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I hate recruiters. I hate recruiters. I bloody hate them.
When I was single and the clock was ticking to find a man, I came across a whole breed of chancers and teasers, who would gleefully dangle a prospective suitor in front of me before snatching him away. I’m pretty sure some of these suggested candidates didn’t even exist, especially with the professional busybodies who make a living out of our hopes and dreams.
It seems the world of work isn’t that different.
I don’t think any of the jobs Jane alluded to were even real. Or if they were, I doubt she was within sniffing distance of recruiting for them. I drew this conclusion after calling her three times.
The first time I held out hope.
“Yeah,” said Jane, though I’m not sure what this was in response to as I hadn’t asked a question. “It’s been a bit quiet at the moment. Maybe check back again in a couple of days?”
That seemed reasonable. Second time round, I got the same response. It’s been quiet, check again.
“Thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to come across like a stalker.”
Why did it feel like I was dating again?
Jane laughed. “No, no. Stalk away. We appreciate that. Us recruiters are so busy, and the truth is, if we don’t hear from you, we assume you’re off the market. So keep on me every few days and I’ll know to keep plugging away for you.”
The third time, I decided to quit the foreplay.
“One of the roles you mentioned that I’m a good fit for, did you manage to have a conversation at all with the client?”
“Which role would that be?” she asked as breezily as ever.
“The one you couldn’t talk too much about?”
“Sorry I’ll need more detail. I’ve had several glasses of wine since then.” She chuckled.
I knew it was Christmas party season but her demeanour was beyond unprofessional.
“Is there anything more you remember about the role?” she asked.
Well, you didn’t tell me anything else, you silly cow. I translated this into: “You were quite vague about the details, but you were going to speak to them the day we’d met?”
Jane goes silent for a second. “Oh... yes, that’s right. You mean the FMCG job?”
I don’t fucking know! You didn’t tell me!
“Yes, possibly,” I said.
God, why was I so amenable?
Jane made a sound like she was sucking on a sweet. “They ended up going internally for that. They had someone that was a better fit, I’m afraid.” Her sunny, smiley demeanour was replaced with something colder.
“Okay, well thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.”
I was hoping she’d read my sarcasm.
“Not at all. Listen, things are going to be quiet over the Christmas break, so if anything comes up in the New Year, I’ll call you.”
With that, my hopes of a job through Jane drifted away.
Then there was Derek. Don’t get me started on Derek. I will say this much, he took wankery to a new level.
His first email in response to my speculative CV was:
Your resume couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m actually recruiting for a role right now, it’s with a private care home provider with a HQ in central London. That’s where you’d be based. The day rate is £350. They want someone to start in the New Year. Would this be of interest?
Yes, yes. Hell yes.
I replied: That would be great. Please put me forward.
I had a phone interview with Derek, he gave me a tentative start date and sent over a contract, all on the same day.
Now, I know I’m glass half empty and all but given that this was a dead cert, I did something I immediately regretted. I told M.
“Brilliant. That’s really good,” was his reaction. “If you’re on £350 a day, that’ll be £1,750 a week, or £7,000 a month,” went my mathlete. “That’s more than I earn!”
“Alright. Well, I haven’t got the job yet, so let’s not count the pennies,” went my cynical self.
“I know you don’t like to say much coz you’re too scared of jinxing yourself, but you deserve more credit. You’re good at what you do. I’m not surprised you were snapped up. At a bloody good day rate, too. You’ll be raking it in.”
I looked at him with my ‘stop talking about it’ eyes, and he replied: “Just enjoy the moment. You deserve to celebrate. It’s in the bag.”
That evening, we had cupcakes and pink lemonade.
Derek disappeared after I’d sent the e-signed contract back. A few days later, I checked in with him. What was going on? Do I have the job? Should I pencil this contract into my diary?
The answer was: Yes, we’re just waiting on the rubber stamp from the client, but please do pencil in the date.
Three days later, in response to another email chaser: Thanks for your email. I’m with the client today so should have an update for you later on.
