“Can I ask him if he would be willing to book you for tomorrow instead?”
Lady, are you deaf? “I can’t do tomorrow. I’m not back until Tuesday.”
She sighed. For the love of… It’s not as if the man wants to marry me. Someone else from the agency would probably do just as well. I said so, as gently as possible.
“I think perhaps you should take this job less casually,” she said tartly and hung up. Ten minutes later a text came through: LOST BOOKING.
I texted her on returning, but have not heard back yet. mardi, le 18 mai
Ah. I must look like the world’s largest mug, as I was just approached by three fundraising youths from the very same charity, all on the same street. Sorry lads-did you not see me brushing off the last one?
Fundraiser 1: “Where are you from?”
Me: “Guess.”
“Barnsley.”
“Sorry, no. Where are you from?”
“Barnsley.”
Fundraiser 2: “What’s your name?”
Me: “Linda.” (obviously, not my real name)
“Fantastic, Lucy. Have you ever thought about how many people will be afflicted with mental illness in their lifetimes?”
“No, but I understand short-term memory is a growing problem.”
Fundraiser 3: “Can you guess what proportion of the UK will suffer mental illness at some time in their lives?”
Me: “One out of three. I just heard all this thirty seconds ago, thank you.” mercredi, le 19 mai
There is one client with my real name and phone number. He rang to ask why I wasn’t seeing anyone. Being a regular, after all, shouldn’t he be the first to know if I was off the market?
“I’m not,” I said. “Have you heard otherwise?”
He said he’d rung a couple weeks ago and the manager said I was on holiday.
“Ah, yes, that’s because I was,” I apologized.
“Then I rang yesterday,” he said. “And she said you were away indefinitely and offered me someone else.”
Have I been not-so-subtly dropped? I checked the website and the profile’s still there, though rather lower in the listing than before. No matter. He offered to book with me privately for next week. I said I’d think about it. jeudi, le 20 mai
Things you may not have needed, but perhaps were curious to, although there are perhaps a few people who already, know about Belle.
• I love to sing.
• When alone, I am usually listening to music or singing. The As and N are cruelly and repeatedly subjected to this. I always sing in the shower. Once, I forgot myself and started singing in a client’s toilet-when I came out, he was laughing. I love to sing, but am not a very good singer, alas.
• I love perfume.
Especially if it smells of citrus or lavender. I love smelling it (in small doses) on other people, as well.
• I prefer the texture of food to the taste.
Raw mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, sandwich pickle, and fudge all feel good to the tongue. Pasta, peanut butter, and cooked carrots do not.
• I can tell edible mushrooms from poisonous ones. Usually.
Admittedly, this is not a skill that comes into use very often. I can also identify most of the speedwell (genus Veronica) wildflowers. This is of no use to man nor beast.
• The day of my birth was predicted by my mum’s best friend.
Spooky.
• My dream dinner party would include…
William Styron, Katharine Hepburn, flip-flops, Noel Coward, Iman, cashew nuts, Alan Turing, Margaret Mead, Dan Savage, fruity cocktails, Ryan Philippe, and a dungeon.
• I don’t really want to work independent of an agency.
Regardless of what happens. The clients are vetted through them and (most) never even get so much as my phone number. I spend enough time on the phone as it is, and I’ve seen the manager having to take inquiries in public. I do actually have other avocations besides what is reported here. Managing my own appointments would cut into that.
• I still haven’t heard from the manager.
You would think she’d at least have the decency to ignore me on a sunny weekend.
• Je ne regrette rien.
If the textbooks are to be believed, this makes me a psychopath. If the glossy magazines are to be believed, this makes me an independent modern woman. dimanche, le 23 mai
The manager and I are still at apparent loggerheads. She hasn’t rung, and I haven’t tried to ring her. While I appreciate this sort of treatment may be a mainstay of all madames’ arsenals, I don’t half feel like calling her up to say, “Pardon me, but do you know who I am?”
Must resist the urge to smack-down, though. I always wondered why the profiles on the website were occasionally shuffled to put some girls above others. Now I suppose I know.
Ahh, the (relative) freedom. No particular desire to make or keep manicure/waxing/any other appointments. Though I daresay if the sun comes out and I go into the garden in a bikini, someone may be forgiven for coming at me with a lawn-trimmer.
Walking last night from a A3’s house to the tube station, I passed a shop festooned in the most horrible things ever: little plaster babies’ feet. Painted in pastel colors. Sticking out of the wall. Someone please assure me that the biological desire to reproduce does not signal the end of taste. It’s enough to put a girl off her vibrator for fear of being impregnated with jelly babies. mardi, le 25 mai
And still no word.
“I want out,” I groaned to N. The manager’s cold shoulder is beginning to wear on me. There are plenty of other outfits around, but the thought of going through another agency seems like another dead end. I’ve even gone so far as to pull out an ancient CV, think how it might be updated so the gaps in employment don’t look Grand Canyon-wide.
“Okay, but don’t leave just to sell out.”
I rolled my eyes. Aren’t we past the age where authenticity matters more than solvency? Everyone I know has a career, spouse, property, or retirement fund. Or several of the above. I questioned his choice of words.
“What is the definition of selling out?” he said. “Never do anything for money that you wouldn’t do for free.”
“I spend a lot of time picking at my nails.” It came out sharper than I expected. “Don’t think there’s a chance of a career in that.”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” N said. “It never suited you.”
There is, in the end, only one place for a woman to turn in her hour of desperation. When all else has failed, when the bank accounts are running from black to red to overdraft limit to carefully worded letters from the bank. She has to draw on every nerve she has and steel herself for the inevitable.
The job pages.
I started with the administrative positions. General knowledge of computers? Check. Organizational skills? Plenty. Self-motivated and hardworking? Sort of. Dedicated?
To what, scheduling meetings and faxing letters? Being able to seal envelopes and transfer incoming calls requires dedication now?
Maybe not for me. I perused academic posts instead.
Depressing. It would seem the higher the degree, the lower the corresponding starting salary. A2 and A4 are academics, and confirm my suspicion that research grants are a convoluted plan by the powers that be to keep clever people from thinking about things like world affairs. Why pay attention to politics and other matters of import when there is a?5,000 grant to be fighting tooth and claw over? jeudi, le 27 mai
