Chapter 29
Lando
“According to your CV, you’ve only been working for your current employer for . . . six weeks. Can you tell me why you want to leave?” Nikki says, tapping the end of her fountain pen against her chin. She’s sitting opposite me at a vintage Formica table in an overstuffed staffroom.
On the wall behind her is a shelving unit with books and DVDs and borderline antique issues of Elle and Vogue, plus old point-of-sale interior shop signage, and to my right is a lead-panelled lunette window looking down onto the bustling streets of Bath.
People are milling about with iced coffees and shopping bags, and tourists are snapping pictures of the grand Georgian and Roman architecture.
Everything Harry and I had uncovered online whilst researching interview techniques suggested I should approach this particular question with trepidation, and well . . . it said I should lie, lie, lie.
“It says here, don’t tell them you hate your job and that all your colleagues are bellends because they’ll just think you’re a whiny bitch baby and you won’t get the new position,” Harry had said last night while we were preparing for today.
He’d had my laptop open, dropping Rice Krispie Square crumbs all over the keyboard, while I paced my rug and pre-emptively dosed up on Imodium.
“It says those words?” I’d asked.
Harry had shrugged. “Pretty much. But then later it goes on to say that you should never lie in an interview, and you should always be yourself.” He’d given up at this point and slammed the lid closed on the laptop.
So here I am, in my first ever job interview, panicking because in complete honesty, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing or saying.
I open my mouth to speak. Close it again. Scratch my upper lip. Take a breath. “Okay, I have to be honest with you. I . . . hate it there.”
I hide my face behind my palms, and a moment later when I peer through my fingers at Nikki, she’s smiling curiously, encouraging me to explain, or else humouring me before she turfs me out of her shop.
“My father set it all up for me. He wanted me to get a job, and he had his team hand me this one on a platter. Which I guess is a nice thing for him to do, but working in an office where everyone wears polyester is . . . not quite my dream career,” I say, praying, hoping I’m not being a cunt about it.
Nikki nods politely. She’s mid to late fifties, Black, with a short tapered hairstyle and the most vibrant clothes I have ever seen in all of my twenty-one years.
A pink button-down shirt with yellow palazzo pants and mint-green platform Adidas trainers.
She has spectacles on a shimmery turquoise chain and geometric yellow acrylic earrings, and she’s easily the most effortlessly chic person I’ve met IRL. I want to be her when I grow up.
Her shop, Tia’s, named after her late daughter, is an independent boutique department store in central Bath, about ten minutes’ walk from Harry’s flat.
It sells a range of designer and indie womenswear brands, some I’ve heard of, and others I had to research, but all have good credentials and are either sustainable, women owned, support worthy causes, or are a mix of those three things.
And the clothes themselves are beautiful—stunning, gorgeous, elegant, and not a shred of polyester for miles.
“So, tell me about your dream career. What would that involve, and how do you see Tia’s fitting into this?” Nikki says.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I reply. “The career part, at least. I love fashion. I know a lot about it, and I love styling outfits, and the only thing I’ve ever dreamed about doing since I was a boy was being a shopgirl—uh . . . person . . . or whatever the PC term is.”
Nikki laughs. “If you want to call yourself a shopgirl, I think that’s perfectly fine, but you should realise it isn’t all strawberries and ice cream. Retail is hardcore, and the people who work in retail are some of the toughest you’ll ever meet.”
“Oh, I understand. I know it’s not dressing up Barbie dolls every day, but I’m more than willing to put in my fair share of the workload. Also, I’m lactose intolerant and can’t even eat ice cream.”
Nikki laughs.
The position I’m interviewing for is sales assistant.
It’s thirty-seven-point-five hours per week, and includes one weekend day and occasional evenings.
It pays fourteen pounds an hour, which equates to twenty-seven thousand per annum before tax and NI and all the other deductions.
It’s considerably less than what I was used to six weeks ago, what my wage is like at Oakham Industries, or what Harry gets paid, but—and it’s a big but—it would be money I earned all by myself.
No nepo pity cash, no allowance from Daddy, no handouts, just Orlando’s own sweat and toil.
Nikki scribbles something onto her notepad, and I resist the urge to crane my neck to read it. “Tell me about your strengths and weaknesses. Why should I hire you? What will you bring to the Tia’s brand?”
I suck in a deep sigh and puff it out slowly.
