Going Dutch

by Katie Fforde

  ‘Only one. The other two said just swing by. Where do you want to go?'

  ‘Miranda told me there's a little shop near the British Museum that sells artists' materials. We'll only be a few tube stops away from each other. You phone me when you're done and we'll find somewhere nice for lunch.'

  ‘Mm, that sounds lovely. Like having treats after going to the dentist.'

  ‘Exactly,' said Jo. 'I always give myself treats when I've been to the dentist, doctor, or anything like that. We could take in Selfridges later if we're feeling strong.'

  ‘And spray ourselves with scent? Bliss! This is going to be such fun.’

  Jo remembered similar trips in the past when she and Karen would come up to London for the day and try on make-up and clothes; she did miss her daughter although Dora was a good surrogate.

  *

  Dora didn't find it much fun when she was seated in front of a computer and made to do a typing test. She was a very fast typist, she knew she was, but somehow the presence of a very tanned woman with aggressive highlights made her fingers slippery and her mind go all over the place.

  She'd gone to the agency where she had an appointment, feeling she could 'swing by' better if she'd got one under her belt. She should have told Tom she hadn't been to an agency before and persuaded him it would have been a good dare. Now she was suffering the tortures of the damned and no nearer to Tom's as yet unnamed reward.

  The trouble was, she had a very short CV, having only had one job, and her qualifications didn't include a degree. It seemed something of the sort was required for high-powered personal assistants these days.

  She knew she was dressed all wrong the moment she got through the door and cursed herself yet again for wearing the only clothes suitable for an interview yesterday.

  First of all it had been the aggressive air conditioning that hit her. It was a sunny day, but not that warm. She'd been fine in the sunshine but the office felt like a fridge the moment she walked in. The girl behind the desk was wearing a silk vest top and had stringy arms. She had rather wide blonde streaks in her choppy hairstyle and apparently had a season ticket at her local tanning salon. She obviously didn't feel the cold.

  ‘Yes?' Her glance took in Dora's not-quite-right clothes and lack of confidence immediately, and did nothing to make Dora feel better.

  ‘I have an appointment. I rang earlier. It's for ten-thirty,' she added.

  ‘Name?’

  Dora gave her name, just managing not to say, 'Yes, I have got one,' instead.

  ‘Right, I'm Charlene. Give us your CV. Oh, you'd better sit down.’

  Dora sat, thinking that this woman needed to brush up on her people skills quite badly.

  Charlene glanced at Dora's CV for a second before saying, 'You'd better do a typing test. Go to that computer over there. Here's the test.' She pulled a sheet of paper out of her drawer without looking at it.

  Dora went over to the computer and realised instantly that it wasn't a program she was used to. Keep calm, she told herself, it'll be easy really. Computer programs aren't designed to catch people out in tests, they're designed to help. Although she told herself this with all the conviction she could manage, in her heart she knew that this particular program, on this particular computer, was in fact a massive trap. She dried her hands on her trousers, no longer considering the air conditioning too vicious.

  Eventually she worked out how to bring up a new file.

  ‘You ready?' called Charlene.

  ‘Yes,' squeaked Dora.

  Charlene clicked her stopwatch. 'OK, go for it.’

  Dora went slowly for accuracy and tried to concentrate but kept getting distracted by the abysmal English of the letter she was typing. She yearned to cut out the tautologies and bad punctuation but thought she'd better not. She had taken over all the letter-writing where she used to work about a week after she started. Grammar andpunctuation were among her few skills, which, she realised, were not abilities likely to set the world on fire.

  Charlene clicked her stopwatch again and once Dora had printed out her test and handed it to her, she cast a perfectly made-up eye over the sheet.

  ‘Right,' she said, tossing the test on to a pile of papers and not bothering to tell Dora how she had done. 'So what sort of work are you looking for?’

  Dora was tempted to say, 'In a small estate agent's office where I'll know what I'm doing,' but thought the blonde would look down her ski-jump nose at her if she did. 'As you will have seen from my CV my experience is all with estate agents-'

  ‘One estate agent, in fact.'

