Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

Following the POX fiasco/triumph, rumours were circulating amongst the teams about take-overs, closures and re-structures, and these were beginning to gather pace, supported by speculation whipped up in the press. The Snake told me that the word on Facebook was that our department was going to be merged with Cruella’s. I told her not to listen to gossip. Bloody Facebook. But I was worried. If it was true, Cruella was bound to get the job over me: everyone, including The Boss, was shit-scared of her, so there was no way anyone was going to be brave enough to tell her she hadn’t got the role. In addition, I assumed HR would have a say in the decision, and there wasn’t anyone left in HR that I hadn’t fallen out with at some time or other. What goes around comes around, so they say. I recalled a time from my previous company when I’d attended a week long training course, and had spent the entire week crossing swords with another manager who had really got up my nose. When we had to give each other feedback at the end of the week, she’d called me “flippant and destructive” and I’d called her “tedious and insignificant”. Two weeks later she was introduced to me as my new line manager. Not a good moment. I left shortly afterwards with bridges in flames all around me.

  I found what appeared to be an interesting role on the Perypils “Opportunities” website, for a Strategic Sales Manager. From the blurb, I could see that the job entailed working with sales managers across the sites to improve performance and to develop future sales strategies. There would be some travelling, but that would be balanced by some working from home. It was only a sideways move but it did have the huge bonus of not having any people to manage! Whoopee - no people! No more listening to nauseating details of health conditions, or depressing personal problems or the constant drone of moaning and whining - how wonderful it would be to be free from all that. I decided to apply. The deadline was Friday, so I had a few days to knock up an application. No problem.

  I spent Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings trying to complete the application and update my CV. God, why was it so difficult? All I needed to do was list my most recent jobs, my achievements and sell myself a bit, but everything I wrote sounded so stilted, so wanky. I read it, re-wrote it, re-read it, tweaked it over and over but it still wasn’t right.

  The Husband was no help at all. He moaned that I hadn’t bothered to consult him about the job (fair point) so why should he help me with the application? Because I might lose my job and I need to find another one! You won’t be too happy if you’ve got to fund the mortgage on your own. I tried to explain that to him but he dismissed it again as “another ridiculous over-reaction.” I knew he just had the hump because I hadn’t been shopping, and the cupboards were virtually bare. He’d come home on Tuesday evening saying he’d noticed we were out of a few things so he’d “picked up a couple of bits.” He presented me with a Londis carrier bag like it contained the crown jewels. What it did contain was: a massive tub of Haagen-Dazs ice cream (cookies and cream flavour), a packet of Oreos, a tin of rice pudding and a bottle of gin. I wanted to ask: “But didn’t you notice we were out of essentials such as milk, cereals, daily shower shine...” but I couldn’t face another row. I found a packet of fish fingers at the bottom of the freezer, scraped them free of ice and made us fish finger sandwiches out of bread slices that also required a bit of scraping. We would have to get used to living like this if we went down to one income. I’d have to start shopping at Lidls and buying clothes that were 100% viscose. Shudder.

  I stayed up until the early hours to complete the application and I submitted it, with huge relief on Friday. I phoned Brett The Boss to let him know I was applying for another role. I suppose the reaction I was hoping for was one of dismay: I thought he’d want to know why I was applying, be very concerned that I wanted to leave and try his best to persuade me to stay. That, of course, was just a pipe dream.

  His actual response was: “I wish I could bloody well apply for something else, the hours I’m bloody well working, I might just as well sleep in the bloody office.”

  I tried to say “Well, this is about me Brett, not you-” but he talked right over me and continued whining about his own situation. Why do people do that? You tell them something and they immediately relate it to themselves. They don’t bother to ask you anything about your own feelings; they just launch in and make it about themselves or give you an example of when something similar happened to them. You shouldn’t be in a management position if you can’t listen. You have two ears and one mouth - you should use them in those proportions. That’s what I tell my team anyway, although I doubt they were listening.

  The following week I received a phone call from HR - I’d been offered an interview for the Strategic Sales Manager position! How exciting! But how utterly terrifying. I hadn’t been for an interview in years. They were being held in Manchester, with the Head of Sales, Denise Gibbons and a representative from HR. Bugger; let’s hope they don’t know me. I’d have to do a ten minute presentation entitled “My 100-day plan” which should outline what I would do in my first 100 days in the role. There would also be some skills-based scenario questions. From what I understood, these would be something like: “Tell me of a time when...” and you’d have to give a real-life (totally embellished) example.

  I had a week to prepare. There was no way I could find any time during the day, so it would have to be done in the evenings and at the weekend. In the pit of my stomach, I felt a bit concerned that the Husband would kick off if I spent even more time at home on work stuff, but I hoped he would understand. I was trying to secure a position, and that would benefit us both financially. Surely he would come round and support me? I’d better make sure the cupboards were well-stocked, that should help his mood. Right well, important things first. I needed a new suit and a “power” haircut. Book the hairdressers straight away and get myself to Next after work.

