By the Time You Read This (11 page)
Read By the Time You Read This Online
Authors: Lola Jaye
I smiled good-naturedly at Ken. The man was a bit of a twit, but I had to remain focused on all the money I could make out of this “operations unit.”
Ken showed me the fire escapes, loos, and what to do in the event of a code blue (i.e. if Callee is hesitant about going ahead with the order).
“Do you have any questions at this stage, Ms. Bates?”
“What type of Internet products will I be selling?”
Ken’s face lit up like a set of Christmas-tree lights. “Don’t worry, I’m coming to that
right
now.”
He was thrilled to introduce me to I.T.T. Enterprises’ top three sellers, placing the items on the table as I tried to ascertain what they actually were. I could just about identify the computer mouse.
“Keep in mind that this is only a mere fraction of the goods we sell. We have a huge range sold over the Internet and in our catalog.”
“The mouse is quite cute,” I said unnecessarily.
“Cute? Cute? This is not just any mouse!” His voice raised itself a few hundred decibels. I’d definitely entered weirdo territory. “This, the Slazoo, is
only
our third biggest seller. The Slazoo not only works as a mouse but also a hand massager. Now you can be relaxed as you surf!”
I grabbed hold of the next item—a watering can—wondering what the heck it had to do with computers. Sprinkle while you surf?
“What you have there Ms. Bates is the IU. Our number-one seller.”
I fingered the contours of this strange item.
“It allows you to sprinkle while you surf.”
“That’s what I thought!” I said with intellectual pride.
“Our Internet urinal.”
My hands shot away.
“Don’t worry, it’s not been used,” he giggled like a schoolgirl. “You have to remember the Internet is taking off in a big, big way. Chatrooms, dating sites—it’s not often convenient to leave the computer at regular intervals. I myself can stay glued to mine for hours at a time.”
M
y third day into the job and I hadn’t sold a thing. The Operations Room buzzed with activity, though, as the general public were routinely persuaded to invest
in everyday essentials such as The CiggieSurf Cigarette Holder—smoke while you surf!
“This job is crap. I’m only doing it while I study,” Jan informed me. She’d been at I.T.T. Enterprises for six months and sat opposite me with a fluffy pink animal stuck to her headset.
“Have you ever earned five hundred quid in one week here?” I ventured, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“You having a laugh? I make about fifty to a hundred quid if I’m lucky. Sometimes, nothing.”
“Tell me about it!” added Preethi, a newer girl.
“Ken thinks this shit is all part of the Internet revolution. My arse! The real money’s in setting up a website with a great idea or becoming a certified engineer. That’s what I’m going for. In a few weeks I’ll
really
be earning at least thirty grand and that’s after only a few months’ studying.”
I urged Jan to tell me more about becoming a certified computer engineer, which she did. And by the end of my first week I’d made zero pounds at I.T.T. Enterprises but gained enough information to help me with the next stage of my professional life.
Kevin Trivia:
Most fave record bought in 1975? Minnie Riperton’s “Lovin’ You”—for your mom, of course.
I
nching toward the millennium, I made major decisions. My life would become a whirlwind of work, work, work.
I now worked full time as an office temp with an agency and spent Thursday evenings and Saturday all day stacking shelves at the superstore to make ends meet. And not forgetting three evenings a week at a “virtual college” in Lewisham—namely, a shoddy airless room stacked with rows of computers teaching the fundamentals of Information Technology. But I wasn’t complaining. Yes, I was exhausted, but egging me on from behind the scenes was my dad’s belief in me, pushing a hidden drive never
tapped into before which fueled my desire to succeed. So while Carla partied with her “soon to be a rock star” boyfriend, I worked, studied, slept and ate. Of course, Mom would ring to complain about my lack of interest in the Sprog, something I allowed her to think because that’s what she did best—thought the worst of me. Then again, even if I wasn’t working such long hours, I doubted whether I’d be so quick to see the Sprog anyway. It felt easier to feel this way about her after all, as the Sprog wasn’t
really
my sister.
C
arla continued to follow rocker Fred (who I suspected to be a good old-fashioned Home Counties lad with a suspiciously middle-class upbringing) like a lovesick puppy, moaning about my membership to the “beige cardie brigade” her constant “you’re only young once” speeches escaping too freely from her Plum Delight lips. And when this prompted a tinge of self-doubt to ping its way into my head, all I needed was the pages of
The Manual
and immediately I would hear the voice of my lovely dad.
Such determination meant I finished the course within eight months and, true to Jan’s words, I’d landed two job interviews within a week.
Miscellaneous: The BIG job interview
That all-important job interview.
The biggie.
The job you feel you’ve been waiting for all your life.
The one that’ll lift you onto the first rung of the ladder, that’ll, in turn, change your life forever.
You’re a little nervous. Perhaps you’re sweating more than usual. All semblance of common sense and knowledge having legged it out the window ages ago…
I smiled.
You’ll want to make a great first impression. Only natural. But when you get ready for that interview, don’t overdo the make-up and hairdo. Just be neat and not too overdone. Who likes an overcooked roast? Okay, bad example.
