to babe?” asks Angel and I tell her about my day, trying to make it sound interesting, but I feel timid, self-conscious with everyone here.
“So today was my rest day, tomorrow I need to start looking for a job,” I say at the end, embarrassed to be the centre of attention.
“What is eet you do, Keetty Cat?” asks Dolores with a killer smile.
I have this all worked out, I even did my CV in secret back in Chorlton, before I left, although I hadn’t printed it out – I hadn’t known my new address or phone number then, obviously.
“I’m a receptionist,” I say. “I used to work in a law firm, but I fancy a change now, something a bit more exciting hopefully.”
“Dolores is a receptionist, aren’t you babe?” says Angel. I look at Dolores in her tight sexy clothes and she's bubbly and sunny-natured and I can’t remember now why I thought reception work would be a good job for me. Something to do with it being easy to pick up (surely), not having to think too much, not making myself conspicuous. Not being found.
“Sure I am. I loooove it, ees dee best job in dee world – HA HA HA.”
I wonder how good a receptionist Dolores actually is, with her hard-to-understand accent and idiosyncratic command of the English language. Still, she’s warm and fun and she looks good, and I’m aware that I don’t really have the look of a receptionist, I lack that kind of glamour. My interview outfit is formal, lawyerish, I don’t wear much make-up, and I have no jewellery any more, not a single piece, not since I left my wedding ring in the station toilets at Crewe.
The swarthy boy moves from the stove and gets two bowls from the draining board, I really hope for his sake Bev did as she promised and cleaned up properly from the shoe incident earlier. He dollops foul-smelling ladlefuls of greeny-brown stew into the bowls. He gets two forks from the drawer and two glasses from a cupboard, he fills the glasses with water from the tap, he puts the forks in his back jeans pocket, prongs pointing upwards and outwards, places one bowl on his right arm, waiter style, pinches the two glasses between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, so his long dirty nails go in the water, and finally takes the second bowl of stew with his free right hand. He walks tentatively across the kitchen and hooks his right foot round the door and pulls it towards him, to open it, and stew slops on the floor which he swipes at with his trainer. By the time he’s done all that I think he would've been quicker to have taken the bowls and come back for the water and the forks, and I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere but I can’t think what it is. The last song finishes, a loud crashy number I hadn’t heard before (I think the iPod must be on shuffle or else it’s a very eclectic playlist) and then “You are the sunshine of my life,” comes on, and when Stevie Wonder sings the second line my eyes fill up and Angel notices so I immediately look down into my hands, to where my ring used to be.
“How you gonna get job, darleeng?” asks Dolores, and I pull myself together and tell her I’m planning on registering with a temp agency to see what comes up. Dolores tells me to go to one her friend runs, just behind Shaftesbury Avenue, which specialises in jobs in media companies. She says to ask for Raquel and say that I know her, Dolores, and although I’m grateful I wonder if saying that is a good idea. She gets up off the chair, bends down and kisses Angel on both cheeks, twice, pulls Jerome to his feet by his shirt, says, “Bye bye – you tell Raquel dee great Dolores sent you – HA HA HA,” and totters off on her heels, her big sexy bottom swaying behind her. Jerome follows meekly, like a giant puppy on a string, and I hear them leave the house, and I presume they’re off to Dolores’s place in Enfield, wherever that is.
It’s just me and Angel left in the kitchen now. Angel sees my face and knows not to venture
“So today was my rest day, tomorrow I need to start looking for a job,” I say at the end, embarrassed to be the centre of attention.
“What is eet you do, Keetty Cat?” asks Dolores with a killer smile.
I have this all worked out, I even did my CV in secret back in Chorlton, before I left, although I hadn’t printed it out – I hadn’t known my new address or phone number then, obviously.
“I’m a receptionist,” I say. “I used to work in a law firm, but I fancy a change now, something a bit more exciting hopefully.”
“Dolores is a receptionist, aren’t you babe?” says Angel. I look at Dolores in her tight sexy clothes and she's bubbly and sunny-natured and I can’t remember now why I thought reception work would be a good job for me. Something to do with it being easy to pick up (surely), not having to think too much, not making myself conspicuous. Not being found.
“Sure I am. I loooove it, ees dee best job in dee world – HA HA HA.”
I wonder how good a receptionist Dolores actually is, with her hard-to-understand accent and idiosyncratic command of the English language. Still, she’s warm and fun and she looks good, and I’m aware that I don’t really have the look of a receptionist, I lack that kind of glamour. My interview outfit is formal, lawyerish, I don’t wear much make-up, and I have no jewellery any more, not a single piece, not since I left my wedding ring in the station toilets at Crewe.
The swarthy boy moves from the stove and gets two bowls from the draining board, I really hope for his sake Bev did as she promised and cleaned up properly from the shoe incident earlier. He dollops foul-smelling ladlefuls of greeny-brown stew into the bowls. He gets two forks from the drawer and two glasses from a cupboard, he fills the glasses with water from the tap, he puts the forks in his back jeans pocket, prongs pointing upwards and outwards, places one bowl on his right arm, waiter style, pinches the two glasses between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, so his long dirty nails go in the water, and finally takes the second bowl of stew with his free right hand. He walks tentatively across the kitchen and hooks his right foot round the door and pulls it towards him, to open it, and stew slops on the floor which he swipes at with his trainer. By the time he’s done all that I think he would've been quicker to have taken the bowls and come back for the water and the forks, and I’m sure there’s a lesson in there somewhere but I can’t think what it is. The last song finishes, a loud crashy number I hadn’t heard before (I think the iPod must be on shuffle or else it’s a very eclectic playlist) and then “You are the sunshine of my life,” comes on, and when Stevie Wonder sings the second line my eyes fill up and Angel notices so I immediately look down into my hands, to where my ring used to be.
“How you gonna get job, darleeng?” asks Dolores, and I pull myself together and tell her I’m planning on registering with a temp agency to see what comes up. Dolores tells me to go to one her friend runs, just behind Shaftesbury Avenue, which specialises in jobs in media companies. She says to ask for Raquel and say that I know her, Dolores, and although I’m grateful I wonder if saying that is a good idea. She gets up off the chair, bends down and kisses Angel on both cheeks, twice, pulls Jerome to his feet by his shirt, says, “Bye bye – you tell Raquel dee great Dolores sent you – HA HA HA,” and totters off on her heels, her big sexy bottom swaying behind her. Jerome follows meekly, like a giant puppy on a string, and I hear them leave the house, and I presume they’re off to Dolores’s place in Enfield, wherever that is.
It’s just me and Angel left in the kitchen now. Angel sees my face and knows not to venture
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