly buttons. C.U.M wasn’t something she wanted permanently above her pant line. Or her A Level art teacher suggesting they use their initials to create a mural of different fonts. No one wanted to see a mural of C.U.M and it certainly wouldn’t be displayed at open evening alongside all the others.
“Hi, Camila, take a seat; we’re just finalising your pass. You’ll need to wear it at all times.”
Camila looked at the piece of plastic clipped onto the receptionist’s blazer. ‘Helen Anna Howes.’ The H.A.H embossed in the same font as the H.I.P branding. She nodded. “How wonderful.”
Chapter Three
Walking back towards the mustard-coloured sofas at the foyer entrance, Camila smiled at the woman sitting alone who happened to glance her way. Yes, she wouldn’t usually make a bee-line for someone with dip-dyed pink and blonde hair, but this woman could be an employee and people like her were her people now. Sitting down she smiled again. “I like your ombre.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair. It’s called ombre, isn’t it?” Camila was sure she’d read about it in a hairdressing magazine while having her standard cut and blow dry at her non-franchised hairdresser who probably performed a hundred shampoo and sets to every ombre, but would still know what it was if asked, as did she.
“Sombre.” The woman picked up her phone from the high-gloss yellow table.
Camila waited.
“Sorry, can I help you?”
“Oh, I thought you were showing me something on your phone?”
The woman didn’t reply.
Easing out of her eager forward lean, Camila turned to adjust one of the heavy gold cushions that had caught awkwardly underneath her bottom. She dared to glance at the woman again. Nope, there definitely wasn’t anything coming back. Instead Camila turned her attention to the tall amber vase in the centre of the table. She’d noticed this last week. Lots of areas dotted around the building in varying shades of the same colour. This was the yellow waiting area in the foyer. There was a red coffee area to their right with additional seating, a green wellness area towards the back of the building with seating that actually looked quite comfortable, and an outdoor area with some light blue pod chairs and ocean-coloured rattan swing chairs.
“Sombre?” Camila couldn’t help it. Whether it was the nerves or genuine intrigue she wasn’t sure, but she needed to know. She’d need to have her finger on the pulse with all things modern if this was the world she’d now be living in.
The woman’s sigh was notable. “Subtle ombre.”
Camila looked at the bright pink and blonde hair.
The sigh sounded again. “Softer.”
Camila continued to stare.
“But going beyond balayage.”
Camila nodded. She had no clue what balayage was and the woman’s two-tone hair was anything but subtle.
“You do know what balayage is, don’t you?”
Camila nodded with force.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “What is it then?”
Camila stared. Who was this young punk? Quizzing her at 9.00 a.m. on a Monday morning as if she ran the joint. She nodded again. What if she did run the joint? What was that film she’d watched a couple of years ago about two older interns going to work at Google? They’d had no clue what they were doing but the boss turned out to be some nondescript guy they’d been nice to. The Internship. That was it. Damn. What if this woman with her non-sombre and definitely dip-dyed hair, because that garish pink and blonde certainly wasn’t subtle or soft, turned out to be the building’s boss, or one of the bosses? Should she confess or battle through? It was exactly like those times her sister’s posh friends came to visit from university and told lots of in-jokes before quizzing her with ridicule because she’d laughed awkwardly alongside them.
The woman’s expectant eyebrows were still raised. “Flamboyage?”
Oh this was getting ridiculous now. “I know how much a shampoo and set costs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cheaper than a cut and blow dry.” Camila knew because she paid attention when her hairdresser’s mostly old clientele were discussing how much it took out of their pensions.
“You think I should get a shampoo and set?”
“It might be the new frangipane.”
The pink-haired woman swiped her phone from the table, rose from her seat and waltzed off towards the ladies toilets.
Camila raised her own eyebrows. She just so happened to know that the restroom had an orange theme and probably wouldn’t calm the offence Miss Know-It-All had just taken. Grabbing her own phone from her bag, Camila Googled: ‘Ombre sombre’ – there it was balayage: A French word meaning to sweep or to paint allowing for sun-kissed natural-looking hair colour, similar to what nature gives us as children. Catching a final glimpse of the bright pink hair before it disappeared behind the orange door, Camila stared. As if that colouring was slightly more than natural. She looked back to her phone and clicked. What was the other word? Fannylarge? No. There it was. Flamboyage: A hot new trend and low maintenance hair colour technique that achieves soft peek-a-boo highlights. Dropping her phone back into her bag, Camila huffed. Oh how ridiculous. As if highlights could be peek-a-boo. What would they do? Pounce out on you? Surprise you when you least expected it? That’s what was wrong with all of this nonsense jargon – again something she’d said on her interview that might have got her the job. No nonsense was the way for
ward. That woman’s hair was garishly dip-dyed, half pink and half blonde.