  Interview Day

  I was on the train heading towards Manchester. My notes were spread out on the table in front of me; a last minute run through of my presentation. It was a warm day, and I was wearing my new navy trouser suit with a white blouse. I’d had my hair tamed into a “mid length choppy bob” by the hairdresser. It looked ok, but she’d cut my fringe just a little bit too short, so I looked permanently surprised.

  I was feeling extremely nervous. The coffee cart came round and I bought the largest size they had. I re-read all my notes, but nothing much was sinking in. I decided to watch the countryside go past in a blur as it was more relaxing. Anyway, it was counter-productive to be over-prepared, I’d read that somewhere. I’d been working on the presentation every evening and all weekend. As part of my preparation, I’d also been re-reading the book “The Right to be You” which was about increasing your confidence. I read a section about the importance of first impressions, and not scoring “own goals”. This means that if you say things like “Oh I’m such a numpty” it gives people the false impression that you are a numpty. So even if you are a numpty, you don’t need to tell people that. They will eventually work it out for themselves of course, but you may be able to blag your way through an hour’s interview without it being immediately evident.

  The Husband had actually been surprisingly supportive, saying he’d “keep out of my way” whilst I was preparing. He’d booked himself lots of evening appointments so he’d been getting home really late. I didn’t have to cook either as he’d always managed to grab something between appointments. He’d listened to my presentation on Sunday night and timed it at 12 minutes, so I knew I was going to have to speed it up a bit to avoid running over the allotted time.

  I bought another coffee as the cart went back the other way and a ridiculously overpriced chocolate chip cookie. I arrived in Manchester with an hour and a half to kill before the interview at 1 pm. The building was a short walk from the station so I found a Starbucks and took an outside table with a cappuccino and my notes. It was a lovely day. I was beginning to feel pretty excited. After all, it wasn’t often you got to talk about yourself to a captive a
udience for an hour, and I was well qualified to do this role. I had lots of great achievements to tell them about. They’d be mad not to want me! I ordered another cappuccino with an extra shot, just to make sure I was fully alert.

  I arrived at the building five minutes before the appointed time. I bounded into the foyer and announced to the startled receptionist “I’m here!” before remembering I needed to tell him my name and who I’d come to see. I took a seat, but couldn’t keep still. I was jerkily adjusting my jacket, re-arranging my notes, playing with my hair and I could feel my left eye twitching. Must be nerves kicking in. Just after 1 pm a thin, suited woman came across the foyer.

  “Kate?” she asked. “I’m Denise Gibbons. Pleased to meet you.” I jumped up and pumped her hand vigorously, as if I was trying to draw water from her.

  “Hi, hi, I’m great thanks, how are you?” I gushed, even though she hadn’t asked me how I was. She looked a bit taken aback, and led me to the lifts. I followed at her ankles like an over-eager puppy, talking non-stop, telling her about my journey, the price of tickets, the price of cookies - I just couldn’t stop. I noticed she had pressed herself back into the corner of the lift - perhaps she got nervous doing the interviews. I’d never considered that an interviewer would get nervous too. I kept talking to help put her at ease.

  We entered a small meeting room where another woman was sitting. Denise introduced her as Eunice Jones from HR. She looked like a Eunice, with frizzy dark hair with streaks of grey, no make-up and ugly glasses. The sort of woman that would have really hairy armpits. I didn’t recall ever speaking to her before, which was a good start. She shook my hand saying “Hello Kate, I don’t think we’ve ever met before have we? But I’ve heard a lot about you.” Oh shit.

  “Oh dear, shall I leave now then?” I exclaimed, giving a loud snort of laughter. I’ve never snorted before! Where did that come from? She asked me to take a seat and looked pointedly at my head. Yes, I know, the fringe is disastrous but take a look at your own birds nest dearie before you criticise anyone else’s. Why don’t you show it some kindness and introduce it to a pair of GHDs? And invest in some nose clippers whilst you’re about it.

  They asked me for a quick summary of my career, and I enthused about the twelve “wonderful years” I’d spent so far at Perypils, but that I now felt ready for a change of direction and how this role would be an exciting challenge for me. (I figured this sounded a bit better than the truth: I was sick to death of being a people manager as I can’t stand people and I badly needed to find another job as I was about to lose my current one to someone who watched Vera Drake for laughs). Denise then said we’d start with my presentation. There was no PowerPoint available, nor was there a flip chart in the room. I had printed copies of my presentation for them, but didn’t give them out.

  I stood up, and launched into my 100 day plan. It felt odd to be presenting to two people in a small room without any sort of visual aids, and I wished I’d remained seated. But it was too late; I couldn’t very well sit down again. I’d also read somewhere that when you are presenting, 60% of your audience’s focus is on your body language, 30% is on your tone of voice, and only 10% on the actual words. I had this in mind as I spoke with great gusto about my plans for the role, trying to pitch my voice so it sounded exciting and not monotonous, using lots of sweeping arm movements and hand gestures. I had a real buzzing in my head and my voice sounded louder than normal, like it wasn’t coming from me at all. It probably just seemed that way because the room was so small.

