The Woman Who Met Her Match

by Fiona Gibson

  ‘Well, these are our all-day lip shades – they stay put through drinking, kissing, everything really – but it’s best to outline first. Our true red pencil works with both of these shades, it’s a brilliant all-rounder, and we also do a lip base which keeps the colour in place even longer …’ I am frantically up-selling now, and a twinge of desperation has crept into my voice that’s never there normally. The words BUSINESS BEAUTY pulse into my brain, and I picture Dennis Clatterbrock with his pie charts and graphs, his market-leading screen washes and stock cubes.

  My customer sighs and tries both of the lipsticks again on the back of her hand. ‘I’m really not sure …’

  ‘Take your time,’ I say, picturing a huge clock ticking.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I have to dash off. I don’t suppose you have any samples, do you? Just so I can get used to wearing red for a day or so …’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say without thinking, as we do in fact have chic cardboard folders containing four tiny vials of colour, with a mini brush.

  I make my way over to the freebies cupboard. Like a hostile Alsatian, Sonia appears to be guarding it. ‘Excuse me,’ I start, ‘could I just get something from the cupboard please?’

  ‘Oh!’ She feigns surprise. ‘Yes, of course.’ She shuffles to one side, allowing me just enough room to crouch down and open it. I rummage about, aware of her glaring at me as if I might be accessing crack cocaine. Grabbing a sample of lip colours, I straighten up and hand it to my customer.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ she says, then strides away, the letters NPC flashing neon-bright above her – but what was I supposed to have done? Lied, and said we had no samples to give out, and cuffed her on the head for wasting approximately twelve minutes of stool time?

  With Sonia watching – she makes no attempt to engage with customers or make pleasantries with us, her underlings – the day crawls along agonisingly slowly. Only when I spot Gilda, my elegant older customer, do my spirits rise.

  ‘Gilda!’ I exclaim, over exuberantly. ‘Lovely to see you again.’

  She looks a little startled – she probably doesn’t remember me – then taps her female companion on the arm. After briefly conferring, they turn towards me. ‘Hello,’ Gilda says warmly. ‘I was hoping to see you again. I was telling my friend – this is Kathryn – that I’ve been using the bits I bought from you, and it’s been quite fun!’

  ‘I’m so glad to hear that,’ I say. ‘Have you done your presentation yet? You mentioned—’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m amazed you remembered. Yes, it went well. I did feel quite, well, professional, you know. Sort of different, all made up …’

  Kathryn smiles proudly. ‘Gilda’s being modest. She’s chair of the board of a children’s charity and just nailed a hugely lucrative partnership …’

  ‘… In fully made-up armour,’ Gilda says, laughing.

  As we fall into a chat about her work-related travelling – ‘She’s off to Guatemala in September,’ Kathryn adds – Sonia’s hostile presence seems to fade, and I start to feel more positive. Instead of being the kind of person who can’t stand up to her own mother, perhaps I’ll blossom into being this sort of older lady: assured and confident, full of adventure and fun.

  ‘Well, it’s been lovely seeing you again,’ Gilda says warmly.

  ‘You too. Do drop by any time. Our new autumn colours are due in any day …’

  ‘I might just do that,’ she says, smiling, as she and Kathryn make their way towards the lifts.

  Sonia steps towards me. ‘Well, not much happening around here today, is there?’

  ‘Oh, it’s been really busy actually.’ I sense myself starting to sweat.

  ‘You were chatting for quite a while there, though, when you could have been traffic stopping …’

  ‘I did, I stopped Gilda and Kathryn—’

  ‘… Grabbing friends doesn’t count.’

  I catch Andi giving me an incredulous look.

  ‘They’re not friends,’ I murmur. ‘I’ve only met Gilda once before, and she bought lots of products then—’

  ‘But not this time,’ Sonia observes curtly.

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘So it was wasted time.’

  I open my mouth to speak, to justify and defend myself, but can’t think of how to do it. ‘Can I just ask,’ I manage, aware of Helena’s anxious glances as my cheeks start to glow, ‘what we’re supposed to do in that sort of situation?’