“You’re here, thank goodness, come come.”
Camila turned at the sound of the high-pitched voice, drawn first to the highly coiffured quiff and shaped eyebrows then to the incredibly slim build. She looked at the young man’s name tag. Doug Oscar Gray. The D.O.G embossed heavily. Why on earth had no one mentioned to Harriet Imogen Pearson that just because something works for one person doesn’t mean it should be rolled out to the masses before true thought and research had gone into all the possible repercussions? This young man was far from dog-like and if a dog breed had to be pinned to him then a Chihuahua would fit more than the font’s heavily embossed Bulldog-type breed suggested.
“I’m Doug. You’re the last one.”
“I’ve been told to wait for my name tag.”
“Come come, we can sort it in the room.”
Grabbing her bag, Camila rose from the sofa and glanced towards the orange door. Her late-to-the-game discussion about peek-a-boo hair would have to wait. “Last one?” she queried.
“Yes yes come come.”
Following the quick legs, Camila straightened the pussy bow tie neck of the black shirt she’d chosen to wear under her fitted blazer. She’d worn a green blouse on her interview having been told by the lady in Next that her black ankle grazing trousers and black blazer could be worn daily in an office environment as long as they were accessorised with brightly coloured tops and shoes. Little did the lady in Next know what a mishmash of colours the H.I.P building was and that green blouse days would leave her clashing at coffee time in the red area and blending into the background when relaxing in the wellness area hence why she’d decided to go for black today until she had time to pay more attention to the other employees’ attire.
Adjusting the dangling material once more she debated her choice. A plain black button-down shirt would have looked too formal and there was a chance she could have been mistaken for a mime artist coming in to give a seminar on mime. She stopped herself; she was panicking; why would anyone come in to a market intelligence firm and give a seminar on mime? Either way she wouldn’t be mistaken for a mime artist today because she had a beautiful pussy bow tie neck cascading down to her middle. She yanked on it. It was getting caught on her bag strap.
Looking up at Doug who was now a good four metres ahead, she took in his outfit. Tan trousers and tan shirt. Damn, that was right: tan was the one colour that matched everything. She thought back to H.A.H on reception: a tan dress. Why hadn’t she noticed this on her interview? She knew why; she’d been too flustered and if she was honest most of the interview had been a bit of a blur, starting with the panic in the car park and judgement about non-people-carrier type people, followed by the forms she was asked to fill in whilst clashing in the coffee area. Forms that once again asked for her full name which then brought on the panic of her X-rated acronym.
Glancing back to the foyer, she looked around for another employee. What if tan was the uniform? What if tan was expected? No, surely someone would have told her… but then again no one had told her much about anything. She’d seen the job advertised online: Market Insights Analyst and was about to scroll past until she read: ideal for a ‘mum returner’. Clicking on the mum returner phrase she’d then found a whole host of other jobs for women like her, but this was the closest to home and market insights did seem to have a link, no matter how tenuous, with art and design – that’s what she’d said in her interview as well. Was that what had got her the job? She had no clue. She certainly hadn’t been expecting the phone call to say she’d been successful, let alone the first call asking her to come in and discuss her application.
Maybe it was down to the green blouse? No, definitely not, but if the Jackson Pollock-esque artwork displayed in this never-ending foyer was anything to go by she’d do well to buy some colourful patterned shirts as that style worked well in this space. She could get something floral, or maybe even animal print, then at least part of her clothing would pick up and complement whichever area of the building she happened to be in. Catching up with Doug, who was now waiting by the huge mirrored wall she’d tried to avoid looking at because of the psychedelic nature of the foyer’s clashing reflection, she realised she didn’t even know where her base would be and she certainly hadn’t noticed that there was a chrome lift in the centre of the mirrors. She’d simply arrived, filled in the forms, been walked around the ground floor by someone whose name she couldn’t remember after the car park panic, the coffee clashing and the acronym angst, before Pamela from Insights – as that’s how she’d introduced herself and spoken about herself when relating non-stop details of the hectic demands placed upon her – took her into a small side room for a chat. ‘Pamela from Insights will do it,’ the woman had said whilst recalling the demands, ‘well Pamela from Insights needs some help,’ she had announced, before concluding that ‘Pamela from Insights likes the look of you.’ And it was at this point that Camila had stared around the empty room, aware that Pamela from Insights didn’t have a particularly tough choice as she was the only one there.
