Just As You Are

by Kate Mathieson

  ‘Well, then, I’ve got some good news for you.’ She took a long sip of coffee. ‘Oh, God, caffeine, what would I do without it?’ She paused and closed her eyes. ‘Sorry, I just need to let this soak in. I got a total of three hours’ sleep last night. I’m like an eternal zombie.’ Tansy downed her coffee in three large gulps. ‘Anyway, it’s a favour.’

  ‘For me, or you, or someone else?’

  ‘For everyone possibly.’ Tansy got out her phone and started scrolling. ‘When I heard you were back in town, I put out some feelers, and, well, I may have mentioned you worked in PR in London.’ Tansy looked up at me. ‘Anyway, I talked to Jess and Mona, and they talked to Beattie, and she talked to a few other people.’

  When I looked blank, Tansy said, ‘Friends from my previous life, when I worked at Sony and Universal.’ Aha, I twigged. Tansy used to be a senior manager in marketing and sales, which meant we’d got a lot of red-carpet premiere tickets and stacks of free DVDs. We all missed those days a bit. ‘And they know someone, who knows someone else, who’s looking for a PR and events person.’

  I sat up straighter, and felt a tingle of excitement rush through my body. ‘I could do that.’

  I imagined travelling across Sydney, maybe even Australia. Putting on events, meeting clients, maybe they’d even let me draw the designs for an ad campaign, or an event invitation.

  Tansy nodded. ‘I know you could! Which is maybe why I told them you were really experienced.’

  ‘How experienced?’ I bit my lip.

  ‘Well, that you’d had a lot of international experience, and had run your own events before, and been a PR superstar really.’ She looked bashful. ‘I think I just got carried away, because I wanted you to find a job so you actually stayed in Sydney, rather than leaving us again.’ Her face looked crumpled and sad.

  ‘Oh, Tansy! I’m here to stay now. Promise.’ I gulped. ‘But I have nowhere near that experience.’

  Suddenly her face flushed with excitement. ‘I haven’t told you the best bit yet – the job is with Maker.’

  My heart thumped in my chest. Maker was the place to work. It was a swish multi-service PR and media, events, advertising and marketing firm, with a stellar reputation. They were known as creative, funky with a cool edge, and the one of the leading companies in Australia. People were excited about working at Maker, because it meant international job offers would literally drop at your feet. After a few years you could walk out of Maker and stride into a top job in New York, or London, or Italy.

  I paused. ‘Is there a reason they don’t want someone else, who’s actually amazing? I know you talked me up, but surely there are hundreds of people more qualified and dying to work at Maker?’

  ‘Ah,’ Tansy said. ‘Well, they need someone who wants to do the work, and doesn’t mind, ah, how do I put this? Being paid a nominal amount.’

  ‘You mean tiny.’

  She nodded. ‘I mean tiny.’

  ‘What exactly is that, in dollar figures?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly, they wouldn’t let on, just they didn’t have the full budget to cover what they wanted, so they’re looking for someone who wants to get Maker on their CV, and doesn’t mind “getting dirty”. I take that to mean what it normally does in corporate speak, which is doing a LOT of work, long hours with bad pay. But it will work out in the end for you.’

  ‘It will work out in the end,’ I repeated her words, thinking that if I had Maker on my CV I could get a job anywhere after that. I could be in Paris again. Or Rome. Or London. Or even better – in just a few years I could create my own PR firm in a small town, and then paint on the weekends – yes! I could do this!

  ‘Of course, you’re going to have to apply, just like everyone else. But at least they know to look out for you, and I’m sure they’ll give you an interview,’ Tansy said, handing me a scrap of paper with Maker’s details.

  ‘But my CV? I mean, I don’t really have that experience,’ I worried.

  ‘Em, you’ve travelled around the world by yourself for almost a decade. I’m sure you can handle some press releases and putting on some events.’

  ‘True, but wouldn’t I be lying?’

  ‘Who doesn’t lie a little on their CV?’ She shrugged. ‘Isn’t that a given? No one believes in the honesty and integrity of CVs.’ She laughed loudly. ‘Now, here comes my lemon pie!’

