by Austin, Lucy
I then saw an advert for a ‘sales executive’ working for a large newspaper group. Effectively hired to sell unwanted advertising space, at first I absolutely hated it and stammered my way through the script. For several weeks, I would just hole myself up in the toilets and drink copious amounts of Diet Coke to get through the day. One day though I gave myself a stern talking to. Kate, if you stick it out and become really good at it, you won’t have to cold call anymore. That same morning, I squared my shoulders and picked up the phone before I had time to think about it, treating every rejection like water off a duck’s back, skipping lunch and only stopping when it was time to go home.
‘Hello there, please can I speak to the person who handles your advertising. No problem, I’m sorry he’s off sick. I’ll call back,’ I would say and tick them off my list, before picking up the receiver to dial the next one.
In a wave of something bordering on obsession, I was driven and in acting confident I became so, ringing and ringing people, fine-tuning my pitch and never taking no for an answer, until I had not only filled my own trade page with ads but other people’s too. Before too long the bosses were promoting me and giving me entire features to sell and getting their long-term workforce to shadow me to find out my secret. I never told them that my success was mainly down to half a dozen Diet Cokes of a day and sheer bloody-mindedness on my part. The way I figured, I couldn’t prevent job rejection letters but I could damn well control whether someone took an ad out. The next couple of years then went by in a blur.
While I was carving out a successful reputation out in a cut-throat sales environment, things had gone a lot more smoothly for Stan. There were no cocks ups or unnecessary rites of passage. No, he was the proud owner of a first class degree from a redbrick university. He had never so much as dirtied his hands with factory work or tree pruning, but had instead got himself a summer lifeguard job, willing people to drown just to have something to do. Seamlessly, Stan then went from posing on the beach and warding off female attention, to starting a graduate training programme of his own at an international pharmaceutical company, where he stayed. Unlike me, who was still without a clue as to what I wanted to do but making it up as I went, Stan was all set.
Many months later, I happened to check my bank balance and realised that with all the commission I had earnt, I had enough money to do something big. Finally, I had the opportunity to have an adventure, so I called up Linda and booked myself a return ticket to Australia, complete with a working visa. When I told Stan of my travel plans, instead of being excited for me he seemed ever so slightly taken aback.
‘But you don’t do things like that!’ he said, spluttering into his beer in disbelief.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I snapped and waited for the answer. Go on. Get out of this one Stan!
‘Well,’ he said, looking like he was desperately thinking of how to best to say it. ‘You’ve never been interested in doing something like that before.’
Well that did it! For the first time in a long time, I was angry with him, almost to the point of no return. Just because he was all settled didn’t mean I was.
‘Well I am interested in doing something now!’ I said, furiously. ‘People do change you know.’ What I really wanted to say was: Come on admit it. You’re just annoyed I’m doing it first!
And then with this indiscernible expression on his face, he just looked straight at me. ‘Kate, I just think you might regret it. It’s a big thing to do.’
Regret it? And to think I had a small pit in my stomach at the thought of not seeing my old friend for a while. Why, a little distance would do us good and would restore his opinion of me at the very least. I was adventurous, hell I was kerrayzee, me! I was going to do a thousand bungee jumps and brag about every single one of them on Facebook. The following month I handed in my notice, which went down as well as a pork chop at a bah mitzvah, given that the remainder of my team consisted of Karen who’d developed a stammer since working there and Kim who preferred having a fag break to picking up the phone. I wasn’t going to feel guilty, as I’d given my all. I flew to the other side of the world and there I stayed for the next two years.
Back to the present day and I’m about to give up on this floor cleaning malarkey. What is the point when Claire will just traipse around undoing all my hard work? Instead, I decide to chuck around the polish like there’s no tomorrow, dusting absolutely everything – fruit bowl and hair extensions included. I then start polishing my collage in the hallway. Along with memorabilia, there are photos of me through all the eras, the school years where I liked wearing cut off jeans and patterned sweaters, the ones from university where every single day I wore the same black dress, thinking that no one would ever notice. And then I see those pictures from time in CoogeeView, where there is something different about me, something that looks like I had come into my own – well that and the fact that I was tanned and everyone always looks better with a bit of colour don’t they?
Unsurprisingly, given the years we’ve been friends, there are lots of pictures of Stan, some from school – oh, and that one time he came to see me at university looking ever so slightly on the side of smelly, like he was in need of a good shower. There I am, wearing that same black dress looking really pissed off. That black dress was the only constant thing in my life at that time. Stuck miles outside campus, I’d never felt so homesick, that and disillusioned with the reality of university. I felt so emotional about it all that I couldn’t work out what the feeling was half the time. Where were the smug halls and the balls? There I was, living miles out from campus in student digs, on a course that had no more than eight hours of lectures a week. In contrast, there’s a picture of a rather smug looking Stan in co-ed halls at his redbrick, clearly having the time of his life.
Getting out my hoover with no suck, I look over at the collage. That photo of Stan with me at university brings it all back – his visit in that first term. I’d barely had a chance to settle in and ran on nervous energy most of the time, never daring to stay in for fear I was missing out on something. When Stan announced he was coming down for three nights, I was panicked, as just where was he going to sleep? I also had no clue what I was going to do with him, as I still didn’t have my bearings about where everything was or who anyone was called.
