Interview
Interview
She stood outside the building and counted six storeys. The frontage was pretty much a wall of glass, every pane looking out at the Thames. If she’d been searching for the polar opposite of Marketing Solutions, she’d found it.
It unnerved her. It reminded her of the big swanky agencies that had made her quake, back in the days when she was looking for copy tests and dreaming of working in advertising. She wanted to ring Laura and say she’d changed her mind, she’d stay put at Marketing Solutions, where everything was small and familiar and safe.
She imagined saying it to Frances, and she could hear her aunt’s typically blunt reaction. Nonsense – they asked for you, they want to see you. Don’t be so cowardly!
And then she heard: What if you try and don’t fail?
She pulled herself together. She climbed the wide stone steps and pushed through a revolving door into the lobby, which had a marble floor and a wooden bank of pigeonholes set against one wall. A burly moustachioed man in a navy uniform sitting behind a large desk lowered his newspaper and regarded Ellen over his glasses.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Creative Ways,’ she told him, and he got her to sign a register.
‘Fifth floor,’ he said, indicating a pair of lifts at the far end.
Fifth floor made things less terrifying. The idea that they occupied only one floor, or maybe even just part of that floor, gave her new heart. She tightened her grip on her portfolio – a bigger one than the original, full of actual ads, leaflets and brochures – and glided up in the lift, taking the opportunity for a final inspection in the mirrored wall.
She’d splashed out on a royal blue trouser suit, on sale in John Lewis at the end of the summer. Her first serious clothing purchase in London, and deemed the perfect interview outfit by Claire. Hold your head up , she’d said. Shoulders back. Keep telling yourself they’ll be lucky to get you.
Easier said than done. Yet again, she wished for Claire’s easy confidence.
The lift opened onto another smaller lobby. Creative Ways was written above double doors in orange lettering. No other company sign in evidence, so it looked like they did have the full floor. She pushed through the doors and found a reception desk with nobody behind it, and stacked-up boxes all over the place. After waiting a few minutes for someone to appear, she tapped on another door to the left of the desk.
‘Hello?’ she called, feeling foolish. ‘Anyone there?’
Almost immediately she heard the rapid tap of advancing footsteps. The door was flung open by a teenage girl fastening a strap of her denim dungarees. ‘Sorry,’ she said cheerfully, ‘I needed the loo. I take it you’re Ellen.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m Lucinda, lovely to meet you.’ She pushed hands through long brown hair. ‘Excuse the mess – we’re not properly set up yet. We will be more organised then, I promise. Come this way.’
Ellen followed her down a corridor full of more boxes – ‘Watch your step’ – to a room that contained just a desk, a couch and a coffee table. A man behind the desk – thirtyish, clean-shaven, short-haired – got to his feet as they entered.
‘This is Ellen,’ the receptionist said.
‘Thanks for coming along,’ he replied, getting up to offer her his hand. American or Canadian by his accent; Ellen could never tell the difference. A shirt so white it had to be new, and white teeth too. He reminded her of the Mormons, ringing doorbells with fresh, hopeful smiles and Bibles under their arms. ‘I’m Justin, and you’ve met my wife Lucinda.’
His wife? Ellen couldn’t hide her surprise. Seeing it, Lucinda laughed.
‘I’m twenty-five. Everyone thinks I’m younger. Runs in the family – my mum’s forty-eight, and she could be my sister. Justin thought he was going to be arrested every time we went out in the States.’
They told her they’d met at Creative Ways in New York, where they’d both been working, and they’d been chosen to head up the new London branch because of Lucinda being English.
‘So far,’ she told Ellen, ‘we’ve recruited three account handlers, no creatives yet. We’re aiming for an initial workforce of twenty, with a creative department of eight. Justin’s an accountant so he’ll be managing the books, and I’m an art director, and I’ll also head up the creative department. Why don’t you tell us a little of your story and what you’re hoping for?’
She made it easy; they both did. They were complimentary about her portfolio, and seemed charmed by her account of the prizes she’d won. ‘I’ll definitely keep you in mind next time I come across a competition,’ Lucinda declared.
By the end of it, Ellen felt she’d given as good an account of herself as she could. They thanked her for coming in, and promised to let her know by the end of the following week. Too energised for the lift, Ellen bounded down the stairs to the ground floor, and gave the security guard a jaunty wave on her way out.
She walked in sunshine back to the Tube, stopping along the way to ring Laura.
‘Well – did you like them?’
‘I did. They were really nice. I think they liked me.’
‘That’s great. I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear. Best of luck – my fingers are tightly crossed for you.’
The days of the week that followed crawled past. By Friday morning, Ellen had convinced herself that Justin and Lucinda hadn’t after all considered her good enough to work with them. She trudged from the Tube station to work, weekend bag in hand, on her way to Ireland that evening for Joan’s wedding the following day, trying to summon up enthusiasm for the trip.
In the late afternoon, ten minutes before finishing time, Debbie appeared from reception with an envelope and handed it to Ellen. ‘Delivered by courier,’ she said.
It was plain white, A4 size. There was more than one page in it. No indication of who had sent it – which meant it had to have come from Laura, who was being discreet. Ellen wanted to rip it open on the spot, but she couldn’t, not with the others there.
She slipped it into her bag and waited for the clock to crawl to half five. When it did, she switched off her computer. ‘Sorry to miss the Friday drinks. Have a nice weekend, everyone.’
‘Enjoy the wedding,’ Kit said. ‘Don’t forget to catch the bouquet.’
She lasted till she reached the Tube station. She stood by a wall and wedged her bag between her feet and ripped open the envelope. She pulled out the stapled-together bundle of pages and skimmed the note that had been paper-clipped to the top page as people streamed past her.
Ellen,
Congratulations, delighted for you! I’m going to courier this to your work so you get it as soon as possible. Have a read of the attached and think about it, and if you’re happy with everything give me a ring on Monday, and I’ll need you to sign and return the contract by the end of next week.
Laura
She folded the note and tucked it into her pocket and found another handwritten communication beneath.
Dear Ellen,
We are delighted to offer you a copywriting job with Creative Ways. We were really impressed with you when we met last week: your track record at Marketing Solutions speaks for itself, and we feel that personally you’d fit right in here. You came across as capable and friendly, and not afraid of challenges and hard work – our kind of person!
As we mentioned at your interview, we’re hoping to open for business in early November, and we’d love to have all our staff recruited by the end of next week. We’re attaching your contract: please read carefully and make sure you’re happy with everything. We’ll be waiting for Laura to give us your response, and we really hope you’ll come and join us in this exciting venture.
Best regards,
Lucinda and Justin
On the Tube she read the contract slowly, and then went through it a second time. The salary they were offering was almost twice what she was earning in Marketing Solutions. She would have twenty days’ holidays a year, five fewer than her current job. She was perfectly happy to work five extra days for nearly double the money.
Nearly double the money. Real earnings, like Claire.
She slipped the contract back into the envelope and returned it to her bag, fizzing with excitement. She’d say nothing at home till after the wedding: tomorrow was Joan’s day.
At the airport she checked in and went straight through to the departure lounge. For once she ordered a white wine, instead of her usual pre-flight coffee, and took it to a bank of chairs that faced the wall of windows. She lifted her drink and toasted herself silently. A new job. Moving on, moving up.
The future was bright and exciting.