Another four days later, after yet another email: Thank you for your email. Please note that I am out of the office on annual leave and will be returning on Wednesday, 2nd January. I will answer all enquiries on my return. For any urgent enquiries please call the switchboard on 0203 741 3444.
I should have known from his automated reply that all was not well.
The following week: Hi, this is Paul, I’m picking up on the email you sent Derek as he’s on annual leave. I appreciate your interest in the position with FernWeather. I’m afraid to say the company has chosen to go with one of their regular contractors. They felt that given they are working with reduced staff in January, it wouldn’t be fair to have someone without any previous experience manning a press office with skeletal staff. Though they did thank you for your interest, as do we. For further opportunities please do check out our website as it is constantly being updated with new vacancies.
Countless emails. Countless meetings. Countless coffees. All pointless.
Why do they do that? Why do people tease you with a job, say it’s yours on a plate, only to make you chase them? Only to act as if you’re the one that’s been desperately hounding them for this job that isn’t suitable? Or worse, never existed in the first place? I’m wondering whether Jane and Derek are on commission per meeting and it’s in their interest to dangle jobs in front of you and get your hopes up, so they can add another jobless sap to their books. They’re toying with people. They’re toying with their careers, their hopes, their lives.
The worst thing of all is that, like so many other scenarios in my life, I have to be polite and gracious. I can’t tell them to fuck off.
I can’t say to Jane: ‘Why did you tell me to keep in touch with you only to then say stop calling me?’
I can’t say to Derek the dick: ‘Don’t waste my time with bullshit jobs, at least have the balls to see it through before you piss off on holiday.’
You can’t say anything. They are the gatekeepers. They are the ones who maybe, just maybe, will have a job for you in the pile of crap. And it’s with that vague promise that something will come up, they keep you on a leash, in line, obedient. And it’s not just Jane and Derek. I’ve applied for many more jobs since. I’ve gone to recruiters, cap in hand, for scraps. For leftover job opportunities which weren’t quite good enough for other candidates.
I’m annoyed at myself more than anything. Each time, with each opportunity, I let myself get swept away with M’s infectious optimism. I started weighing out the pros and cons of each speculative job, of their respective locations, of their respective salaries, as though they were mine for the choosing. I should’ve stuck to my don’t-celebrate-until-it’s-signed-in-blood ways. Instead, I made myself vulnerable, threw myself open for disappointment. I saw the disappointment in M’s eyes, too, when he’d do the obligatory chase up on a job and I had to tell him it wasn’t to be.
“Don’t worry, babe,” he had to say. “You’ll be fine and you’ve got your redundancy money. It can cover us for a few months if needs be.”
But what if it takes more than a few months? What then? Will he be able to cover our rent? Will we have to move to zone six? Find somewhere cheaper? What if we have to leave London? Would we move in with M’s family?
“Would you mind changing the song?” M asks.
“Huh?” He wakes me up from my catastrophising in the car on the drive up to Droylsden. I’d forgotten where we were.
I change the song from the depressing guitar riff to something more upbeat, a Bhangra wedding song.
I really didn’t want to go up north this weekend. We’ll be there for 12 days over the Christmas break. I wish we’d just hung back for a couple of days. I had plans. I wanted to sit in a ball in our flat, stewing and muttering profanities about Derek and Jane and all the others under my breath. I wanted to eat crisps, order takeaway and cook nothing. I wanted to leave my dirty plate and tea-stained cup in the sink. I wanted to wear baggy tracksuit bottoms, or even better, thermals. I wanted unbrushed hair and unwashed skin.
However, life isn’t like that now. I can’t be that moody teenager who can spend days feeling sorry for herself and not worry about food and washing and all the grown-up stuff that makes the world go round. There are other people to consider. It’s not just about me anymore. It was M’s bright idea to drive up on a Friday night after work as he reasoned that 12 days meant I could have six days in his house and six days at mine, cutting the family obligation cake neatly in half.
I ask the question that’s been bothering me since we joined the motorway. The one I’d carried around as it weighed heavily, like some forgotten coins that had fallen to the bottom of my bag.