I really needn’t have worried though as Stan properly made himself at home, in every sense of the word. On the first night, he started snogging my housemate, a girl whose name escapes me – let’s call her ‘Whatserface’ – who had this really whiney voice and an unhealthy obsession with Celine Dion. What I hadn’t bargained on was that for the remainder of the weekend he acted like he was seriously dating Whatserface and pretty much ignored me the whole time. Within five hours of his arrival, I had gone from being number one friend to the annoying hanger-on. Then, after three days, he thanked me for a wonderful weekend, before leaving me to pick up the pieces and hear Celine’s ‘Think Twice’ on a loop, blaring out of the bedroom of a girl he had got to know better than I had.
The photo collage is also littered with pictures of Claire, a tactical move on my part to try and make her feel at home enough to pay me rent on time. To me, they also serve as a reminder to the both of us that whether we like it or not, we have shared history. Admittedly, they’re not exactly the best pictures as I took some scissors to Mr Happy, who she was normally snogging or draped around, so on occasion she looks a bit odd. At school they were the golden couple, he with his bleached mullet and stiff-haired Claire with her pastel pink lipstick. I then look closer at a large photo of Claire and spot Linda hovering in the background staring determinedly at the camera, looking young but still ever so slightly scary.
My phone then vibrates with a text from Liv asking for help at the Globe this afternoon. Sweaty and feeling cabin fever kicking in, I throw down this machine that’s rubbish at rubbish and decide that yes, I will help. After all, there is only so much light housework a girl can do – that or exaggerating the CV in t
he hope it might lead to something. It’s time to be in the real world with real people. As I slam the door behind me, I hear a picture fall to the floor.
CHAPTER 18 - CULCHA-LITE
Wooden acting, clumsy dialogue and the props straight out of Neighbours – Anna’s play has been on for five nights straight at a little theatre in outer London. I sort of need Liv to hurry as we’re running so late, but she’s huffing and puffing already, dragging an overnight bag on wheels with the longest handle you ever did see and tripping up the general public in the process. Admittedly, it’s not Liv’s fault we’re left with no time to spare. In a weak moment at the café, I had agreed to Wayne setting up a phone interview with Linda’s travel company, as he gets M&S vouchers for recommending someone. And who am I to deny him a trip to the lovely food hall? To say the interview was poorly timed was an understatement. There I was at St Pancras Station, pacing around with my hand on my ear straining to hear over the din, while nearby Liv lay in trendy deckchair with fake grass around her feet, stuffing her face with crisps. It was all a bit surreal.
Wayne then called me for an update. ‘So?’ he asked, and I told him that it seemed to go okay. ‘The job is in the bag,’ he said confidently. ‘Linda thinks you’ll be perfect.’ I fear he may be right, as that is the way life tends to work. Just when you genuinely couldn’t give a toss, things go your way.
‘Well, let’s wait and see,’ I say, slightly panicking. I should be over the moon but I don’t feel that bothered at all. I now have this new-found clarity about what I now need from a job at the back of my mind, and it doesn’t involve booking bulkhead seats. ‘I need a bit more time to think about it,’ I know I sound vague.
‘Time to do what? You’re wasting valuable earning power. I’ll drop round a contract. With any luck your flatmate won’t be in.’ It would seem that while Claire may have forgotten who Wayne is, she still brings out a facial tic in him.
I’ve now got that horrible situation of actually not wanting a job being offered by someone I know and willing it not to happen, like when someone fancies you and it’s not reciprocated but you’re flattered all the same. The truth is that since my little epiphany while cleaning the kitchen floor, I’m no longer desperate to get any old work. Over the last few weeks, I’ve not been sitting around or going to demoralising agency interviews; I’ve been picking up the slack for Liv at the café. I proactively sold the idea to her based on the fact that I could not only do coffees but also bend down to pick fallen food up off the floor – proper multi-tasking – as Liv is getting larger by the day.
Besides, Liv is so over the moon at the idea of me helping to take some of the load off her, I couldn’t back out even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’ve not quite got round to telling Liv that she is the one saving my bacon and not the other way round. Right now, I need something to make sense and this just does. At first, Paolo wasn’t very keen on the idea of me coming on board, but once when he realised I wasn’t going to be paid very much and it would free up some more family time, he perked up and promptly booked a day trip to Peppa Pig World. That man sure knows how to have a good time.
Unsurprisingly, Paolo is as scary to work for as he is to sip a coffee near, his moodiness now exacerbated by me being super nice to him in the bid he’ll be nicer back. I’m not sure why I’m bothering to try so hard as his café is far too quiet and if he carries on being a grumpy git, things will come to a natural conclusion. The fact that I don’t have to be working here brings with it a kind of freedom in itself – just think, at any point I can jack this in and do something sensible, something a little more conventional.
‘You’re not quite as incompetent as you were a week ago,’ Paolo announced the other day. ‘You are truly terrible at waitressing, but I’ve noticed you are very quick with short orders.’