I peered into the mirror. Apart from lip balm and a dash of eyeliner when looking a little tired, I rarely wore make-up. My hair spent most of its life bound and gagged in a hair band.
If you turn up cheerful, with bags of confidence and smiling (but not in a deranged way), you’ll stand out loads more than the other wannabes (unless, of course, one has a skirt barely covering her bum and the interviewer is a lecherous old git). Here are a few pointers to think about when you are in front of the interviewer:
- He’s human, just like you are.
- She doesn’t want to see your baby pictures.
- She doesn’t need to hear you let out wind.
- He doesn’t want you to give the impression you are actually after his job.
- She will not wait while you dash to the pay phone to call your best friend for the latest soccer score (Charlie).
- She will not be influenced by a rush of compliments (“Love your hair! The color really suits you!!” won’t give you any extra brownie points).
- No matter how mind-numbingly boring the interview (and there’ll be some) never, ever yawn. If you try to stifle one, you’ll just look like you’re trying to swallow a mouse. Just try your best to get plenty of sleep the night before.
My first job interview after leaving school was my absolute worst. Not because I messed up on any level—I read up on the company beforehand, wore my best suit, brushed my teeth, combed my hair and didn’t wear any make-up(!). However, as soon as the interviewer laid eyes on me, let’s just say it was obvious he’d made his mind up about me from the start (based on what he thought “people like me” were like). He wasn’t hiring.
I know/hope things will be different for you.
So, just carry yourself with loads of confidence as you walk into that interview. Bearing in mind that confidence stems from deep inside; down past the ribcage and somewhere among your decaying breakfast, lunch and dinner. And I hope by now you have loads (confidence, that is, and not decaying food) and that this comes across as so, and not as arrogance. Because there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance in the eyes of others. A very thin line.
Also: Trying on a dozen outfits, bathing in a sea of dodgy aftershave, practicing best lines in front of the mirror with a hairbrush “microphone,” blowing in the palm of your hands every twenty seconds to test toxic breath levels…all sound like preparation for a hot date to me.
And perhaps it wouldn’t do you any harm to look at it that way. Just make sure you don’t end up looking like someone with the initials SDP (Saddo Desperado Pratt) tattooed on their arm. A clued-up interviewer will spot the SDP tattoo straight away. They’ve been through dozens of interviews before. They are pros. You’re just…desperate. So fool them into thinking you’re confident, efficient and the ONLY person for the job. Let them see OCFTJ (Only Candidate for the Job) spelled out on every inch of you. But again, WITHOUT coming across as arrogant, because, as I said before, there’s a thin line…
PS: While we’re on the subject of tattoos…NEVER, EVER GET ONE please, honey.
The interviews went better than expected. I remained calm, focused and never once asked a silly question (if we ignore the “do you have any toilets?” remark). The only negative theme that seemed to pop up was my age. At twenty-two, had I gained enough experience to take on a well-paid IT role? Being reminded almost weekly of the country’s IT shortage I knew age wouldn’t really be a factor in their decision and decided to dazzle them with a slick sentence about being “eager and keen to work my way up.”
Within a week I was offered two posts and decided to go with the company paying a grand less than the other. An exciting PR firm up west as opposed to the dreary property development company. Besides, the $22,000 salary felt like a lottery win anyway.
The morning of my first day at work arrived in no time. Recalling the trendy-looking interviewer dressed in Prada glasses, surrounded by a huge atrium reception slap bang in the middle of trendy Soho, thoughts of Lois Bates not
being good enough, trendy enough or pretty enough began to tiptoe into my head. My wardrobe was a mixture of out-of-date market wear. My only business suit was a crease-fest from a Finsbury Park wholesaler’s kind enough to open to the public on a Saturday. My shoes were aged, complete with an ever-expanding hole in the right heel. But, peering into my full-length mirror, I could see the out-it had actually come together quite nicely. The trousers would have to be pulled in at a later date, as I appeared to have lost weight over the last few months. Turning to the side, I saw a noticeable bum curve and smiled shyly. A pair of straighteners borrowed from Carla had tamed my unruly mane, completing the look.
With a few minutes to spare before I had to leave, I pulled out
The Manual
for a final rush of support.
Miscellaneous: That new job
Your first day at that job you’ve been after for ages. First off, I’m so proud of you. I knew you’d do it. Second, calm down! It’s only a job and you will be alive at the end of it (okay, I’ll stop with the death jokes). Just remember, you DESERVE to be there just as much as anyone else. You’ve earned your spot fair and square, kiddo.
Take in everything during this introductory period at your new job. Learn what you can about the company, your immediate colleagues (work stuff, not who they’re messing about with), soak up the atmosphere, ask questions if you need to. Now’s the time to do it, as you’ll just sound a bit dumb if you do it later. For example, I waited two weeks to find out my supervisor’s name once, and in another job it took me three whole days to realize I was sitting at the wrong desk. Okay, you’d never
be as dumb as your old dad, but you see where I’m going with all of this.