“If worst came to worst, would we have to move back to Droylsden to live with your parents?”
“What?” Now it’s M’s turn to be taken off guard. Then he says: “We might have to.”
Oh my life.
“Then you have to be my mum’s chief assistant, cooking and cleaning away because that’s all you’ll be good for now you’re not bringing in the big bucks.”
He pauses for a second, then says: “Not! Don’t be silly. Why do you think that? I haven’t lived at home for years and I don’t have any intention of moving back now.”
“What if I don’t get a job for a while?”
“Then I’ll support both of us. It’s my job to look after you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but what if it takes too long and you run out of money to cover the rent?” I need his soothing words now more than ever.
“We’re hardly living on the breadline. I’ve put some money away every month, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t been able to save anything since we’ve been married because rent is so high. So what if we run out?”
“We won’t.”
“We might. It could take a year before I find something at this rate.”
M breathes out deeply. “It won’t take that long. You’re good at what you do. You should see some of the losers at my work. If they manage to retain jobs, you won’t be out of work for long.”
“But what if I am?”
“Stop worrying!” he shouts, making me jump. “You’re a right stress-head. I’ve noticed that about you, you assume the worst before it’s even happened. It’s like you’re almost willing it.”
I say nothing.
M then takes my hand, making me grateful that he’s driving an automatic on this congested stretch of the motorway. Oh yeah, M downgraded to a more efficient Audi A3 after my redundancy news, not that he’s worried or anything.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I know you like to be cautious but I think your way of thinking doesn’t always help. There’s nothing good to come of you waiting for the worst to happen. Whatever the future holds, we’ll deal with it, together.”
He squeezes my hand tighter.
We drive on in silence. Only 130 miles to go.
***
I feel like a right bitch even thinking this but I’m really hoping that my mother-in-law isn’t awake. It’s a bit of a habit of hers, to stay up in anticipation. Tonight, I just want to go straight to bed. It’s gone midnight and I won’t be very good company.
My face must look like thunder when she comes into the hallway at the sound of M’s key turning in the door. Her smile, first enthusiastic, fades from her eyes and rests around her mouth.
“You’re here,” she announces, as though we didn’t know.
My feeling of resentment at my very awake mother-in-law is laced with remorse, as I greedily eat the various curries she prepared in anticipation of our arrival. There is chicken curry with potatoes (my personal favourite), a fried fish dish that I don’t really care for, and sautéed courgette that is surprisingly satisfying with its generously oily nature. My mother-in-law doesn’t eat with us, instead she sits with the Bangla channel, making occasional small talk through to the kitchen.
“Bubbly’s mum been talking trouble again!” she says.
“Jee?” I ask. Despite having been married over a year, I have no idea who Bubbly is. I could never differentiate the Bubblys from the Beauties, Pinkys and Lovelies. It’s still astounds me that Bengali mums think it’s okay to give their children such names. What if they don’t turn out lovely? Surely it’s just asking for trouble?
“You know! Bubbly!”
I still don’t know.
“The one with the dodgy brother,” M whispers in English so my mother-in-law, who as far as I can tell is blissfully unaware of Bodrul’s weed-selling side gig, is none the wiser.
“What’s she said now?” M picks up the conversational baton I dropped on the floor.
“What she not said? Believe me, the things she said about us and about you...”
“Me?” I ask. Now she’s got my attention.
My mother-in-law laughs nervously. She knows she’s said too much but this gossip train isn’t stopping.
“She no say to me. I had to hear from Bina’s maa. Always talking. So bad. Saying why your son and daughter-in-law live in London? Why not come back to help here?”
My mother-in-law gestures with her hand at her well-kept living room. With casual mint green throws and a dust-free showcase, her house looks like it’s being kept just fine without the need of additional help. Though there are still folded blankets that should be upstairs. I’ll take them up at bedtime.
“She say I too soft. Daughter-in-law no need to work, I give too much space. So, so bad. These people always be jealous. That’s why we left Oldham. Can’t stand educated family. Always need to find something to say. I tell you, their teeth are in their tummies.”
