‘Are you wearing the shoes that make your feet go up?’ Isla asks me. She has always described high heels this way. She’s sitting on the end of my bed, stroking Spud, our Jack Russell rescue dog. His coat is snow-white with a light brown circular patch on his back and sturdy little chest. I shove my feet into my shoes. ‘Yep! Ta-dah!’ I give her a twirl, trying to disguise my nerves.
Isla sticks her thumbs up. ‘She looks pretty, doesn’t she, Spud?’ She pats him on the top of his head before cocking her head to one side. ‘But your hair is funny.’ She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter, ha haha!’ Isla has a naughty contagious laugh.
‘Ha ha ha!’ I repeat before glancing in the mirror and noticing how static my hair is after washing it this morning. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘breakfast.’
I couldn’t eat a thing.
This morning I’m having my second interview for Sherwoods, a property firm in Mayfair that specialises in selling country houses and estates. I have applied for the PA position, working for the chairman of the London office, Jeremy North. I don’t know a thing about property, except that I don’t like estate agents. I still can’t believe I’m applying to work for one. Clearly I’m not only desperate but insane too. I think back to the agent who sold me this place in Hammersmith, pound signs bulging out of his eyes. But surely not all estate agents are tossers, are they? After weeks of circling job adverts and nothing materialising, Lizzie, who works for a travel company, told me she’d heard about this job through a friend. ‘Don’t worry about having no experience,’ she’d reassured me, ‘you just need to be able to run an office.’ But that’s the trouble. I’m seriously rusty. I haven’t worked in an office since Isla was born. I had every intention of going back to my old job at a literary agency in Notting Hill, but when I sat down and really worked out the sums, I struggled to see how my salary could cover full-time care. It couldn’t. And then Isla needed all that extra attention, and suddenly I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to have a job or lead anything close to a normal life ever again. A lothas happened over the past eight years to chip away at my confidence.
Things used to be simple. I moved to London when I was eighteen, ready to throw myself into any job. Unlike my older brother Lucas (he managed to get away with a more conservative name), who knew he’d always wanted to be a banker and earn serious money, I had no idea what I wanted to do except to earn enough to pay my rent and enjoy my freedom. My first job was waitressing in a bar and then over the next three years I shampooed hair at Toni&Guy and worked in the toy department at Harrods where I met my first love, Billy, who worked in the men’s toiletries department. He used to pick me up for dates on his motorbike, wearing his hot leather jacket. When I heard the sound of the engine I’d rush out of the front door and he’d whip his helmet off for a kiss before I hopped on to the back, Billy telling me to hold on tight. It was like being with Tom Cruise inTop Gun!Then I sold silver heart necklaces and engagement rings in Tiffany’s, worked for a courier company and, finally, had a secretarial job for a literary agency. I’ve enjoyed each job in a different way, but it hasn’t exactly been a career ladder or whatever you call it. Given half the chance I’d read books for a living, so my last job was the most fulfilling. I was not only doing secretarial work but also reading scripts and learning about the contract side. At last I’d found something that gave me a kick in my stride. I didn’t want to have cigarette and coffee breaks every minute of the day. And then I met Dan and… well, everything changed and… I stop, not wanting to live in the past. Focus on this morning, January. I need this job to help pay my bills and mortgage. However, it’s not just about the money. These past eight years have been some of my most challenging yet, and I have no regrets. I love being Isla’s mother. But somewhere along the way I’ve lost a part of me that I need to find again.
Deep breath. I can do this. Be professional. I can work for an estate agent, as long as he doesn’t say okey-dokey…
Isla and I head into the kitchen and I try to ignore the mess of bills and paperwork littering the worktop. Isla lifts herself on to the stool; she’s as light as a sparrow and short for her age, with rich chestnut-coloured hair like my own and my mother’s and grandmother’s, except Isla’s hair is cut in a cute bob with a blunt fringe that highlights her almond-shaped eyes. I have grey-green eyes, like my mother’s. Granny often hugs me tightly, saying she can’t believe how alike we are, that I have grown up to be a beautiful woman. ‘Although you might be a tiny bit biased,’ I add.
I pour Isla a glass of milk before switching on the coffee machine and radio, sticking some bread into the toaster and mashing some vile-smelling tinned meat into Spud’s bowl. Next Isla is off the stool and singing ‘Edelweiss’ with Spud, Spud’s head tilted to one side, tail wagging as he howls along to the music. It’s one of his party tricks and normally I find it endearing… ‘Isla! Will you sit down otherwise we’ll be late.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
Her favourite expression, said with a shrug. This morning I butter and cut her toast. I know I shouldn’t do it for her but I don’t have the time or energy to argue. I think back to my teens and early twenties, the job interviews that I had. I don’t remember feeling this nervous, but then I didn’t have anything to lose, nor care so deeply about rejection. Now there’s this part of me screaming, ‘Who the hell would want to employ you? You’re just a mum. You haven’t been in the job market for years! You won’t even know how to work the photocopier!’The knife slips from my fingers.