  Sonia looks momentarily put out. ‘Well, I don’t know. That’s your job, isn’t it? It just shouldn’t happen, at least not as frequently as I’ve observed in the short time I’ve been standing here …’

  ‘So, what should I do? Punish them somehow?’ My heart seems to be banging audibly. I know I’m being difficult and now I can’t stop. ‘It’s hard, though,’ I go on, ‘because they haven’t actually done anything wrong, have they? I mean, it’s not as if they’ve stolen anything – unless you count stool time …’

  My chest tightens as we stare at each other. Sonia swallows, her mouth pursed, her fingers balled into tight little fists. She glances round at Helena, who’s pretending to tidy the counter. I look at my new boss, realising how badly I’m handling this ‘new direction’, the direction of pie charts and market share and hard sell …

  Sonia’s nostrils flare as she smooths back her hair. ‘Can we grab a quick coffee in the canteen please, Lorrie?’ she asks in an eerily pleasant voice. ‘I’m sure your team can manage things here.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Craig has left his Tupperware carton open, emitting its fishy whiff, on the communal table.

  ‘So,’ Sonia starts, fixing me with a cool gaze from the opposite seat, ‘I think it might be helpful to clear up a few things between us.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I just meant—’

  ‘I’ve never been spoken to in that manner at work,’ she adds crisply.

  I nod. ‘I know and I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, you don’t know, Lorrie. It might be the way you’ve always conducted yourself but—’

  ‘It’s not!’ I cut in. ‘I was just … a bit het up, I suppose, with all the changes that are happening. I mean, it’s come as quite a shock, the whole take-over thing …’

  ‘These take-over-things have to be kept strictly confidential until they’re finalised …’

  ‘Yes, I realise that, and of course I always try to make a sale. I know it’s important. It’s just, I find that customers are put off if I come on too strong …’ I tail off and glance at the cluster of chipped mugs sitting by the sink. There’s been no further mention of hot drinks. Clearly, neither of us is desperate for instant coffee spooned from the industrial-sized tin of indeterminate age.

  ‘The thing is,’ she says, adopting a patronising tone now, as if addressing a child, ‘at Geddes and Cox we need salespeople who embrace change.’

  ‘Oh, I do! I really do. I love change.’ A desperate edge has crept into my voice.

  ‘Are you sure? Because that’s not the impression I got just now.’

  ‘No, well, I’m fine with it, truly. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Sonia examines a perfectly oval fingernail and looks back at me. ‘Because … well, it’s difficult to say this, but in my experience a resistance to change is often … an age issue.’

  I blink at her. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well … the younger ones, Helena and Ally …’ Andi. Her name’s Andi, for goodness’ sake. ‘… I get the impression they’re more open to our new way of doing things than you are …’ No, they’re just too scared to speak out! ‘Busying away, they were, while you were standing there gossiping about the music school that woman’s planning to set up in Rio de Janeiro or wherever it was …’

  ‘Guatemala,’ I murmur. My nose is tingling, threatening to start running and, ridiculously, I can feel tears welling up behind my eyes. An hour ago I was all chuffed with myself for finally getting hold of Walter Fadgett and securing his £8.50-a
n-hour village hall. Now I’m being ticked off by a woman who’s never sold a lipstick in her entire life. ‘I like to show an interest in our customers’ lives,’ I offer feebly.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s all very nice, but back to the age issue …’ She pauses, and a feeling of dread judders up my body. Perhaps she is considering ‘retiring’ me, like a greyhound that’s past its useful racing life? Am I to be packed off to a home for knackered old beauty salespeople? Sonia leans forward. ‘In my experience, Lorrie, the older staff are the ones who want to keep things rattling along in the same old way, year in, year out …’

  Oh, God. She views me as the team dinosaur. She’s going to have me put down.

  ‘… And I have to say, your refusal to embrace new ideas really worries me.’

  I look down and twiddle the delicate antique ring that Mum gave me for my fortieth birthday. I assumed she had long disposed of the jewellery Dad had given her – offloading it to those suspect types who turn up at the door, saying, WE WILL BUY ALL YOUR GOLD (yes, for about £2.50), and I was surprised and delighted to be given this piece.

