And What Do You Do?

by Sarah Long

  ‘James wants to see me at three o’clock. I thought I should just ring to check there was champagne in the fridge. I’ve got a feeling this could be good news.’

  ‘Don’t count your chickens,’ said Laura, hating herself for sounding like her mother. ‘Maybe he’s going to fire you.’

  ‘Oh Laura, my little prophet of doom, come on, be excited for me! I’ve been waiting for this!’

  ‘OK, I’m excited for you. But ring me afterwards when you’ve got the details. I’ll need some stimulating news from the real world after my team lunch with the Full-Time Mothers.’

  ‘Oh is that today? Don’t worry, you’ll be back in the rat race soon enough, then you’ll wonder why you bothered. Au revoir, chérie, I love you. Bye-bye.’

  He hung up and doodled on his pad. It could mean a move, of course. London, maybe even New York. Best not to mention that to Laura until it was sure. She would be on for it, anyway.

  That was the advantage of an Anglo-Saxon wife: they transplanted well. Not like the French, who complained and clung tenaciously to their roots – he had seen it before amongst his colleagues, passed over for promotion because their wives refused to abandon the home country.

  Vincent Bernard’s wife had tried to explain it to him once. ‘Tu comprends, Jean-Laurent, Paris, c’est comme ma maison!’ Jean-Laurent had felt this was a pretty weak excuse for standing in a man’s way. After all, if Paris could be your home, why not any other city, particularly as it usually meant another rung up the ladder and a more sumptuous maison to boot. And look at poor old Vincent now, sidelined in the domestic market with no hope of promotion. He hoped his wife realised what she had done.

  He went into his emails and saw he had a reply from the human resources director in New York. Good, that would be about the payment of a bonus owing to him from last year; he had been chasing it up for weeks. The message was actually addressed to the financial director, with Jean-Laurent copied in for information. He read it, then read it again. It must be a mistake. They had got the wrong person. He checked his name. Jean-Laurent de Saint Léger. It was written in English; maybe he had misunderstood.

  He reached up for his dictionary. There must be another meaning of ‘severance’. Perhaps it was a coded Anglo-Saxon term for massive promotion or extremely big job. But the only translations Larousse offered were rupture and cessation. He stared back at the screen. There it was, that bald sentence. ‘Perhaps this could be included as part of the severance package.’ It must be a joke.

  He quickly typed in his reply – ‘What does this mean? Please explain more clearly.’ – then waited for the embarrassed disclaimer. It wouldn’t come immediately, of course; it was only 6 a.m. in New York. By the time they got into the office, he would have had his meeting with James.

  He walked to the window and gazed across the Seine. That fabulous view – not something you would waste on someone you intended to fire. They would have fobbed him off with the ventilation shaft if that were the plan. Or given him no window at all. Plenty of people had windowless offices – the administration staff, condemned to a lifetime in the netherworld, keeping the wheels of the organisation running below a barrage of strip lighting. Not for them the sight of the sun setting over the Conciergerie, unless they managed a sideways glimpse as they went scurrying off to the metro on the way home to their shoebox apartments or their pavillons de banlieue. The little people. The ones who would never make it. The ones who would never be fired.

  A girl with a neat shiny bob put her head round the door.

  ‘Jean-Laurent, James will see you now if you are free.’

  Did she know? He couldn’t detect any pity in her face. Had she thought about him when she washed her hair this morning with the schadenfreude of those who comfortably witness the downfall of others without ever having to deliver the cruel blow themselves?

  He followed her down the corridor and noticed her black bra showing through her thin blouse. She probably chose it especially as a mark of respect for his imminent demise. They arrived at James’s office, twice the size of Jean-Laurent’s, with two windows and a pair of leather sofas.

  James stood up to greet Jean-Laurent and shut the door behind them.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ he said, gesturing towards one of the sofas while taking a seat on the other one himself. He gave only the smallest imitation of a smile, so Jean-Laurent knew it was bad news. He sat back and waited for the blow to fall.