  ‘Yes, so that would be my first choice, but I'm open to suggestion.' She smiled, hoping Charlene would smile back.

  Maybe a recent Botox injection made this impossible because Charlene just drummed her talons on the desk while she stared at Dora. Dora wondered if she'd applied correction fluid to her nails while she was bored but realised that it was more likely she'd spent a lot of money making them look so square, the ends flaring out like white-tipped spades. 'Well, we've got nothing like that on our books at the moment. The trouble is, your experience is very limited, isn't it? You stuck in the first job you were offered. You didn't even have a Saturday- job anywhere.’

  Dora wanted to say that it wasn't her fault she wasn't allowed a Saturday job because 'her school work was too important', and also that it wasn't the first job she was offered at all, that people all over town had been begging for her to join them but it wasn't true. 'I liked my job. I was good at it.'

  ‘So why did you leave?’

  No way was she going to unburden herself to this woman. 'I said. I wanted something in London, a bit more – challenging. After all, you can't stay in the same job all your life, can you?’

  Charlene couldn't disagree with this. 'I have to warn you that you've shown a lack of ambition by staying at the same place for so long. London businesses don't work in the same way as sleepy little village offices do.'

  ‘Don't they? I would have thought-'

  ‘So we may not be able to offer you anything on the same level.'

  ‘Well, naturally, I would expect to work my-'

  ‘We do have a lot of vacancies in retail,' Charlene cut her off. 'Would you consider shop work at all?’

  Dora pondered this. She and Karen had loved playing shops but she suspected that she wouldn't be put behind the counter of a friendly deli, or somewhere fun to work, but instead she would be made to sell vastly expensive underwear, which no one really wanted and certainly didn't need. 'No,' she said firmly.

  ‘Fair enough. Bar work?'

  ‘No, not unless it was very near where I live.'

  ‘Where is it you live again? Ah yes, hmm… that's quite far out. You're going to have to travel quite a way in each morning. Used to commuting, are you?'

  ‘Not really, but I'm prepared to give it a go.'

  ‘Fine. There's just one thing, most of our clients like their staff to dress smartly. You're not very well turned out, are you?'

  ‘Aren't I? I mean, I just called in for an initial interview. If I was going for a job I'd wear a suit, or something.'

  ‘And proper shoes. Not sandals for an interview. And you could do with a manicure. I won't arrange anyinterviews at too short notice, to give you time to give yourself a bit of a make-over. First impressions are so important.’

  Dora felt smaller and smaller as her marketability faded further and further into the distance. 'Yes,' she said meekly.

  ‘Have you thought about temping, at all? It would be a good way of getting more general experience.'

  ‘No,' said Dora. 'Not at all. I don't think I'd like it.' She got up, admitting defeat. 'Is that all?'

  ‘Yes. We'll be in touch if we get anything suitable.’

  Dora didn't so much 'swing by' the next agency, she more tottered in and sank on the offered chair, sure she was about to go down with a chill. This girl was much more friendly, gave Dora a glass of water and then a cup of tea. She did tut over the concisenes
s of Dora's CV, but acknowledged it meant she must have been good at her job if she'd stayed with the same firm and been promoted several times. However, the end result was the same, 'We haven't got much on our books at the moment unless you're prepared to travel over Canary Wharf way. It would be quite a trek, looking at your current address.’

  Dora sipped and nodded.

  ‘I will get in touch if anything remotely suitable comes up.'

  ‘Thank you.'

  ‘You wouldn't consider temping, would you? It's an excellent way of getting a broader span of experience.'

  ‘I'll definitely give it some thought if nothing permanent turns up, but I really don't want to spend my Monday mornings travelling round London looking for random addresses.'

  ‘You've got a point. On the other hand, it's a good way of learning your way round London.’

  Dora sighed and put her mug down on the coaster. 'I'll bear that in mind too. One day, when I've got used to not working in my home town, I'll be a temp, but I don't think I'm quite ready for that now.'

  ‘Well, you did an almost perfect typing test so we'll definitely consider you for any permanent vacancies that come up.’