  ‘I am happy to embrace new ideas,’ I murmur. ‘The conference was only yesterday and I stood up and spoke in front of everyone. I hope you saw then how committed I am, and how passionate about the brand …’ And how, as single parent to two teenagers, I damn well need to cling onto this job.

  ‘Are you, though?’ Sonia asks.

  ‘Yes, of course! Have you looked at my figures? There’s hardly a week when I haven’t met target and most of the time I’m well over. In fact, last year I was one of the top salespeople in the whole of the South East. Perhaps, if you could spend more time at the counter—’

  ‘I don’t have time to nursemaid anyone,’ she snaps.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ I manage to squeak out, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears.

  Sonia sighs. ‘Okay, but I want to make it absolutely clear that we need key team members to stay on message. Can we rely on you to do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say weakly, feeling as if I’ve been slapped.

  ‘Well, that’s what I needed to hear, Lorrie.’ She stands up and dusts down the seat of her dress, as if the hessian chair might have contaminated it. ‘Let’s get back to the floor, then. We all have work to do.’

  There’s no further discussion as we travel down to the ground floor. At the counter, she bids us a rather terse goodbye before zooming away.

  Helena scuttles over. ‘What the hell was that all about?’

  ‘Oh, she just wanted a little chat about me staying on message …’ I shake my head as if it was nothing.

  ‘Christ, she didn’t give you a hard time, did she?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say, unable to face going into it now. ‘Just, you know, stuff about company policy …’

  ‘You look pretty shaken up,’ Helena says gently.

  I inhale and fix on a big smile as a potential customer wanders towards our counter.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, turning to the woman as she tries a concealer on her wrist. ‘Hi, can I help at all?’

  ‘Oh yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m not sure if I should buy a concealer or just a more concealing base …’

  I start to explain our range with its wondrous skin- enhancing properties. As she hops obligingly onto the stool, I make a silent vow to stay on message – of course I will. I’ll have one of Dennis Clatterbrock’s sodding pie charts tattooed onto my forehead if that’s what it takes.

  *

  I don’t plan to go over the whole sorry episode that evening at home. It won’t help matters and, anyway, there’s nothing I can do. Sonia already has me down as a pusher of free lip colour samples, and who knows where that might lead? Next thing, I’ll be lurking in alleyways and slipping passers-by full-sized pots of Ultra-Deluxe Creme de la Nuit. In fact, as I travel home on the tube, I’m wondering whether a new career might be in order, but how does a forty-six-year-old woman go about changing direction? Oh, I know glossy magazines are full of enterprising types who threw in their humdrum administrative jobs and started making chutney, and now they’re supplying Waitrose and being festooned with chutney rosettes … but does that actually happen to people like me?

  Stu has always been a radial direction-changer. ‘Forever between things,’ as his ex put it, but that wasn’t quite true. And now, when I think about it, his various employments – mechanic, manager of a motorbike shop that was swallowed up by a bigger company (hmm, familiar), followed by a hair-raising stint as a motorcycle courier and now the driving force behind the dispatching of emergency goji berries (or was that last season, and it’s all about dried cherries now?) … well, I can see there’s been some logical progression. But what am I good at, apart from peddling serum?

  My seemingly faltering career is the last thing I want to discuss as I step into our house. I call out a cheery hello from the hallway, and poke my head around the living room door where Amy and Stu are chatting companionably about her forthcoming holiday with Bella’s family.

  ‘We haven’t eaten yet,’ Stu remarks. ‘Thought we’d wait for you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great, thanks. I’ll just get changed …’

  I head up to my room, grateful to pull off my tunic, trousers and shoes – it feels like shrugging off Sonia’s disapproval – and slip on my comfiest PJs, ignoring the niggling thought that dressing for bed at 7.35 p.m. is a terribly old-person thing to do. So what? I’m not under scrutiny now. I cleanse off my make-up, splashing on cold water again and again until my skin feels as shiny-clean as a baby’s.

  Installed at the kitchen table, I sense the day’s tensions ebbing away as Stu regales me with tales of a woman in Kilburn who had some kind of breakdown because he hadn’t managed to source a particular kind of cheese. ‘Ass cheese,’ he says flatly.