Another Bengali analogy I don’t understand. I’ll have to ask M about that later.
“You shouldn’t listen to those people! Look at their house!” says M. “I don’t know why you talk to them. Didn’t we move to get away from all that?”
“You can’t just leave people. It not easy for us to forget everyone. They our people. But you no worry, I tell her good.” My mother-in-law moves forward, creeping her backside to the edge of her seat. “I call her and say: ‘You have anything to say, tell me to face!’ I say it good. And then I say: ‘Fix your own house before you talk bad of others!’ She no like that... Mmmm! I tell you, people no be happy for other people!” Her arms are flailing. “You learn this.”
Oh, I already know it. More to the point, who the hell are these people to stir shit? I always wanted to live in an Asian area but, given the level of backbiting that goes on, maybe it was good I didn’t. Maybe dad was right to raise us in the sticks; sheltered, innocent.
There are more stories. Tales of Rukya wanting to get married to a boy that’s been married before. Stories of Dolly (another silly name) not getting on with her mother-in-law and Maroof’s mum not getting on with her daughter-in-law. All names I’ve heard but faces I can’t quite place. They’ve all undoubtedly met me, as I served them day-old microwaved samosas and sugary tea. As I doled out biscuits. As I played the role of visiting wife, a far cry from my other life in London. The thing with living away is you don’t really get to know these people beyond niceties and idle gossip. The truth is, I like it that way. I don’t want to integrate. I want to show my face, do my bit and go home.
I could do with tonight being over. It’s past 1.30am.
“And your dad no sleeping again,” she continues. “I think it be blood pressure. He got swollen feet and needs pillow to make feet high at night.”
“Is everyone else asleep?” I ask, interrupting the talk of my father-in-law’s feet.
“Your brother-in-law is on holiday in Turkey. Gone with Mashooq.”
“When will he be back?” M asks.
“Eh, I never remember... err... tomorrow, I think. Or Monday? Maybe tomorrow,” is her final answer.
I look at her, pressing with my eyes to see where the princess is. I know what I’m doing.
My mother-in-law chuckles. “She be at friend’s house. She be back soon. Eh! Call her and see why so late?”
We’re at the stage where M’s mum doesn’t need to call anyone by name. We immediately know who she is talking to through her hand gestures, tone of voice, and it’s direction of travel.
M realises this one’s for him, so proceeds to ring his errant teenage sister. Unfortunately for her, he has the phone on loudspeaker.
“I’m just leaving Zainab’s so I’ll be home in 15 minutes,” her voice crackles through the phone. It sounds like there’s traffic in the background. Is she out out?
“Hurry! You should no be out so late. People talk,” shouts my mother-in-law, seemingly more for my benefit than anyone else’s. “Zainab’s a good girl. Good family. I no let her go just anywhere.”
I say nothing. Instead I let out a yawn.
“Tired?” my mother-in-law asks. “Go to sleep. You had long journey. I just enjoy when you come. No mean to keep you awake.” With that, she slowly leaves the room and treads heavily up the stairs.
***
Mustn’t say anything about his sister. Mustn’t say anything about his sister.
“You okay?” asks M as he climbs over my knees to get to his side of the bed.
“Yeah, just tired.”
Mustn’t say anything about his sister.
“Where does your sister always go at night?” Bloody hell! Me and my verbal diarrhoea. Can’t hold anything in.
“Her mate’s house. Mum said,” is M’s reply.
“It sounded like she was out.”
“Dunno. I don’t want to know, really.”
“I don’t blame you,” I say.
Just leave it there. Just bloody leave it there.
“It’s a nice age to be. Don’t have to worry about food at the house. Everything sorted for you. I miss those days,” I say.
M turns to me, his face looking like a ball of stubble in the dim lamp light. “I do appreciate you. All the things you do for my family when we’re here. I know it’s not always easy.”
“I just hope everybody else does.” Oh God, why did I say that? I should have bloody left it on his appreciative note.
M says nothing.