“Thanks.”
“Yup. Resourcefulness, amazing eyesight, and great tits. All of us Lewis women have all three.”
Isabelle, who apparently has been listening from the doorway, asks, “What are great tits?”
I grimace at Dolores. “You want to take that one, Auntie?”
“If I wanted to answer difficult questions, I would’ve had children of my own.”
With that, she walks out, leaving me to explain that tits is another one in the long list of no-no words Auntie Dolores uses.
CHAPTER 7
Working Man Blues
Leopold
So this is what a job interview feels like.
It’s actually much more nerve-racking than I would’ve imagined. I’m currently sitting in a rickety metal chair across from a woman named Rosy, who is some sort of manager here. Turns out she was away for a few days, so my interview was postponed, which gave me the chance to savour the good life for an extra seventy-two hours. But now that I’m here, this is all starting to feel all too real.
After spending a total of five minutes filling in the application form—it’s a surprisingly quick process when you don’t have anything to write under job experience—I was ushered into her office to discuss job opportunities. At least that’s what I thought before she pulled out a questionnaire from her desk drawer, clicked open her pen, and suggested we get started.
At the moment, she’s writing down my latest answer, which I don’t think she found very pleasing. She asked me if I consider myself successful, and if so, why, to which I answered, “Yes, because I’ve had a life full of adventure and fun, and I’ve never had to pay for any of it.”
Rosy examines me over the top of her bright-purple glasses. “I don’t suppose you can describe your work style since you’ve never had a job.”
“Why don’t I take a stab at it anyway?” I ask with a bright smile. “I’m a people person, Rosy. I’m friendly, and I love a good chinwag, so I suppose you could say I’m just the sort of fellow you want in a job, such as… Oh, I don’t know…bartending, maybe?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Yes, I see that you seem to be rather fixated on that idea based on your lengthy description of your experience mixing cocktails for your nanny.”
“Oh, you noticed that, did you? I’ve even mastered the toss-behind-the-back thing with the martini shaker. It’s a definite crowd-pleaser.” I know Emma said it’s hard to get a position tending bar, but I still had to try…
“Do you have any medical conditions that would preclude you from heavy lifting?”
Heavy lifting? Oh, I get it. Because of the cases of wine and such. “No physical problems whatsoever. I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“It says here you have a degree from the University of Valcourt with a major in Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic, and a minor in Alchemy.”
She puts down her pen and stares at me, clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Yes, can you believe they still have alchemy there? If there’s one thing about UVal, it’s their inability to let go of tradition.”
“Just out of curiosity, what exactly do you learn in alchemy?”
“It’s quite interesting actually. It’s both medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transformation of base metals into gold, discovering the universal cure for disease, and, for lack of better words, the search for the fountain of youth.”
She pushes her glasses up onto her head. “And you believe in that?”
“No, it’s total bollocks. If there were even a shred of truth to it, someone would have figured it out by now, and we’d all be immortal with bags of gold lying about everywhere,” I answer. “Mind you, if we all had unlimited amounts of gold, it wouldn’t be worth anything, would it?”
“So how did you decide to make that your minor?”
“To piss off my father.”
Based on the expression on her face, I’m relatively certain that was not the right answer. Bugger.
Rosy sits back in her chair and taps her pen on her desk. “Do you generally have trouble with authority, Mr. Davenport?”
