One Day in December(42)
14 May
Laurie
‘Pick up, Oscar, pick up,’ I murmur, reading and rereading the letter in my hand as I listen to his mobile ringing out. This is the voicemail service for … Dammit! I hang up and try again, and once more I get that bloody annoying robot woman telling me that she’s terribly sorry but Oscar Ogilvy-Black can’t come to the phone right now. I stand in my parents’ quiet hallway, my fingers absently wrapped round my purple pendant. I wore it for the job interview last week and haven’t taken it off since in an attempt to summon good luck. And it worked! Desperate to tell someone my good news, I scroll through to Sarah’s number instead. I don’t try to call her because she invariably can’t answer at work, so I compromise and send her a text.
Guess who’s FINALLY got herself a proper job? Me! Brace yourself,
Sar, I’m coming back to London!
I press send, and it’s less than thirty seconds before my mobile vibrates.
HANG ON! Going to loos to call you. DON’T call anyone else!
Right on cue, my phone starts to ring. It’s another thirty seconds before I can speak, because she’s shrieking and clapping; I can see her in my mind’s eye right now, locked in the cubicle doing her happy dance, bemused colleagues listening outside.
‘Come on then, I want to know everything!’ she says, and at last I can officially tell someone my news.
‘It’s that job I told you about, you know, the one on the teen magazine?’
‘You mean the Agony Aunt job?’
‘Yes! That one! As of three weeks’ time, I’m going to be the woman that our nation’s teenagers turn to for advice on hair straighteners, spots and dodgy dates!’ I’m laughing, borderline hysterical at the prospect of working on a magazine at long last. It won’t be all of the nation’s teenagers of course, just the small percentage who read the not-all-that-prolific magazine, but it’s something, isn’t it, it’s real. It’s my much-longed-for stepping stone into the next part of my life. I wasn’t at all sure I’d be offered the position. The interview wasn’t particularly conventional, two women who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one firing make-believe problems at me to see what answers I might give.
‘Emma has an awful spot the night before her prom,’ one had said, pointing at her own unblemished chin for emphasis. ‘What would you suggest?’
Luckily, even at the interview stage, Sarah was my saviour; our Delancey Street bathroom shelf came straight to mind. ‘Sudocrem. They sell that stuff for babies’ bums, but it’s also a secret weapon for spots.’
They’d both written that down really fast; I got the distinct impression they’d be running out to the chemist as soon as the interview was over.
‘A run in your tights on an important day?’ the other interviewer asked me, her eyes narrowed.
‘Clear nail varnish to stop it spreading,’ I’d shot straight back. Standard sixth-former tip. By the time they’d finished I felt as if I’d been grilled by the Stasi rather than for a prospective job with a magazine.
‘Christ, I hope no one asks you for advice about false eyelashes,’ Sarah says. ‘You’ll get sued.’
‘Tell me about it. I’m relying on you to be my main research source.’
‘Well, you know me, I’m the font of all knowledge on all things false and glittery!’ She sounds giddy. ‘I can’t believe you’re finally coming back, Lu, it’s the best news I’ve had all year. Wait till I tell Jack!’
She rings off, and I sit on the bottom step of the stairs and grin like a loon. Is ten in the morning too early to drink gin?
9 June
Laurie
Oscar reaches behind the sofa and pulls out a ribboned box. ‘I’ve got something for you.’
He lays the large square gift on my knees and I shoot him a surprised look. ‘Oscar, I’ve only just had my birthday.’
‘I know. This is different. It’s for the new job.’
It’s Saturday night, we’re full of Chinese takeaway and halfway down a bottle of champagne, and come Monday, I’ll be gainfully employed by Skylark, the publishing house who put out GlitterGirl magazine.
‘Open it then,’ he says, nudging the box. ‘You can change it if it’s not right.’
I look from his excited eyes to the box, and slowly tug the lime-green ribbons open. He’s already made a big fuss of me on my birthday, so this feels like real extravagance. I shake the lid of the smart gift box free and fold back the striped tissue paper to admire the black Kate Spade tote inside.
‘Oh, Oscar! It’s perfect.’ I smile, tracing my finger over the discreet gold logo. I sense Sarah’s involvement, seeing as I admired a very similar one on her arm at the restaurant where we celebrated my birthday. ‘But you know you shouldn’t have. It’s too much.’
‘Making you happy makes me happy,’ he shrugs, as if it’s a no-brainer. ‘Look in the inside pocket, there’s something else.’
I reach into the bag, curious, and unzip the pocket. ‘What is it?’ I laugh, pushing my fingers in until they touch cool metal. And then I know, and extract the set of keys dangling from a silver Tiffany padlock.