Hmm. None of the above fillsme with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.
‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’
My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sipcappuccino and cluck and coo …
‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’
My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees,to romp around the park with, and to readPeppa Pigto.
Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.
‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’
‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.
Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects,no daily routine …
Wife and mother
High-powered businesswoman
The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.
Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.
I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate forThe Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelledwaitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?
The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experiencethe thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.
Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:
RETAIL CONSULTANTREQUIRED
APPLY WITHIN
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …
Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.
‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items arevery, veryvaluable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawltyvoice.
‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am …au faitwith handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)
‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch,is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’
Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have wonMastermindwith ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject,but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.
Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye frommy beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.
There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.
‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie.‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.
Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’