‘Isla! That’s enough!’ I force her on to the stool before plonking Spud’s bowl on to the floor for him.
‘You’ll be all right, Mummy,’ she says, looking up at me with that soulful expression.
It’s only a job. I drop my shoulders. ‘Sorry, darling.’
‘They liked you the first time,’ she reasons, ‘so I’m sure they’ll like you again.’
I think back to my first interview. I’d arrived at Green Park with plenty of time to spare so decided to have a coffee. I was in a queue in Starbucks and the young woman standing in front of me was constantly looking at her watch. She had long fair hair and patterned tights and I could see a packet of cigarettes in her jacket pocket. When the time finally came for her to order a double espresso she rummaged in her handbag before explaining to the indifferent man behind the counter that she’d left her wallet in the office and could she pay later? Everyone in the queue began to tut because the manager needed to be called. Sensing her stress I tapped her on the shoulder and said I’d be happy to pay, and no, she didn’t need to pay me back. It was only a coffee. My grandmother always says do kind things for people; what goes around comes around. When I was shown into the boardroom later that morning there she was, sitting at the table. ‘Lucie Henshaw, Jeremy North’s number two,’ she said, shaking my hand and telling me to sit down, and that she’d never come across the name January before. She then looked at me again, narrowing her eyes and said with a small smile, ‘Can I getyoua coffee?’
School is thankfully only a five-minute walk from home. I like this part of west London. It’s where Lizzie and I rented our first flat together on Hammersmith Grove. Isla, Spud and I live close to Ravenscourt Park; we’re only minutes away from cafes, the Lyric theatre, the rundown cinema and pubs along the river. As Isla rushes on ahead with Spud I tell her to keep her right foot flat on the ground. ‘No Miss Tippy Toes!’ I call out, ignoring another passer-by looking at us. We’re fairly immune now to stares. Walking in a straight line has never been Isla’s strong point.
My mobile rings. It’s Granny. ‘Sock it to him, darling.’
Grandad comes on to the line. ‘And if you get nervous imagine the old chairman starkers.’
I smile. ‘What are you doing today?’
‘Sleeping,’ he says, ‘in between eating cheese.’
Granny comes back on to the line. ‘Call us, won’t you, when it’s over.’ She sounds breathless.
‘Granny, are you all right?’ Granny is seventy-four. ‘You haven’t had any more of your giddy spells? Isla, not too fast!’
‘I’m as right as rain. Now good luck, you can do it.’
At the school gates I receive many admiring glances since my school-mum friends are so used to seeing me in jeans, a sloppy jumper and boots. As everyone wishes me good luck I’m beginning to regret telling them all about this interview. It reminds me of announcing the date of my driving test to all my friends, only to go and mount the kerb the moment I left the driving test centre. Isla dawdles. She hates saying goodbye to Spud and me; normally she heads off with her friends, no glance over her shoulder, but today she’s clingy. ‘If you get the job,’ she says, ‘you’ll still be my mum, won’t you?’
I bend down and wrap my arms around her, feeling guilty for snapping earlier this morning. ‘I love you more than any job. You will always come first.’
She nods as if that answer will do. As I watch her walk through the school gates, I can’t help comparing her spaghetti-thin legs to the sturdy legs of her friends. I overhear her telling them Mummy is trying to get a job, which is why I am wearing shoes that make my feet go up.
Sherwoods is on Dover Street, close to Berkeley Square, in the heart of Mayfair. Next door to a modern art gallery is a shoe shop, a pair of silver heels mounted in the window as if they are jewels.
The office building is two-toned, white andcharcoal grey, with long sash windows and a little black balcony. As I approach the front door I remind myself of all the things not to say or do during my interview. Don’t chew nails. Don’t ramble, no going off on tangents. Remember my W.A.I.T. tactic – it stands for ‘Why Am I Talking?’ Lizzie tipped me off about this one. Often we have this need, driven either by insecurity or some warped sense of responsibility that it’s always up to us to fill an awkward silence, but it’s dangerous since it can lead to waffling. W.A.I.T. is useful to remember on first dates too; you don’t want to give away your whole life story. Not that I’ve had huge success lately on the dating front… don’t think about that right now… concentrate…
Don’t say ‘you know’ a lot. Impress Mr North with your knowledge about the company. There are twelve offices in the country and roughly two hundred staff. It was founded in 1875 or was it 1895? Say late nineteenth century. Their rival is Barker & Goulding, a much bigger property firm. I thrive in smaller set-ups. I press the buzzer. ‘I can do this,’ I mutter for the millionth time. The reason for the eight-year gap on my CV, well, that’s a long story… W.A.I.T. He doesn’t need to know all about my private life… Lucie will have told him that I have a child, just say no plans to have any more and… ‘Oh hello, it’s January Wild,’ I say through the intercom, straightening my jacket and brushing one of Spud’s hairs off my trousers. ‘I’m here for…’