  Right on cue, Brie dropped her dummy and started bawling as if a thousand ants had just bit her. Tansy had to abort the lemon pie mission because, instead of calming down, Brie got even louder, her red face now nearing a troubling shade of purple. Finally, Tansy picked Brie up in a wrestler-style grip, threw some money down on the counter, and waved as she stormed out – yelling, ‘Another time soon!’

  I think I must have had a horrified look on my face. I was sitting looking at an empty chair, and a lone little piece of lemon pie, knowing I’d have to eat it.

  She was halfway down the path when she yelled back, ‘And for God’s sake, apply for that job!’

  Chapter 6

  ‘So how long will you be with us?’ Mum asked one afternoon, shooing my feet off the couch. I was watching Wonder Woman, and wondering where I could get a pair of gold wrist cuffs, and how I’d learn to ride a stallion bareback. Wonder Woman would never have had to fudge her CV a little.

  ‘On this earth?’ I asked. ‘I plan to be around a little longer, thanks for asking.’

  ‘Here. Home, Emma.’ Mum bustled about the living room with a duster, flicking off imaginary nano-particles of dust. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to get yourself started, a job, a house.’

  ‘Mum, I’ve literally been home for a few days, and am so jet-lagged I was up last night until the sun was coming up, wired like I’d been drinking too much coffee.’

  ‘Emma, you’re not in your twenties any more. You need a plan. Goals.’

  I did have a plan. A three-step plan. Step 1, I needed a job, and, just as I put that out into the universe, along came Maker. The idea of applying had been running through my head ever since Tansy had mentioned it a week ago. But I’d been procrastinating at the thought of having to lie on my CV to get a job. I didn’t mind a slight tweak here and there – I mean, who didn’t do that? Even so, changing my CV more than that, made me feel horribly guilty. But all the other jobs I’d applied for, I’d received that terrible standard email:

  We regret to inform you that you have not been successful in your application for this role. We will keep your CV on file for any other relevant roles we have in the future.

  Trouble was, my CV would be filed away and no one would probably ever look at it again. At last count, I’d applied for a total of 27 roles in PR, jobs more junior than I wanted, with measly little salaries, but I’d failed to even get an interview for them. Tansy had given my CV a onceover and told me honestly, ‘Em, this isn’t going to cut it in the Sydney market. You were probably lucky to score that London gig. Basically all you did in your last role was file and answer phones.’

  ‘And make coffee.’

  ‘Right.’ I could hear her sigh. ‘That’s not PR at all.’

  ‘I know. The things I did just to travel around Europe.’

  ‘Well, you could apply to be an office assistant. Are you interested in that? You’d probably be snapped up in a second.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, if I was you, I’d just fake it until you make it. You’re capable Em, you’re smart and savvy, and you said you listened to everyone in PR even if you didn’t do the tasks, at least you understand what they’re talking about.’

  But, I wasn’t so sure. Instead, I’d sent my CV to a few recruiters, most hadn’t responded, but Shirley Henderson from Blue Recruiting, had given me a quick call and suggested a graduate intern program would be perfect, if I was looking to get my foot in the door.

  ‘In fact, we have openings for the next program at Ludrum, starting in three months!’

  ‘Three months?’ That felt so far away. My mind started to wor
ry about paying bills and finding a new home without a job.

  ‘Yes, and I know they’d love you Emma. You’d get to rotate around all the different teams, copywriting, social media, publicity and media.’

  ‘OK.’ I said warming a little to the idea. ‘What’s the salary?’

  Shirley laughed. ‘Oh Emma, it’s not a paid position, but when you finish the program in a year, it could set you up for a role as a PR Assistant.’

  There didn’t seem to be many options left, and my bank balance didn’t look as healthy as it had in England – everything was going out, and nothing was coming in. And Tansy had said she’d pulled a few strings to get my CV noticed, but it needed work.