  Dora got to her feet and decided not to bother with the third agency. She felt she'd done enough and honour was satisfied. She'd just have to hope the job at the boatyard was still available and suitable.

  *

  While Dora was being tortured for not having changed jobs often enough, or not going to university, or not dressing appropriately, Jo was enjoying herself looking for shops selling artists' materials. Miranda had been fairly vague about where in this elegant part of London the shop she thought existed might be, but eventually, having resisted the temptation to go into the British Museum, or any of the many emporia selling prints and antiquarian books, she found a little shop that seemed to be what she wanted. The moment she went through the door, her eye was caught by the rows of products that rose from floor to ceiling – works of art in their own right. It even smelt promising.

  Jo liked to consider herself a feminist, an independent woman who could look after herself, but really, she acknowledged, she got what she wanted (most of the time) by being nice. Now, she went up to the counter and smiled. The middle-aged man behind the counter smiled back reassuringly.

  ‘Good morning. I wonder if you can help me? I have a small cherub I need to repair.'

  ‘What sort of cherub?' To Jo's relief, the man wasn't at all fazed by this statement.

  ‘It's on a mirror frame, so it's very small. His foot's come off.'

  ‘And what's the frame made of?'

  ‘Wood, I think. It's gold.'

  ‘Ah, an old carved mirror frame. And you're trying to repair it?'

  ‘Mm. I've never done anything like this before.’

  ‘Why start now?’

  She regarded the man and saw that he was taking her perfectly seriously. 'I'm taking a bit of a gamble -fortunately not with my own money, or at least, not really. I want a career change, something I can do at home, that's creative, and, well – satisfying.'

  ‘And you've got this old mirror?'

  ‘I've got several bits and pieces actually. My friend was going to give them to a jumble sale but I asked if I could have a go at repairing them. I thought I'd start with the mirror.'

  ‘You didn't bring it with you?'

  ‘No, I'm afraid not.' She looked around her, fascinated by the shelves filled with strange-sounding products: gesso, rabbit-skin size and something that seemed to be called rottenstone, although she thought she'd probably misread that.

  ‘Was it his only foot?’

  Jo was puzzled. 'Well, no, he had two originally.’

  ‘That's good. Then what you need to do is take a mould of the existing foot, rejig the toes a little, then stick it on.’

  ‘How would I do that?'

  ‘Well, you could use a little plaster of Paris, if that's what you used to make the foot. Or, if you used a patent moulding material, you might want to glue it.'

  ‘So, how would I take the mould in the first place?' Jo felt herself getting more and more interested.

  ‘Well, you have two options. You could take a mould of the existing foot, using Plasticine, or latex moulding powder.'

  ‘It all sounds very complicated.'

  ‘It isn't really, once you get started,' the man reassured her. 'It's rather fun.' He twinkled at her as if confessing a secret. 'I repair bits and pieces myself when I come across something really delicious that needs a little TLC.’

  Jo smiled back. 'So what's the other option?'

  ‘You carve another foot out of lime wood.'

  ‘I did carve some quite sweet little bits and pieces for my daughter's doll's house.’

  Jo remembered the little wardrobe she had carved. It hadn't been exactly Grinling Gibbons, but she had been working on a very small scale. 'OK, so once I've made the foot, and there are various other little curlicues I'll have to copy too what do I do then? Presumably I don't just paint it gold.’

  The man shook his head. 'Oh deary me, no. You'll need to apply gold leaf, or an imitation of it, at least. What you probably need first is a good book. Then you need to decide if you want to use proper, old-fashioned techniques or more modern, less authentic ones.'

  ‘I think I should be authentic,' she said after a moment's thought. 'I want to learn new skills not how to botch things up.'

  ‘That's my girl!' he said. 'Now, do you trust me to tell you what you'll need? It will be quite expensive. I'll give you some off-cuts of lime wood to make it better value.'

  ‘Thank you,' she said meekly and decided to trust him.