  James took a deep breath and left a pause just long enough to spare his victim any hope of a last-minute reprieve. Then he spoke.

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t going to be an easy conversation.’

  He’s taking the British approach, thought Jean-Laurent. Softly, softly, the iron fist in the velvet glove. He remembered a friend who had been fired by an American manager, all tough talk, straight to the point, we’re terminating your contract. This wasn’t James’s style. Instead there was a lot of general stuff about restructuring, pressure from the holding company, the need to reduce costs by twenty per cent, accompanied by arm gestures and sympathetic nodding.

  ‘The good news for you, Jean-Louis, is that we are prepared to be generous,’ he said finally.

  ‘It’s Jean-Laurent, actually.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really hate to do this, you know.’

  ‘So are you firing me, or what?’

  ‘Firing is not at all the appropriate term, Jean-Laurent, not for someone as valuable to the company as you are . . . as you were . . .’

  ‘But you are, as you British like to say, going to have to let me go.’

  James smiled in relief. The penny had dropped, the worst was over.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s just about it.’ His eyes were beseeching, like a dog’s. Please don’t hate me, they said.

  Then why couldn’t you just come out and say so, you coward, thought Jean-Laurent.

  He said nothing.

  ‘We will, of course, do everything we can to help you. Legal advice and so on.’

  You can shove it up your arse, thought Jean-Laurent.

  Humiliation comes in many forms. While Jean-Laurent was being gently pushed off the corporate ladder, Laura was engaged in her own preferred form of self-torment. Crouched at the computer, she was logged on to google.com, following the glorious careers of her friends and contemporaries.

  She usually began with a few ex-boyfriends. This was a mild build-up, since there was a certain vindication of her own judgement to be found in the success of an ex. Her university friends might have thought that Stephen Peters was a moronic rugby-playing waste of time, but she now learned through the search engine that he was one of only three surgeons capable of performing a certain hip operation. She could be forgiven for feeling a little vicarious pride. Then there was the entirely useless and aristocratic Humphrey Redesdale. During their brief romance he rarely found the energy to leave the bed, and was pretty lacklustre even there; yet here he was, the author of an acclaimed book about a bunch of toffs failing to reach the South Pole.

  After limbering up on the men she used to know, Laura would then move closer to the knuckle by entering the names of some of the girls she used to call her friends.

  Mercifully, there were plenty who didn’t show anything, their illustrious beginnings faded into obscurity. She imagined them leading uneventful lives, bringing up their families, doing dead-end – she hoped! – jobs while shuffling towards middle age.

  This comfort was short-lived, however, because sooner or later she would have to check on the progress of the Big Ones. Her best friend from college, for instance, who was now a High Court Judge, for crying out loud. Laura always had to take a deep breath before entering her name.

  Then there was the dazzlingly beautiful English student who had shaken off her tragic aura to ensnare a filthy rich ageing rock star and bear him four children while winning status and renown for what was frankly a very slight and pedestrian little volume of poems.

  She switched off the computer and went t
hrough to lie down on the sofa to recover. She was still slightly drunk after the post-Christmas party lunch held by the PTA to thank themselves for all their hard work.

  A long narrow table occupying the length of the restaurant, peopled entirely by women. Women whose only topics of conversation related to their children. True, they might branch out on to holidays, as in, where are you taking your children for the winter holidays; or politics, as in, don’t you think it’s scandalous that the tax credit for children has been reduced; or environment issues, like, should we really be allowing our children to eat meat? But mostly it was centred on their own children, in minute detail. ‘He only got a seven in spelling and I really feel he could do better.’ And this was when the mothers were away from their children, God knows how the conversation went when they were en famille.

  ‘Please, for pity’s sake talk about something else!’ Laura had wanted to scream at them. Though preferably not your step class or painting on porcelain. And certainly not the summer fête: she had already been allocated responsibility for tying ribbons on to the medals on that day, but she hoped she would have crossed to the other side by then, to the world of the living-brained – the rational, stimulating, child-free paradise that was the workplace.

