Curiously, a month later, when he did it, when he said the words, I was … crushed. Absolutely crushed. I cried and cried, and after months of on again, off again, on again, off again, we decided to give it one more shot. And then another. And then another. And soon, what had once felt like home, began to feel more like the horror of addiction gone bad. We were not right for each other, yet we could not seem to make the break.
‘Good afternoon, Martin Dawes Telecommunications, my name is Clare, how may I help you?’
That first year at the call centre, I learned what a KPI was, and I took great joy in watching Hannah tick mine off, month after month. I had proven to myself that, when I wanted to, I could fit in.
But did I really want to?
After seeing Jeff Buckley play, I understood for the first time the transformative power of live music. I felt something calling me, a growing restlessness. I began to wonder, is this really where I’m supposed to end up?
One quiet afternoon, trying to make Georgie laugh, I surprised myself by answering a call in my mother’s voice.
‘Good afternoon, velkom to Martin Dawes, my name is Frida. How may I help you?’
Georgie laughed so hard, I had to put my customer on hold and tell her to shut up. I kept up the Dutch accent for as long as I could, riding on the joke, but eventually my mouth grew tired and I told the customer I was going to connect her through to a colleague who could help. I put her on hold, caught my breath, and picked up the phone in my normal voice
‘Good afternoon, my name is Clare. I understand you need some assistance with your mobile phone?’
We laughed so hard that day. The hours flew by. As long as I was still being of assistance to the customer, I didn’t see the harm in having a little fun.
This trick of answering calls in different voices soon became my regular schtick. I did as many accents as I could. I began to build characters around each accent, then construct back-stories. It felt like I was writing a new page of a short story every time I answered the phone.
My favourite character of all, the one that got the most laughs from my colleagues, was Candy Pants. In my mind, Candy Pants was a close relative of Dolly Parton. She sounded just like her.
‘Good afternoon, Martin Dawes Telecommunications, my name’s Candy Pants. How may I help you sir or ma’am?’
One Friday, just before I clocked off for the week, Candy Pants came to town. I was having a wonderful time of it, right up until I heard an unusual sound on the line. Click. My heart sank.
You know how sometimes when you call customer service and you’re on hold there’s a message that says, ‘Your call may be monitored for training and quality assurance. Please let the supervisor know if you don’t want your call to be monitored’? On that Friday, towards the end of Candy Pants’ call, I heard the sound of a second click, and that is when I got it: I’d just been monitored for quality assurance.
When the call ended, I took off my headset. I knew what was coming next. Hannah walked over, smiled, asked me if I wouldn’t mind coming with her for a moment. I joined her behind her partition. I was mortified.
‘I am so sorry!’ I said. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I was just mucking around. I’m really sorry.’
Hannah replied, ‘Clare, I’ve already told you you’re good at your job. I see the leadership potential in you. If that’s something you want to develop, you’re in the right place. But—and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—it seems really obvious to me, and to everyone here … well, have you ever considered a career in the creative arts?’
I felt myself blush. Was it that obvious?
I told Hannah not to be silly. I was sorry and I’d cut it out. I needed this job. It felt like the only thing going right in my life.
In the end, it was Joffa who said the words.
He had terrible timing. Terrible.
We were twenty now. Nearly twenty-one. Joffa was living in a share house with his brothers. There were beer cans and bongs everywhere. I’d been advised never to eat the brownies in the fridge. This was at the height of Joffa’s love for dope. He loved it like he loved his dog. He lived for it. He couldn’t imagine a day without it. He was so used to it that he could quite easily pull three cones before breakfast, put drops in his eyes, and still sit up straight for a visit from his grandmother. I remember her once telling Joffa that I was marriage material, and how he laughed.
It’s not like he wasn’t showing me who he was. It’s not like he was leading me on. But I just kept thinking—kept kidding myself—he still loved me. We were going to work this out. He needed me. It never occurred to me that, maybe, he’d be fine without me.
But there had been signs that this was coming. Just the week before, at a party at his house, some girl I barely knew came up to me and slurred, ‘You need to fuck off! He doesn’t love you anymore!’
I was so shocked, so ashamed of being shouted at in public, I turned bright pink, walked into the backyard and looked up at the sky, sniffing and blinking and trying not to cry. What am I doing here? I wondered. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I let this go?
Joffa found me, told me the girl didn’t know what she was talking about. Told me to come inside. So I did. I still wanted his approval. I mistook it for love. With his