  When she left half an hour later she was in a state of mild shock. She had a carrier bag with many of the arcane materials she had seen on the shelves, a slim but well-illustrated book about gilding, and an envelope, on theback of which were as many extra tips and wrinkles as she could get down. It also had Peter's (they were on Christian name terms by then) telephone number. 'You'll love applying gold leaf,' he had assured her as he held the door open. 'It's like alchemy!’

  Then her phone rang. Dora had finished her interviews. They discussed a rendezvous and, feeling self-indulgent and extravagant, she hailed a taxi.

  *

  When Dora found her, Jo was sipping a cappuccino in a café nearby, glad of a bit of a rest. She was flicking through a magazine and obviously enjoying the sunshine that filtered through the window. She had a couple of carrier bags by her side and she smiled enthusiastically when she saw Dora.

  ‘How did you get on? Do you want a coffee or something?’

  Dora collapsed on to the chair opposite Jo, grateful for the cool of the café, eager to take the sting out of her ordeal by relating it. 'Water please. That was ghastly!'

  ‘Oh? Why?' Jo got up and went to the counter. 'Still or fizzy?'

  ‘Fizzy.’

  Jo carried over the water. Dora could tell she really wanted to offer Dora a Knickerbocker Glory or something, and was restraining herself. Jo truly was a very motherly person.

  ‘What happened?' Jo asked.

  Dora considered. 'Well, nothing actually happened but the first woman was so hostile. She made out that I was only fit to work in a shop because my job had been in a small country town. I ran that office!'

  ‘How horrid!' Jo said, handing Dora a bottle of fizzy water and a glass.

  ‘And she suggested I tried temping, to give me more experience.'

  ‘You don't think that sounds quite a good idea?' Jo was tentative. She obviously didn't want Dora to think she wasn't on her side.

  Dora shook her head. 'Well… probably, but I'm just not ready for that sort of excitement. I don't know my way round London, for a start, and the thought of having a new job every week or whatever is just too stressful at the moment.' She imagined legions of women with white nails and permatans and felt weak with inadequacy. -

  ‘I must say it sounds ghastly. Although I did a bit of temping and really liked it. Eve
ryone was so surprised and pleased if you actually did anything, like taking a telephone message, they mostly loved you. But that was a very long time ago.' Jo regarded her young friend. 'I tell you what, let's find somewhere lovely for lunch. Have a glass of wine. You'll feel a lot better. One always feels depressed if one's blood sugar gets low.’

  Dora laughed. 'The technical term for that is hungry.’

  ‘Call it what you like, I've just spent over a hundred pounds on materials – I need a drink!’

  They found a wonderful little Italian place down a side street, which had a courtyard covered with a vine and flirtatious waiters. They seemed determined to give them such excellent service the women probably wouldn't need to actually cut up their food, but just open wide as the fork approached. They were ushered to a table in the courtyard that was just the right temperature, not too hot, but not chilly, either.

  ‘I love going out to lunch with an attractive young woman,' said Jo when her napkin had been tenderly laid over her knee for her. 'The waiters are so attentive!'

  ‘They're being attentive to you, too,' said Dora, already beginning to recover from her interviews.

  ‘Only because I'm with you. It's never like this when I'm by myself.’

  Dora frowned. 'I've never eaten in a restaurant by myself, or even a café. I only ever meet people in pubs if I can guarantee they'll be there first.' Dora remembered Tom's dares and wondered what he would spring on her next.

  Jo broke into her thoughts. 'Well, you're young.'

  ‘I'm pathetic. That horrible woman in the interview made me realise how pathetic I am.' She looked at the menu. 'But strangely, I'm also terribly hungry.'

  ‘Told you so,' said Jo with a laugh. 'I promise you, nothing seems so bad after a good meal. Now, what shall we have? If we shared a starter, we'd probably have room for pudding. I see they've got zabaglione, which you hardly ever see but it's just wonderful!'

  ‘Signora – the wine list.' The younger of the two waiters handed it to Jo who took it as if it might burn her.

  ‘Oh goodness, I don't know anything about wine. Shall we just have a bottle of house white?'