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“Is that you done for the day?” asks Bryony, tapping on her watch.
It’s 10.35am.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I say, closing down my computer screen that was hosting a PR jobs site.
The news of my redundancy has caused quite a stir in the office. Bryony has long been my lunch buddy and occasional after work dry-bar buddy (well, the dry bit is me) and now she’s taken it upon herself to come and visit my desk several times a day. It’s as if she’s assumed the role of chief checker-inner.
“I know you don’t see it this way right now but in some ways you’re quite lucky. I’m pissed off with this job as I’m more like a glorified PA, but I’d never have the balls to up and leave of my own accord. In a weird way, it’s kind of freeing. They’re probably doing you a favour in the long run. You can leave this shit hole.”
I don’t know which way Bryony is looking at it but I’m struggling to see her point, because:
A) being laid off is hardly a favour.
B) Bryony still lives at home so she doesn’t have the financial burdens I do.
C) Our office is situated in one of the most expensive parts of London, with iconic buildings like the Gherkin and the Cheese Grater for neighbours. We have three coffee machines, one dispensing four flavours of hot chocolate. We have a well-stocked vending machine, a flat screen on each wall so we can keep up with the news and a daily delivery of fresh fruit. I don’t think anyone can justifiably call this a shit hole.
Delilah, who, as the head of PR, has seen me toil away writing press releases and has had an aerial view of my extensive PR coverage since I started at the company, was a little more glass half-empty upon hearing my news.
“I can’t believe he’s doing that to you. After all the work you’ve put into that region. The wanker,” she said in the poshest voice that’s ever been sullied by such a word.
“Yeah, well, in some ways I’m grateful,” I suddenly take on Bryony’s viewpoint. “At least they let me transfer while I was getting married. Well, Bernadette did. Otherwise I would’ve been looking at another job straight away.”
“That’s all well and good but remember, they weren’t doing it as an act of charity. Bernadette wanted to keep you because she knew you were an asset. Trust me, she is as straight up as they come. If she didn’t think you were up to it, she wouldn’t have gone to the effort of arranging the transfer.”
That’s the second time I’d heard this and I still struggle to see it that way.
“Regardless, you better get a bloody good payout.”
John was equally determined that I get a nice lump sum, saying: “Make sure they don’t do you over. Use the race card if you have to. I would if I had one.” He then added: “I wish I was being made redundant.”
Am I the only one who likes working here?
As for everyone else in the office, the response has been the same, shock and condolences. The looks have been the same - pity. Even Jerome, who’s never felt sorry for me, can’t help but display a sorry look in his eyes.
I’ve almost perfected my response. “I’ve had a good run. The only thing I’m annoyed about is that it’s not about performance. I mean it’s flattering, that it’s nothing to do with my work, but it’s also annoying. If it was results-based and if I was comparing like-for-like in terms of PR coverage with my regional equivalents, it would be a different outcome.”
It’s as if I’m always trying to convince myself, as much as them, that I am enough. I’m good enough for this job. I earned my seat in this office and I don’t want anybody thinking different. I don’t want anybody questioning my one talent.
I’d usually get the same generic response from those who don’t really know my work along the lines of: “That’s shit. But you’ll be fine. You’ll get a job in no time.”
What else can anyone say?
Bryony is right about one thing. There is something rather liberating about being told you’re going to lose your job. In every other work scenario it’s been me choosing to leave. That’s meant many a sneaky interview, where I’d have my heart in my mouth, entertaining every irrational worry from being held back in the office and missing the interview, to passing a colleague on the motorway, or getting a dreaded work call when I was at my dentist appointment / medical examination / whatever other excuse I’d made to skive off work.
Not this time. Having been given the dreaded news, I am now on a mission to find my next job. As M so eloquently put it (once we started talking about it): “It’s those twats who are getting rid of you, so they can’t say anything if you start job hunting during office hours. You should do it blatantly and take the piss. Call recruiters in the office. Who’s gonna say anything?”
While I don’t feel emboldened enough to conduct phone interviews at my desk, I am using my working day wisely by scouring the job sites to see what’s available. After all, time is of the essence. Given my exceedingly positive response to the news I was getting the boot (damn me and my solutions, not problems, ways), Martin has speeded up the process of getting rid of me.
I haven’t had a bloody good payout, I’ve been offered the princely sum of £5,560. It won’t change my life but it’ll tidy me over for a couple of months while I job hunt.
Looking at the current market, I’m hopeful. Within the trough I’ve found four jobs that are relevant to me. One is a shoe-in, with a healthcare provider in Paddington. The location is on the other end of London and would involve getting the consistently inconsistent Hammersmith and City Line and, on closer inspection, I see it’s a one-year contract. However, at this stage, just like when I was single and borderline desperate, I need to cast my net wide to catch more fish. I drop an email to the recruiter.
The next is for a pharmaceutical company, which looks a million times more complex than the macro-level, layman’s language, prevention rather-than-cure approach I PR on a daily basis. However, I’m a quick learner, the salary is over 40k, and if I haven’t said already, beggars can’t be choosers.