He then proceeded to tell me he was going to train me on the smoothie blender and the panini hot plate – no mention of making cappuccinos, not since that episode involving sprayed milk over a line of impeccably dressed commuters. ‘Oh and I am going to teach you how to create my secret salad garnish. Then my work will be done.’
Secret salad garnishes hey? Man, I was getting behind the scenes.
Although I am still not allowed near the coffee machine and cannot so much look at a customer directly in the eye on his watch, as soon as Paulo steps out the door, Liv lets me loose and there I am in the deep end, my mistakes laid bare, loving every second.
Right now, I’m so bone-tired I think I might fall asleep in the theatre. It’s not the mentally taxing feeling from feigning interest in mundane admin; it’s the familiar physical exhaustion from being up on my feet all day and having to smile at strangers. Just like I did working at the Sydney café, I spend a disproportionate amount of time wondering if I added to their day at all and whether my overall purpose is this. But I’m showing up, I’m doing my best, I’m participating in something.
‘What kind of title is Touch Me I’m Real?’ asks Liv. ‘It sounds lame.’ It sounds just the sort of play Anna would love. A long suffering friend, I’ve endured all manner of Anna’s plays, some with no narrative, some with awkward audience participation performances, some productions that last four hours with no interval, others that are over in five minutes, even plays with two intervals. You name it; I’ve sat through it. I’ve long since given up working out whether Anna is actually any good or not. It’s a painful exercise pretending that just because someone else has a vocation, you’re supposed to enjoy it, but hey, that’s what friends do for each other. We stand for a moment on the steps so Liv can catch her breath and I turn my phone off for fear of another call from Wayne.
‘Kate, don’t judge me but I fucking hate the theatre,’ Liv admits, catching me off guard. ‘I just clock-watch until the interval where I can eat one of those tiny ice-cream tubs.’ She then sighs dramatically at the prospect of impending captivity. At least she is honest, unlike Claire who is always telling me that she is incredibly cultured as though watching Biggest Loser on a loop or going to see Mamma Mia six times counts. ‘Remind me again why we are here?’ she laments. ‘I do not even like Anna. She’ll think I’m supporting her.’ Just as I’m about to remind Liv that she was the one who said she was feeling like she was in the Truman Show and needed to get out of Broadstairs, she grabs hold of my arm. ‘Stop a second. The baby is kicking me. Clearly it feels the same way about theatre as me.’
Anna always stresses that mainstream performances aren’t her thing and she’s exploring herself as an artist. As I gear myself up for what might be another sketchy theatre production, I dare to entertain the idea that it’s more that she’s not quite made the big time and this is the nearest thing she’ll get to having an adoring audience. Normally, Anna’s luvvy mates enjoy a pre-performance drink in the foyer. I’ve never been that keen on them as they’re a cliquey bunch who prefer awkward silences that go on indefinitely, as opposed to making good old fashioned small talk. My indifference to them is not helped by the fact that every time I see them they go through the motion of pretending we’ve never met before. According to Anna, these friends are so cutting-edge that ‘they actually set the trends themselves’ but I seriously doubt this as from what I can see they just like debating in that really argumentative way.
As we enter the building, the burgundy foyer that doubles up as a theatre bar is empty. This is strange as I was half expecting them to all be there. Looking down at my watch, I realise to my absolute horror that the play has in fact started – ten minutes ago. Oh no! With absolutely no idea how we’re going to make a discreet entrance in such a tiny theatre, in the poor light I can just about make out a handwritten sign that has Touch Me I’m Real scrawled in permanent marker, with an arrow next to it. Once inside the auditorium, I can just about make out Anna’s parents sitting a few rows down, Pamela smoothing down the back of her hair with her hands and Hugo slapping his knees repetitively. I then spy a few of Anna’s posse seated right at the top, near the exit. We decide to sit ne
xt to them and I tap Aiofe, whose name I can never pronounce or spell.
‘Oh, it’s only you. Hi darling,’ she whispers, clearly still not knowing my name. Seeing that Liv’s silhouette in the darkness is the size of a whale, they all reluctantly shift down one so we can sit on the end by the aisle. The best seats in the house!
‘This is my friend Liv,’ I whisper. Aoife looks at her blankly before turning towards the stage again. One more name for her to forget.
Sitting in the darkness for what feels like an eternity waiting for Anna’s entrance, is an experience not too dissimilar from being at a pop concert and waiting for that one song you actually know.
‘Do we know how long this play is?’ Liv says loudly. I shake my head as this play is starting to feel like Shakespeare where you’re unfamiliar with the story.
Barely fifteen minutes later, Liv pinches me. ‘So I take it this is as good as it’s going to get?’
She might have a point here as Anna still hasn’t appeared and I’m not sure I can endure one more minute.
‘Shall we go get a drink?’ I find myself whispering. I normally pride myself on being able to sit through hours of drama but tonight my tolerance levels are non-existent. I’m half expecting to get a shake of the head, as Liv looks all too comfortable sitting in the way that pregnant women sit to avoid the chafing, but instead she nods enthusiastically.