  The phone started to ring and she pulled herself up from the sofa to answer it. It was probably Jean-Laurent, she hoped it was good news. But it wasn’t Jean-Laurent at all, it was a voice from the past, the confident tone of school prefect overlaid with career sophistication.

  ‘Laura, is that you? It’s Penny. Penny Porter.’

  Penny Porter, her bête noire, the got-it-all monster of ambition.

  ‘Penny, what a surprise,’ she said. ‘Did you get my card?’

  ‘Certainly did. Impressively early, too. And thanks for the vests.’

  Laura winced. It had been a bit mean and she wished she’d gone the Bonpoint route now. But Penny sounded genuinely touched.

  ‘How did you know about the baby, anyway?’ Penny asked, ‘I haven’t sent the cards out yet, I decided to wait and do it with the Christmas list.’

  ‘I saw you in the Daily Mail,’ said Laura, before she could stop herself.

  Damn, why did she let that slip? Revealing herself as a tabloid-reading housewife reduced to living vicariously through the achievements of her contemporaries.

  ‘Oh yes, terribly embarrassing, awful photo.’

  But she was obviously glad that Laura had seen it.

  ‘And are you at home now? On maternity leave?’

  ‘No, I went straight back. Couldn’t hack the mother and baby group. Do you know there was one woman there who introduced herself as Rub.’

  ‘Rub? Something sexual?’

  ‘Afraid not. It seems that when she was a girl, she was nicknamed Rub because she always talked such rubbish. That was it for me. I cancelled my maternity leave and came right back to work, only way to keep sane as far as I can see. Look, Laura, I’ll come straight to the point. Our agency in Paris is looking for someone to work on their international accounts. Exactly your profile, blue-chip and all that – I thought it might suit you. You can’t hang around at home all your life, you know; got to keep the old brain ticking over. If you agree, I’ll get them to call you to fix up an interview. What do you think?’

  Laura couldn’t believe it. Penny Porter, the most unlikely guardian angel, was swooping in to save her life.

  ‘Penny, that’s fantastic. You won’t believe this, but I have just this week put my CV together. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that a life without working is no life at all.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune, then. I almost didn’t bother to call you – you always seemed such an advocate of the stay-at-home life.’

  ‘I was, but things are different now. I’ve changed, I suppose.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Can’t have all that education going down the pan. Expect a call, then. I’ve got to go now, I’ve got a meeting. We’ll speak soon.’

  ‘Yes, right. Goodbye, Penny.’

  Jean-Laurent couldn’t face calling Laura. He put on his coat and walked quickly past his colleagues’ offices to the lift. The receptionist smiled at him, as she always did. Next time she saw him, her smile would no doubt be filled with pity. If there was a next time. He would need to return to clear his desk, but perhaps he could do that at the weekend, when there wouldn’t be anyone around to witness his humiliation.

  He made his way across the rue de Rivoli towards Les Halles, and took the escalator down into the bowels of the shopping precinct. He was heading for his mecca, FNAC, the media emporium that had long been his spiritual sanctuary. Many an hour had been spent in its business book section, plotting his rise amongst those macho volumes.

  He walked through the cartoon book department, where the usual handful of young men were settling down on the floor for an afternoon of flagrant browsing. He was free to join them now, of course, but he would look out of place with his business suit; he would need to go home first and change into an unemployed person’s leisurewear. He arrived at the management section. The familiar titles leapt out to greet him. Power Shift, Brand Leadership, Positioning: the Battle for Your Mind. Square-jawed, focused, hard-bodied volumes speaking of dominance and beating the enemy.

  He searched in vain for something on coping with redundancy; flicked through the indices for references to losing your job, being unwanted, facing up to failure. Nothing. He asked an assistant, ‘Do you have anything on dealing with redundancy?’ She looked up at him, bored, dismissive. ‘You’re in the wrong section. You don’t need management, you need self-help. Guides pratiques.’