Work’s a bit like school I’m afraid, only this time you CHOOSE to be there (or are forced to, to pay the bills). Like school, you’ll have the hierarchies, the nerd, the pretty girls, the studs. Same ol’ same ol’ I’m afraid. You may even need to go back over my school advice from time to time. Office politics, an unavoidable old chestnut that I can go on about for ages, but I won’t.
You may also have what I like to term as an Office Husband, who everyone will think you’re secretly having a relationship with. You’ll go to lunch together, sit together in meetings, argue about television. And it’ll feel comfortable, nice, cozy and, most importantly, without threat. There’s nothing wrong with this as long as he doesn’t start getting ideas. If he does, you’ll have to deal with it really sensitively as, remember, you’re in the workplace.
Of course, if he gets offensive you report him or, failing that, refer to the “How to make a man temporarily helpless” section of this manual.
Then there’s the office best friend. The girl/boy you’ll share a lot of things with, may even have after-work drinks with, but that’s where it all ends. S/he will never see the inside of your home and you probably won’t socialize outside of the work domain. One of you may suggest it one day, but you’ll also find a way to wriggle out of it somehow. I don’t think real life and work should EVER mix. And yes, this applies to boyfriends too. If in doubt, remember this question from your old dad and always answer it:
Would you ever s
***
in your own backyard?
Okay, you would if the toilet was blocked, your neighbors were all out and you’d had a really dodgy omelette the night before. But you get what I’m trying to say, right?
“They have the best omelettes here. But apart from that, the food’s not great in our staff canteen. Most of us use the cafés and bars around the area, because they’re much nicer,” explained the PA assigned to show me around. I compared her trendy get-up of designer jeans and heels to my crumpled old suit. “It’s lovely here in the summer, though, the sun floods in from the wall-to-wall windows.”
The cafeteria housed a collage of primary colors against the backdrop of natural light, the aroma of fresh coffee and croissants flooding the atmosphere. My tummy gave off a slight rumble in protest as we moved on.
The conference rooms housed arty collages surrounding solid oak tables and crisp leather chairs, and I was equally impressed with the corridor, water cooler and the shiny brass handles on the door leading to my office.
“And this is you!” announced the assistant, opening the gold-handled door. The least impressive of all the areas I’d seen, judging by the dark and gloomy room with two old computers dumped in a corner, and the sound of garage music coming from one of the three functioning PCs.
“Hello,” said a nerdy-looking man with scruffy, shoulder-length hair. “I’m Keith, but you can call me Keitho.” He spoke in an American/Australian twang I’d never heard before.
“Nice to meet you,” I said with a nod of my head. Mainly because his fingers seemed permanently attached to the keyboard.
I was then introduced to Jamie, who immediately reminded me of Erin. Blonde hair, big boobs and beautiful.
“Hi there. I’ll have to catch you later, just had a call out,” she said quickly, with a wink. Apparently someone in Accounts couldn’t reboot. As she shot out the door, the last member of the team introduced himself.
“And I’m Matthew, but you can call me Matt,” said a most beautiful specimen of a man. Definite office spouse material. Dreamy eyes that I could gaze into all day long.
“And your name is?” inquired Matt.
“Huh? Erm…Lois,” I felt myself blush.
“As in Lane, right?” chipped in Keitho, briefly looking up from the keyboard.
“Yes. I was named after her, so my dad says.”
“Far out!” exclaimed Keitho with maximum enthusiasm.
“You have a friend for life there. Sci fi and comic freak is our Keitho!” said Matt, smiling to reveal a perfect set of teeth to complement those sparkling eyes. Matt was possibly the best-looking man I had ever met, after Calvin (or even Corey—as much as I hate to admit it).
I followed Matt and Jamie to lunch in the colorful cafeteria as Keitho manned the calls. Jamie was a listener while Matt could talk all day. But I didn’t care. He was just so good-looking. Like a movie star trapped in an IT nerd’s body. By five thirty I’d answered my first call out with Matt “supervising” and I’d fallen marginally in lust with him.
G
iving up the evening job left me free to relax at the weekend. Much needed, considering the amount of time spent socializing after work with Matt, Keitho and Jamie. My life soon became a whirl of trendy cocktail bars,
one in particular, on the corner of Old Compton Street, that served the sweetest (if not the only) Blue Lagoon cocktail I had ever tasted. A life so unreal, so new, I thought I’d burst with the excitement of it all. I also uncovered plenty about my new workmates. Matt was single and lived with his mom in Bow. Keitho was nearing the end of his five-year work visa from New Zealand, with hopes of finding a “desperate-enough English girl” willing to marry him before the immigration deadline. Jamie was single but in love with a mystery man she’d “never, ever” reveal the identity of. Matt and Keitho had placed bets on our very old and very married MD, while I figured it had to be a friend of the family.
The job itself wasn’t the most taxing or exciting (Employee: “My computer won’t work!” Me: “Er, perhaps if you switched it on?”), but with it my confidence grew, as did my bank balance and a desire for a brand-new wardrobe of clothes, especially as I’d dropped a dress size.