  Usually when I’m presenting, I like to move around a bit, but this was difficult in such a confined space and I ended up basically shifting my weight from one foot to the other as if I needed the loo. I noticed they were sat back as far as the room would allow, presumably so they could fully observe me in action. They were listening intently - I saw that at one point Eunice put her hand to her ear, so I raised my voice a little more thinking she might be hard of hearing. They didn’t interrupt, but at the end Denise asked me:

  “So, do you feel this plan is really achievable?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, nodding vigorously, and as I did so, the room went dark. I was disorientated for a split second until I realised that my sun glasses had fallen down from my head and covered my eyes. Oh no, how could I have left them perched on my head? Why hadn’t I put them away? I whipped them off and held them behind my back, whilst I carried on talking. Their faces remained unchanged, which was very professional of them. Apart from that little mishap, I think it had gone pretty well. Denise thanked me and asked me for a copy of the presentation. Bugger. I kicked myself for forgetting to give a copy out before I’d started. Never mind. I sat down and mentally prepared myself for the skills-based questions. Eunice was trying to take a couple of paracetamol tablets without being noticed. I sat up straight, looking keen and expectant. Denise rubbed her temples, consulted her notes and asked me the first question.

  “Kate, can you tell me about a time when you’ve had to manage a risk?” She and Eunice looked at me, pens poised.

  Manage a bloody risk? I was there for a sales role. All my scenarios I’d been rehearsing were based on sales, and sales strategies; what had that question got to do with sales? I felt a horrible cold lurching in my stomach, and I couldn’t think straight.

  “Er, yes, of course,” I said, trying to buy some thinking time. “Um, could you just repeat the question please?”

  They exchanged glances. Denise said again, very slowly as if she was talking to the infirm:

  “Tell me about a time when you’ve had to manage a risk.”

  I gathered myself together and waffled my way through a scenario where I’d identified that a process was incorrect, which had caused several customer complaints. I described what actions I’d taken to put it right and the resulting benefits. I hadn’t rehearsed this example, so it was a bit stuttery, but I got through it. Whilst Eunice was nodding encouragingly as I was talking, I was very much being put off by Denise’s body language, noticing that she wasn’t making any notes at all, and she was just staring at me without any expression. At the end of my example, she cleared her throat and said:

  “Well, that’s all very interesting, but could you tell me about a risk you’ve had to manage?” Shiiiiiiiiiit. She didn’t think I’d answered the question at all!

  “Well, Denise” I said, trying to sound confident. “I was describing the risk of having our customers complain, and therefore the risk of losing their business.”

  “Oh I see,” she said, pursing her lips. “Well, let’s move on then, shall we? Next question. Can you tell me what you’ve personally done to even out the peaks and troughs in demand?” For God’s sake, what has that got to do with sales? What does it even mean?

  This was a disaster. Again, I thought of an example, and managed to waffle my way through another scenario, but I wasn’t prepared for this question either, nor the next one and my answers just didn’t flow. I knew it was not going well, and that just made me more blustery and stammery. Denise was still staring and not writing, and it was so intimidating that I ended up addressing my answers to Eunice, who was at least smiling at me. I knew my face must be bright red from the pressure; my cheeks felt like they were on fire and my armpits were absolutely gushing.

  I felt totally drained by the time Denise asked me her last question:

  “What do you see as being the key challenges of this role?” I felt like answering:

  “D’you know what love, I haven’t got the faintest fucking idea but probably trying to get a smile out of you would be quite a significant one.”

  After almost two hours, it was over. I made my way back to the station feeling dog-tired and extremely depressed. The whole experience replayed over and over in my mind throughout the journey back. Those questions had been a total nightmare. As the journey progressed, I began to put things into perspective - maybe I was painting too black a picture of the whole thing. Ok, I wasn’t prepared for those particular qu
estions, but I’d still made some good points hadn’t I? The presentation seemed to go down well, with the exception of the black-out of course. Perhaps it hadn’t been as bad as I thought, perhaps everyone felt like this after an interview. I ignored the coffee cart this time. I couldn’t face anymore, and I don’t think the caffeine overload had done me any favours this morning. I felt like I was coming down off drugs or something. Not that I’d ever taken drugs. Well, only once, when I’d tried to smoke a joint but was too scared to inhale. My college friends had laughed at me, and one of them had performed a “blow back” on me - inhaling from the joint and blowing it down my throat. I hadn’t minded because I fancied him and I knew this was the closest I was going to get to a snog. I didn’t feel any different after this procedure, but pretended to be spaced out and acted crazily like everyone else was doing. Sauvignon Blanc was my current drug of choice, and I couldn’t wait to get home and dive into a vat of it.

  Chapter Twenty-One