  For the next few days, I kept thinking, a chance to work at Maker? Tansy was right, working at Maker opened doors into any future you wanted. Finally, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to just look at the role. I sat on my bed and flicked open the job link Tansy had given me. There it was, PR and Events Advisor, Maker. The job described multiple events, working across well-known labels and companies, and government. I scanned Maker’s list of clients – many of whom were on the front of the Sunday papers, in fact on the front and centre of all papers, and every news site. They were in every sector, in every industry.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened my CV, and started tweaking it a little. The Los Tacos nightmare place became LoTa, a chic Spanish PR firm, where I managed all the events (aka food ordering, waitressing and children’s parties). I felt bad about this one, but it had only been five months, so it wasn’t like I was pretending it was five years.

  My PR Assistant coffee girl days became Creative PR Advisor and Event Coordinator (because when taking meeting notes, I’d been privy to a lot of senior executive discussions. How to ‘spin’ things. How to create a ‘brand’. How to ‘pitch’. Even if I hadn’t really done that much of it myself. And towards the end they had allowed me to draft press releases, blogs and social media posts even though I wasn’t sure they were actually published.)

  And my Bali days became PR Executive, connecting Australians with Indonesia, building international relationships, and raising the media profile (well, I did get an IT guy to create a website where I sold jewellery. That was media-ish).

  I googled PR résumés and copied over words they used to make me sound irresistible. When it was finished, I had to admit I sounded like a PR superstar. But I couldn’t send it. I couldn’t pretend this amazing PR woman was me. It was way too far from the truth. So, I took out the glitzy senior PR words and responsibilities. But without them, my CV seemed bland and junior. No wonder I hadn’t made it through to any interviews.

  And, I thought back to what Tansy had said earlier. Who doesn’t lie a bit on their CV?

  So, I put a smattering of the glitzy PR buzz words, responsibilities and achievements I’d supposedly had back in and thought, there, I’ve only fudged this a bit. Feeling nervous, and still with a pang of guilt, I took a deep breath, before sending my CV to the amazing powers that be, whispering prayers of hope. Please, please, please.

  ***

  A week later, I got a call from Maker’s recruitment team informing me I’d made it through to an interview. I was so stunned I couldn’t even speak. When they asked me what time I could make it in, I breathlessly said, ‘Any time,’ and when they asked me to spell my last name, it took me three times to get it right, I kept fumbling over the letters ‘o’ and ‘n’ and, to make up for it, or some other odd reason, I started speaking in a really posh English accent, as if that excused everything.

  When I put down the phone in astonishment, I ran around the house in my tracksuit pants doing a dancing victory lap. Thank God my mother wasn’t there because I almost knocked over some ancient gold urn/vase thing from Italy that she loved so much, I was sure I’d seen her pray to it.

  Maker’s recruitment team emailed through all the job details. My interview was with Donna Allbright, Associate Creative Director (three PR buzz words that meant nothing – but everything) and head of the specialist events team. They sent me through a full position description for the PR and Events Advisor role, which was a whopping seven pages long.

  Finally, disclosed at the bottom of the email was the salary, in measly little numbers. Tansy was right, it was tiny. Teeny tiny. I wouldn’t be able to afford renting a mid-city apartment. No café lunches. No morning espressos. It would take me at least fifteen years before I even had enough to consider a deposit for a parking spot, let alone a house. In fact, I was looking at a Kmart budget. Beans on toast. Wearing the same work trousers three days a week – would people notice?

  But it was worlds away from working on burrito Tuesday, and I was willing to do anything to not be covered in deep-fryer grease. It’s a stepping stone, I kept telling myself. It means in two years I could go anywhere. Plus, I needed to get out of my family’s house – I’d already had enough of High Knees Lorna, who this morning had strode into my room at the crack of dawn, and poured water on me from a glass, so I could ‘get prepared’ for aqua aerobics. I needed my own place, like yesterday.

  ***

  Maker was located right in the middle of Sydney, a plush building, with black funky wallpaper and chandelier lighting. The entrance looked like a slick bachelor pad, all expensive black leather and white patent leather ottomans, the walls lined with the kind of geometric graphic print people raved about, but I thought looked like a wonky zebra. Just looking at it made me feel drunk.