“Well, my strengths are enthusiasm and knowledge, and a keen eye for detail. I think I would enjoy helping people choose and style outfits for different occasions. No, actually, I don’t think I would enjoy it.
I know I would love it. So much of how we express ourselves and our identities is mixed in with clothing, and I would love to help folk feel more . . . themselves.”
She writes something on her sheet. “And your weaknesses?”
Jesus, how long has she got? “Um . . .” I laugh nervously.
Okay, total honesty. “I’m inexperienced.
I’m a spoilt little rich boy who until six weeks ago had no concept of ‘the real world.’ I’m overly sensitive.
I cry a lot, like all the time. I’m a drama queen, a snob, opinionated.
I’ll be honest with the customers, probably to a fault, like I couldn’t let someone buy something if it looked hideous on them.
I just couldn’t do it. My morals wouldn’t allow that.
Um . . . more weaknesses . . . I’m an attention seeker.
I can be loud and annoying. I talk about my bowel movements far too much and—”
Nikki laughs and puts her hand up to interrupt me. Fuck, I’ve blown it.
“Let me stop you there,” she says. “Usually, we don’t hire people who don’t have any prior retail experience, but I like you, Orlando. There’s something about you that makes me want to be your friend, and I know the Tia’s regulars will love you.”
“Um . . . thank you?”
Nikki laughs and straightens her papers on the desk. “I would love to give you a shot and offer you a position with us as a full-time sales assistant. What do you say?”
“I’d like to say yes, and also . . . I’m sorry for crying,” I say, as I burst into tears.
I did it. Provided she doesn’t turn around and tell me, “On second thoughts, we don’t hire cry babies,” I did it. I got a job all on my own. Well, with the help of my boyfriend. But old Daddy Dearest had zero input.
I couldn’t be happier or prouder of myself.
Nikki leans forward and offers me a tissue.
“Congratulations, you did good. You can breathe now.” She laughs again, and I release all the tension at once.
“Let me explain how things work around here. Firstly, we’re primarily a womenswear store, and each month you’ll get an allowance to spend on uniform bits.
Some of the brands we carry also stock a menswear line, so you may order items from those ranges as well, but I see you’re not entirely uncomfortable wearing women’s clothing? ” It’s a question.
I shake my head, and demonstrably smooth down the front of my McQueen sheer lace blouse with the book-pleated dandy collar. Nikki continues to explain all the benefits of working at Tia’s as though she’s selling it to me, not the other way around.
I’ll get twenty-eight days of paid holiday, sick pay, paternity pay if ever I need it, team evenings out to the theatre and restaurants, red carpet and fashion week events.
A uniform allowance, money off a bike if I choose to cycle to work, free eye tests.
Finally, Nikki waves away my health problems, as though she sees me as a person and not a dent in production targets.
“That’s fine. So long as you tell someone you’re leaving the shop floor in case of a fire or evacuation, but you’ll never be punished for your condition.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. Not all disabilities are visible.” She says it like she’s about to have words with Amy.
“My staff are the reason my customers return time and time again. If I focus on making sure you’re all happy and comfortable, the sales will naturally follow.
” She looks through the papers. “Now, it says here you have a two-week notice period. So what do we say to starting you on Monday, the fifth of July? If you could arrive for ten, how does that sound?”
“Amazing. It sounds amazing.”
“Do you need me to sort out a parking permit for you? They can be tricky to get hold of round here,” she says.
“No, that’s okay. I plan to walk to work . . . from my new apartment.”
Nikki smiles and holds out a hand for me to shake. “Excellent. Well done, Orlando. Welcome to the Tia’s team.”
“I start in two weeks!” I say running across the road and leaping into Harry’s arms.
“Babygirl, you did it. Fuck yeah, I’m so proud of you.” He brings his lips down to mine and kisses me in the middle of the street like he needs my oxygen for his survival.
Someone walks past and says, “Oh my god, it’s Harry Ellis,” but Harry ignores them.
“Did you get them?” I ask, pulling away to look him in the eye. His cheeks are all pink. Jesus, he’s so adorable.
“Yep.” Harry holds out his palm and shows me two sets of shiny silver keys. “Pi and Eggo are already there.”
Together we walk ten minutes through the streets of Bath to number thirty-seven Darcy Street, right across the road from Harry’s current, and soon to be former, flat.