  Self-help. Him, Jean-Laurent, a future ruler of the universe, reduced to rifling through books for losers. Books for little people down on their luck. He reminded himself of his pet guru Stephen Covey’s advice that proactive people carry their own weather with them, but all he could see was a black cloud raining down on him, a discarded piece of reactive old junk.

  He pulled a book down from the shelf and learned that redundancy was like a bereavement and that there were four distinct stages. Shock, anger, grief and acceptance. He was in shock, then, and could look forward to anger and grief. It was time to go home to Laura.

  At the school gates, Lorinda was unconvinced by Laura’s Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus conversion.

  ‘Laura, I know you’re excited about this interview, but let’s keep things in proportion. Think about what you’d be missing out on. All those long holidays. Meeting the children out of school. You won’t be able to do this any more, you know.’

  ‘Thank God! Look at those women, Lorinda, look how depressing they are. Crumbling into middle age behind their pushchairs. Laying down their lives for the comfort of their children. No wonder Jean-Laurent had to take up with Barbie-face. I’d have shagged her myself if the alternative was someone like me.’

  ‘But you always used to say how lucky you were not to be stuck in an office. The luxury of choice, I seem to remember, was a favourite phrase of yours.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had the luxury of choosing to stay at home, and that was fine for a bit,’ said Laura. ‘But now I want the luxury of choosing to resume my career. That’s all right, isn’t it? I’m not obliged to remain a Housewife for the rest of my life, am I?’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’ said Lorinda, pulling her scarf over her hair and tying it under her chin in a parody of a homely drudge.

  Laura laughed.

  ‘No, not like you,’ she said. ‘You’re the bolshiest, most opinionated person I know. You’re thrilled about not having to work. But it just makes me feel inadequate and dull. And I don’t want the boys to grow up with a bitter mother who thinks she gave it all up for them. I don’t want them to carry that burden.’

  She watched a conversation going on between two women which seemed to involve some complicated dropping off and picking up between judo and music classes. As the plan materialised, the headbands nodded in agreement, deal concluded. Beside them two flashier mums were
comparing their preparations for the Christmas holidays, rolling their eyes at the thought of everything that needed to be bought before they were safely despatched on their planes for Mauritius and Courchevel respectively.

  ‘I mean just listen to them, Lorinda,’ Laura whispered. ‘They are so boring!’

  ‘But people are boring everywhere. I imagine that even the conversation in an international advertising agency can sometimes be, dare I say it, less than deeply fascinating. And even though Penny Porter seems to have suddenly become flavour of the month as far as you are concerned, I seem to remember you used to think she was pretty massive on the scale of boringness.’

  ‘Actually, she was quite all right on the phone. Almost amusing, in fact.’

  Lorinda looked at her friend incredulously.

  ‘Penny Porter amusing? Since when did amusing people send their friends padded Christmas cards with a printed message and no signature?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘She’s a busy woman. And so shall I be soon.’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of PTA Paula, officious with a clipboard and two highlighter pens.

  ‘Girls, I never thanked you properly after the Christmas buffet. I thought you did jolly well in the end, and luckily there was loads left over on the British table for the late arrivals.’

  ‘Don’t remind us,’ said Lorinda. ‘All those French men turning their noses up at the mince pies and stodgy sausage rolls – it confirmed all their worst suspicions about British food, only to be eaten when there is no alternative.’

  Paula ignored her and steamed on with her clipboard.

  ‘I’m drawing up the schedule for English story-reading. I’ve got a slot at 11.30 on Thursdays for the dixième class. Laura, could you take that on?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I could.’

  ‘In that case, how about the onzième at 9.15 on Fridays?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s only twenty minutes. Surely that’s not too much to ask?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. Get the teacher to do it, it’s her job. I’ve had enough of busy-bodying around, “filling my time” along with a load of other sad unemployed women – sorry, full-time mothers. Damned stupid term, that; no one ever described themselves as a full-time child, did they, or full-time brother? You either are a mother or you’re not; the number of hours you spend hanging around them has nothing to do with it.’