Chapter 4
If not getting a job was a desirable skill that you could put on your CV then I would, well, have a job.
If not having a job, a home or a boyfriend were desirable traits, I’d have more admirers than Dua Lipa.
If emotional baggage and trust issues are things you like a gal to have – give me a call, because I’ve got buckets of both. But, please, no Matcher flashers.
What I’m trying to say is that I have nothing.
Well, after I broke up with Ben, and it was time to work out who got what, I knew that there was no way I would be able to keep working with him (and IT guy trumps assistant) so I had to leave.
When it came to who got to keep the flat, well, that naturally went to the person who kept the job, because he was the only one who could afford it.
So I was out on my arse – but my one blessing came in the form of my friend Jess’s flat, which has been sitting empty while she is away travelling with her girlfriend, so she said I could crash here until she got back.
It was a lifeline right when I needed one, and I figured I had plenty of time to bag myself a job before she got back…
except it’s November, and she’s back just before Christmas, and I cannot land myself a job to save my life.
You would think there would be so many assistant jobs out there, because surely everyone needs an assistant, right? Except it turns out there are even more assistants out there looking for jobs and the competition is fierce.
I started strong, aiming high, applying for jobs that I liked the sound of.
Working as an assistant to an editor at a lifestyle magazine, or at a luxury fashion boutique – I didn’t even get interviews for those.
Then I set my sights a little lower, applying for jobs in a cycle shop (I know nothing about bikes) and with a cultural heritage consultant (I don’t even know that that is).
Still not getting any bites, I applied for a job at a water treatment works (didn’t get it) and even as an assistant to a touring psychic (she said she couldn’t see us working together – I guess she’d know).
I’ve applied for so many jobs I’ve lost count but with each one, with each rejection, it’s like a little bit of my confidence goes with it.
That’s why I’m bringing my A game today, because I actually have a job interview, with a tech firm – I don’t know what they do exactly.
The listing said the company would be revealed at the interview, so I’m hoping it’s a cool tech company, like Apple, because imagine getting employee discount there.
I’m dressing for the job I want, in a black suit with a flash of red coming from my accessories, instead of the job I have – sitting on the sofa watching daytime TV in my PJs.
I want to make a good first impression, because apparently that’s everything, and you only get one chance to make it.
I need to look good, sound good and be on time. It’s rare I ever manage all three.
The fact that I’m walking into a skyscraper, in central London, bodes well for the calibre of job I’m here for – but not for my chances. Everything is glass or metal, screens or lights. I know I’m somewhere techy – and fancy, because even the security guards are wearing designer suits.
I’m trying to keep confident but I feel like a fish out of water here – which is ironic, because it does feel a lot like being in a fish tank.
Still, I head for the desk, tell them I’m here for an interview with Paige Pool, and listen carefully while she tells me which floor to head to.
I’m usually one of those people who, when being given instructions, forgets the English language and how to use my ears, so I make a note in my phone. See, I’m a professional, give me a job.
I head to the lift – which is up a small escalator, for some reason – and step inside right as the doors are about to close. There’s only one other person in there, a man, staring deep into his phone to the point where I almost feel like I’m intruding.
He’s leaning back, effortlessly casually, against the mirrored wall, but not in a scruffy, lazy way – more like one of those sleek, sexy photos you see hot actors posing for that grace the cover of Vanity Fair .
He is good-looking – it’s impossible not to notice – with his strong jaw, his thick dark hair and his full eyebrows.
He’s in his late thirties, maybe, I don’t know; he just seems to have that sort of genuine confidence that comes with having a handful more years under your belt, unlike lads in their twenties and early thirties who are still running on pure bravado.
I’m not sure if his eyes are smouldering or tired or both – if it’s both, it’s probably because he knows how to have a good time.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
‘Morning,’ he replies, looking up for a split second before whatever is on his phone screen pulls him back.
No need for me to push any buttons; we’re going to the same floor. As the lift starts moving, I try to relax.
I don’t know why I’m admiring a random man in a lift. Well, I do, it’s a distraction. I’m thinking about anything but my interview. Anything else would have been better, to be honest with you, because my hunt for a man is going about as well as my hunt for a job. It ain’t.