Julie from next door had decided there would be hundreds going for the job because mum returner jobs were in such high demand; that’s why she should wear the green blouse to make herself stand out. They’ll call you the girl in the green shirt, she had said, before joking about the other things they’d call her: young mum, hot stuff, cute butt. The fact she didn’t even get called these things when helping out on Julie’s bacon butty van currently located next to a building site and frequented by many a cheeky workman didn’t seem to matter. Julie was being kind, trying to give her a pre-interview boost.
Catching sight of herself in the dazzling lift doors, Camila noticed her bottom, visible thanks to the fashionable cut of the fitted blazer. She smiled. Not bad for a woman her age. Maybe that’s why she got the job? Maybe she didn’t fit the mould of the mum returner. Thirty-five, two teenage boys, a long term boyfriend – their father – who’d never proposed and was now living with Jackie from the gym. No, she hadn’t gone into that much detail so that couldn’t be the reason. Whatever the reason was, she was here and she was ready to work. Doing quite what she wasn’t sure as the chat with Pamela from Insights had been very wordy, just like the online job description. Yes, Camila had started by introducing herself and giving her spiel on art, design, simple solutions, substance over style and the ridiculousness of nonsense jargon, but then Pamela had cut in with a lot of discussion about whether she’d be able to produce continuous reporting and ad hoc requests delivered in an accurate and timely manner. She’d nodded. Following this was the question about analysing multiple sets of data and creating outputs to help inform a business about market dynamics and competitive activity. She’d nodded again, before actually nodding with force when asked if she could create new and improved techniques and solutions for data collection, management, and usage. That had meant filing. This whole thing was probably about filing. Collecting the data, sorting the data, filing the data. She could do that, plus she was always finding fault with things and musing potential solutions – take this morning’s brainwave about the hand car wash buffing cloths for instance – so if blue sky thinking was required then it shouldn’t be a problem at all.
Bottom line was, she was here, in a lift, with Doug the DOG, rising up to a floor she didn’t know existed. She eyeballed her own reflection. She just had to roll with it. Admittedly if this had happened on a university interview all those years ago she’d have been alert, aware and anticipating everything, but once you’d had children you quickly realised you had very little control over your life. You simply spent your parenting years stumbling from one issue to another. They’re born, you try not to drop them or smother them. They start eating, you try not to choke them or poison them. They walk, you try not to trip over them or lose them. They use the toilet once, you think potty training’s over, it’s not. They climb out of the cot bed, you get door gates. They climb o
ver the door gates, you secure all exits. They talk, you watch what you say. They start school, you field their homework, their projects, the horrific school PTFA, not to mention the friends, the mothers of the friends and the after-school activities. Then there are the sports clubs and the fixtures that intensify at secondary school. Plus, there’s technology and the internet, and suddenly here are the girlfriends and the beards, and you’re supposed to do all this with the support of your partner, but she’d had to do it alone. Mostly.
Okay, so Mick had been present, but only in the loosest of ways. No, that was wrong. He’d provided an income. He still did. Yes, it had been tight and they wouldn’t have had the luxuries they’d had without her part time jobs here and there, but they were far from poor and she’d certainly not had a bad life, just a blurred life: non-stop, lived for others, barely time to breathe.
“Go go go, room five on the right. I’ll be next door.”
Camila stepped out of the lift. This was exactly like the time she’d been asked to help out last minute at the primary school Christmas nativity. She’d had no clue what was going on but had made herself useful. So now, if room five wanted her room five’s where she would be.
Chapter Four
Glancing up and down the first floor corridor, Camila noticed an actual hubbub. People, presumably workers, were actually working. There were comings and goings from the multitude of numbered rooms feeding off the corridor on both sides, and what looked like a large open-plan call centre with numerous work stations at one end and a theatre set-up with big screen and stage at the other. It was as if the corridor was a pulsing vein connecting the beating heart and working brain. Stepping back, Camila made space for a woman marching past with a folder in her hand and a communication set on her head. There wasn’t actually any need for her to retreat, the corridor wasn’t narrow, but it felt appropriate given the woman’s obvious importance and her own newbie status within the firm. Strange though that Pamela from Insights hadn’t shown her the whole building. Maybe it was a security clearance thing? Maybe they were testing top secret products? Smiling and excited, Camila crossed the corridor to room five. To knock or not to knock? She lifted her hand but didn’t get chance to decide.