  There was a large TV screen that hung down over the two identical male receptionists, both with big blue eyes and light brown hair in topknot buns. The screen was flashing through headlines so fast I couldn’t keep up. It was flickering like a strobe light and I felt I might have a panic attack or epileptic fit if I kept watching it.

  I sat in the foyer, waiting for Donna Allbright, trying not to stick to the black leather chair. Out of habit, I started nervously scrolling on my phone. But that wasn’t professional, was it? I put my phone in my old – and slightly frayed if you looked really close – faux-leather black bag and zipped it up. There wasn’t one magazine or newspaper on the table to flick through. I was just about to reach back in and pull out my phone to search PR trends, when the elevator doors opened and a woman walked straight towards me.

  She towered above me in stilettos so high and pointy I could never balance in them, even if I was holding onto a wall. They were black and shiny as if she’d just dipped them in a fresh coat of lacquer. Her perfect slim legs were encased in slightly pleated black wool pants, and she had on a silk top with pearl buttons. Her blonde hair was long and had an unbrushed, sex-hair look. She had barely there natural-looking make-up and the focus was drawn to her bright red lips. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced. I bet she never needed a contouring kit. Her eyebrows were immaculately perfect – full and arched. She looked French. She looked designer. She looked like everything little girls ever hoped to be when they grew up.

  ‘Emma.’ She smiled thinly as though she’d never want to admit she was in the same room as me. I stood and hoped my palms weren’t sweaty. But she didn’t offer her hand. She just said a quick, breathy, ‘Follow,’ and led the way through the swanky foyer to the lift, which we rode for a long time in silence, into the sky.

  Level 46 was a floor of colourful meeting rooms. Donna led me into a pink room – literally everything was pink.

  ‘This is the black room.’ She smiled elegantly, taking a seat in a fuchsia chaise, as if we were in her living room.

  ‘Huh?’ I stood there awkwardly like a maid who didn’t know if she should sit or bow or dust something.

  ‘Black room. You know, it’s like …’ she waved her perfectly manicured hand around the blush room ‘… ironic.’

  ‘Of course.’ I nodded too energetically and sat on the small pink stool opposite. But the way the stool was positioned meant I couldn’t quite cross my legs, so I sat with my knees open, and my body slightly forward, as if on a toilet, whilst she lay about, on the chaise, as though she
were about to welcome a lover.

  ‘Remember, this is just a casual and informal chat. That’s how we like our interviews. It’s much more organic. Feel free to be who you are. We take that very seriously here.’ Donna paused. ‘So. What are you about, Emma?’

  What was I about? Suddenly all I could think about was ice cream and lying on the couch in sweats and my mum wanting me to go with her to aqua aerobics. But she wasn’t asking what I did on the weekend. She was asking me to sell myself, my work ethic. I hadn’t forgotten how these job interview questions were set up.

  ‘Coffee,’ I said quickly. So quickly I hadn’t even begun to formulate what I even meant by that.

  ‘Coffee?’ Donna’s lips turned up slightly; was it in amusement or was it a sneer?

  ‘Yes, coffee. Firstly, I love it. Don’t you? And it’s, um, well, everyone drinks it. You know? In fact, people crave it. Every day. They line up at their favourite place. They’ll travel long distances to get their favourite cup. And the people who haven’t had it don’t know they crave it yet, but they do. They will.’

  ‘And so, you’re, um, saying that you’re … coffee?’ Donna looked dubious. She was looking over my shoes, my pants, my top, my bargain four-dollar necklace – could she tell they were all cheap knock-offs? Was she wondering, if I was coffee, what did that make her – vintage Cristal Champagne that cost over tenthousand dollars a bottle?

  ‘No, I’m the person selling the coffee. Behind the coffee. I’m the one who makes you want coffee, even when you don’t.’ I wriggled around a bit in my seat feeling quite uncomfortable.

  ‘So that sounds like you want to be a barista?’ She did an empty little laugh.

  ‘Well, I think coffee can be anything. You know? You could switch it out for a car. Or a lifestyle. I think creating intrigue and need is about understanding how to angle something,’ I said, trying desperately to steer our chat back into the world of PR and the role I really wanted.