  ‘What?’ Amy snorts, having been lured through by the aroma of spicy chicken sizzling in the pan.

  ‘Well, Balkan donkey actually,’ Stu corrects himself. ‘The thing is, I can usually get hold of the stuff, but my trusty deli has discontinued the line.’

  I chuckle and try, unsuccessfully, to focus on the delicious plateful Stu has put in front of me. However, the spectre of Sonia Richardson sneaks back into my mind and I can barely finish it.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Stu asks as I set down my cutlery.

  I nod. ‘Just a bit of an off day, that’s all. I did manage to book a new venue for Mum’s wedding, though—’

  ‘Oh, that’s great!’ he exclaims.

  ‘But then our new boss came to the store, and well, she seems to think I’m too gnarly and ancient to get to grips with the New Way, and basically I have the wrong attitude.’

  ‘You don’t look old,’ Amy insists.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ I mutter.

  ‘Seriously – I mean it. You look younger than Cecily …’ She shovels in her dinner with her customary gusto.

  ‘Amy, that’s just not true.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You could pass for, um …’ She falters. ‘Forty!’

  I smile unsteadily. ‘It’s not really about that anyway. It’s more …’ I shrug. ‘It’s the inside of me that’s old. I’m set in my ways, apparently, afraid of change …’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Stu insists. ‘D’you know, without you I’d never have had the nerve to set up the business? Apart from Bob, you’re the only person who didn’t think I was a raving nutjob …’

  ‘Actually,’ I say with a smile, ‘I do think you’re a raving nutjob.’

  He grins as Amy gets up from the table and delves into the cookie jar before wandering away, munching a cookie. ‘Oh, c’mon,’ he adds. ‘I hate seeing you like this. Tell you what, why don’t we do something tomorrow to cheer you up? We could get out of London, head for the coast, I’ll take us somewhere on my bike …’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I can’t. I have the pleasure of taking Mum wedding dress shopping tomorrow …’

  ‘But she has a dress. I had the pleasure of see
ing her modelling it.’

  ‘I really am so sorry about that,’ I say, shuddering.

  ‘Not your fault …’

  ‘… And anyway, she’s decided it’s not suitable so we’re going to find another one, and then we’re checking out the village hall I’ve booked, to see if it passes muster …’

  ‘Right. So, you’ll need a drink after all that, won’t you? How about we do something tomorrow night? Bob can cover deliveries—’

  I pause and look at him. ‘I’m out tomorrow night too.’

  ‘Ah, right. Meeting Pearl?’

  ‘No … Antoine.’

  I catch him giving me an inscrutable look. ‘Antoine? You mean orange-for-a-face Antoine?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say with an awkward laugh.

  Stu frowns. ‘What’s he doing in London?’

  ‘He’s here on business …’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, because he has a breakfast meeting on Monday and needs to make an early start.’

  Stu looks nonplussed at this, and wanders over to the sink to fill the kettle, turning on the mixer tap with such force it spurts all over the front of his T-shirt. ‘Shit!’

  I try to suppress a smile. ‘You know not to turn it on too hard.’

  He mutters something under his breath, tugs off his T-shirt and drapes it over the back of a chair. Clad just in jeans now, I’m surprised to see how tanned he is; he must’ve been topping it up in the garden between deliveries.

  ‘You’re not … being funny about this, are you?’ I venture.

  ‘No, of course not. It’s great to see you getting out and about.’

  I chuckle. ‘You’re making it sound as if I’m ninety-seven.’

  His face creases into a smile. ‘Yeah, well, keep your wits about you, won’t you? Don’t let him feel you up inside a smelly old tweed jacket …’

  ‘I promise you, there’ll be none of that.’

  He nods, seemingly reassured. ‘So where are you meeting him?’

  ‘At his hotel.’

  ‘His hotel?’ Stu splutters.

  I open the washing machine door and crouch down to stuff in Amy’s dirty laundry from the plastic basket. I really must train her to attend to such duties herself. ‘Yes, in the bar,’ I say, bewildered by his parental attitude. He didn’t make this kind of fuss when I was setting off to meet Beppie who just fancied a quick shag, or three- teeth-Marco.