Waiting
Waiting
IT TOOK UNTIL THE MIDDLE OF JANUARY BEFORE Ellen was happy with her portfolio. Twenty ads, written and rewritten and polished, and culled from over thirty she’d drafted. Ads for bananas and light bulbs and charities and cars; ads for breakfast cereals and depilatory creams and toys; ads for whiskey and butter and painkillers.
Despite Laura in the employment agency having told her not to worry about accompanying imagery, Ellen wanted the ads to look as good as they possibly could, so Sandrine, one of the French culinary students in the house, had obliged with very competent line drawings and sketches.
Ellen had said nothing about exploring the possibility of a new career while she was at home at Christmas, and nothing either to Frances when she’d taken the bus to Galway for a night. Better wait until there was some kind of outcome, or until she gave up hoping for one. She’d hinted to Danny in a letter: thinking of going in a different direction workwise – watch this space!
Good for you , he’d replied. Let me know .
‘You think it’s ready?’ she asked Claire, poring over the portfolio for the millionth time.
‘As ready as it’ll ever be’ – so she took it to the employment agency after work the next day, and sat trying not to bite her nails while Laura leafed through it.
‘These are good,’ she announced. ‘Some good ideas here, very impressive for someone with no formal experience. Well done.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Definitely. I’ll send the word out that I have a promising young copywriter and see who bites.’
She took photocopies of half a dozen ads – ‘to whet their appetites’ – and got Ellen to complete a form that asked for a contact number.
Ellen explained about the sandwich bar. ‘It’s got a phone, but it’s also got a boss who wouldn’t take kindly to my getting calls – and anyway, I wouldn’t have time to answer it once the lunchtime rush starts.’
‘Any home phone?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘In that case you should call me, say twice a week.’ Laura handed her a card. ‘Best of luck, hopefully I’ll find you someplace soon.’
‘Thank you.’
How soon was soon? Was Laura talking weeks, or longer? Ellen left without asking, not wanting to sound too needy, and the waiting game began. She rang Laura every Tuesday and Friday, and had to push away the disappointment each time there was no news. Once again she was glad of the busyness of the little sandwich bar that had helped to distract her from the pain of losing Ben. Now it was keeping her from dwelling on the lack of interest from advertising agencies.
Every so often he still drifted into her head, but enough time had passed for her to be able to think about him with little more than a soft ache of loss. In time it becomes less hard to bear , Frances had said, and Ellen hadn’t believed her, but she’d been right.
Still, it would be good to know where he was. Her own fault, saying she didn’t want him to write – she could see now how stupid that had been. If her life was a Hollywood film they’d meet up again by chance in the unlikeliest place and ride off into the sunset together, but here she was in reality, with no serendipitous reunion to hope for.
With the lease of their flat running out at the end of January, she and Claire considered looking around for a better one, but on balance decided to stay put for another while. Despite its limitations they’d grown accustomed to the flat and liked their neighbours, and the location suited both their workplaces.
On a chilly Tuesday in March, more than six weeks after Ellen had presented Laura with her portfolio, she rang the agency as usual. ‘Oh good,’ Laura said, ‘I was waiting for your call. How’s Thursday for an interview?’