The trouble I’m having is that, since Ben, I look at men in way more detail, and as soon as I put them under my microscope I realise I don’t like what I see.
Obviously there are the big things, the dealbreakers, the red flags that put you off a person.
I’m not talking about that. I suppose what I’m doing is comparing every man I meet to Ben, not in a good way, in a bad way.
In hindsight, Ben did so many things that gave me the ick – his poor hygiene, his laziness, the fact he cared about sport more than he did me.
Now that I’m looking for icks, trying to make sure no one has any, they’re all I can see.
It’s like I have this ick alarm in my head and it always goes off, usually sooner rather than later, and then that’s that. Date over. I can’t deal with it.
I mean, take the sexy man in the lift here.
He looks good – he smells amazing – but I bet I’d find something wrong with him, either something he’s doing wrong, or I’ll just home in on something that can’t be helped and let it ruin everything.
Like, what if I hate his name? What if he’s called Ronald McDonald, or Homer Simpson, or Michael Scott?
Seriously, Ben has done a real number on me, because I start trying to work out what is wrong with a person right away, and, frankly, he doesn’t have to have anything truly wrong with him, it might be because he has ice in his drink, or because he doesn’t, or because he uses a paper straw that weakens in the middle and breaks in half and that is obviously a personal failing on his part, right? Right?
It just always feels like the moment is coming, like it’s unavoidable.
I’m starting to wonder if I should give up on dating for a while, because if I don’t go on them then I’ll never know what the thing was going to be that ruined it all.
Sort of like a Schrodinger-type situation.
I’ll only wind up feeling frustrated with myself, if I peep inside the box, so why bother?
Then again, maybe that’s how you live with regret. In the sort of words of Michael Scott, you miss all of the shots you don’t take. For that I need to keep trying, to turn up knowing that it’s going to be shit, but with the hope that this time it might not be.
That, my friend, is life until you die in a nutshell.
Hey, I already told you, Ben has done irreparable damage to me. I’m aware. But I don’t ever want to find myself in that situation again, so I’m not taking any risks.
All of a sudden the lift grinds to an unexpected halt.
Then the lights go out. Like, properly out.
It would be pitch black in here, were the man in here with me not still staring at this phone.
It lights up his face, like he’s telling a horror story around a campfire.
Two things – one, he’s still gorgeous, even with the creepy lighting.
Two, he seems completely unbothered by what’s going on.
I, on the other hand, am very bothered.
‘Fuck,’ I blurt.
I think I hear him laugh, quickly and quietly. I turn to him.
‘The lift has broken down,’ I tell him, because I’m genuinely starting to think he might not have noticed.
‘Yeah,’ he confirms – still casual as you like. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘This lift breaks down all the time?’ I check, because surely not?
‘Yeah,’ he says again.
‘Then why would you get in it?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘Because it doesn’t happen often enough to make me want to walk up thirty flights of stairs every day,’ he says, amused.
It’s hard to tell if he’s an optimist or an idiot. Maybe he’s both?
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t usually take them long,’ he (kind of) reassures me. ‘I think we almost made it all the way today.’
Sure enough the doors slowly open, letting light pool in from whatever floor we’re on – except we haven’t quite made it, we’re between floors, so we’re peering down at our rescuer.
‘Morning,’ she says.
‘Morning,’ the man replies.
‘Ladies first, I guess,’ she tells me, reaching up to take my hand.
So, what, I’m just supposed to jump out of the lift, into this random woman’s arms? Beats being trapped in a lift, I guess.
I take a leap of faith and land on my feet – but I roll my ankle in the process.
‘Ouch,’ I blurt.
The woman sort of ushers me to one side.
‘Come on, you know the drill,’ she tells the man, all smiles.
‘You should be less on the ball, it would give me a chance to sneak a nap,’ he jokes as he hops out of the lift. He nails the landing because of course he does.
‘Only two floors off today,’ she tells him, like she’s impressed. Then she turns to me and her smile drops. ‘You’ll have to use the emergency stairwell, over there. This takes time to reset.’