There’s another job for an accountancy firm in the city. This is geographically appropriate and while I don’t have direct professional services PR skills, I’m a firm believer that if you know how to turn a non-story into a news story, you can PR anything. If nothing else, I am the master of polishing turds.
Finally, there is a role with a multi-sector PR agency. I’m not sure how I feel about this, given that I left the world of juggling multiple clients behind when I entered my current role as an in-house PR manager. Then again, the way I work now, managing the reputations of numerous hospitals, it’s like having multiple clients. So maybe agency life won’t be so different?
“Lunch?” a voice echoes over my shoulder. “Or are you busy?” Bryony teases after seeing my vacancy-filled screen.
I shut down my laptop. “I’ve always got time for lunch.”
***
Things really do seem to happen at a blistering pace in London. No sooner do I sit down with a falafel wrap and Bryony (the unapologetically loud Lebanese place was my choice, not hers), then I got a call from a recruiter.
“Hi, this is Jane from Great Minds recruitment. I’m just calling in response to the job you applied for.”
Which one? “Oh... yes. Thanks for calling me back.” I’m internally begging her to divulge more.
“No worries. I’m thinking, and it’s awfully short notice, but would you like to pop to the office this afternoon for a coffee? It would be great to meet you in person and speak in more detail about the role.”
That sounds promising, even though I don’t drink coffee and I have no idea which role she’s on about.
“Whereabouts are you based?”
“We’re in Blackfriars.”
That’s about five minutes on the tube or 20 minutes by foot. I bloody love London. “Great. Just let me know when.”
I decide to get the tube (don’t judge) and find myself in a rather edgy part of Blackfriars, if ever there was one. Nestled between the old, imposing buildings and the glassy, glossy new ones, is a small black gated area guarding a cobbled street, punctuated by small offices that resemble new-build homes. I head to number four of the generic offices.
Jane greets me within a minute of me buzzing and speaking through the fuzzy intercom.
I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, however, I can’t help myself. Jane is not how I pictured. Her hair is the colour of paprika, and she is sporting a rather large chest tattoo which seems to be growing out of her black top. I’m not sure what it’s meant to be, except it’s green and blue around the edges. She’s also the smallest person I’ve seen, shorter than small-but-mighty Sophia.
Jane leads me up two flights of the external metal spiral staircase to the office, offering me a generous view of her pink underwear that’s climbing out of her low-riding trousers.
“Again, thanks so much for coming. I thought it would be great to put a face to the name and it’s always nice to have a chat in person,” she says as we sit down in her quirky office, which looks like it’s been furnished by a pre-schooler. I’m not sure if it’s accidentally a multi-coloured mishmash, or it’s ironic. In London, you never know. Brick Lane houses quirky cafes with mismatched chairs, chipped tables and dusty fireplaces. Yet it’s seen as okay as it’s vintage and there are a pile of books that have been left by other people, so that adds character and authenticity. What a load of crap. That would never fly in Manchester.
Anyway, mustn’t get distracted by the busyness of the office. Must also not get distracted by the massive tattoo which I can see more of now we’re sat down. Can you get tattoos on your boobs? I never knew that.
“You’ve got some great experience,” says Jane, as she thumbs her way down a printout of my CV. “What attracted you to this role, as it’s a slightly different turn.”
I have no idea what this role is. However, Jane’s question makes me think it could be the accountancy one.
“Well, I’ve got a lot of transferable skills, so I thought it was time for a change.” Good answer, if I do say so myself.
“In which case, we’ve got some other roles that might be a good fit. Would you consider something outside of healthcare?”
Crap. Does that mean it’s the healthcare job in Paddington? In which case, no, I’d like to stay in the sector and take this job. Right now, I just need a job. Of course, I can’t say this, can I?
“What other roles do you have?”
“There are a couple we’re working on at the moment. I can’t divulge too much, I’m afraid, though I’m itching to.” Jane scratches her bare shoulder as if to emphasise her point, leaving red marks on her pale skin. Totally unnecessary. “I just want to check your criteria first, but I think they’d be really interested to hear from you, so long as you’re open to other sectors?”
“Yes, I definitely am.”
“What about location? Anywhere in London?”
“Pretty much. Except I live in zone 1, in Aldgate. So I’d like something central. Otherwise it would seem a bit silly paying through the nose and then commuting outwards.”
Jane nods. “Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll tell you what, you’d definitely get a seat on the tube.”
“True,” I say, as it only seems polite.
“And salary expectations?”
“Ideally over 38k, as that’s what I’m on now.”
Jane takes the chewed end of the pen out of her mouth. “Being completely honest, we don’t get too many jobs at your level for that salary. We tend to get more around the 35k mark. Would you want to hear about these?”
“Well... if there are any that are the right fit, than I’d certainly like the opportunity to be put forward.”
“Great! Another thing worth bearing in mind is most jobs that come through are agency side, rather than in-house. Would that be something you’d consider? It’s just most people who go from agency to in-house don’t go back.” Jane tries to stare into my soul, the one I’m currently selling along with my standards, preferences, etc.
“Yeah, I’d be fine with that. I had a good experience at my last agency and learned a lot, as I did in-house, too.” I can’t breathe for my own bullshit.
Jane smiles and I notice the fuchsia pink lipstick has bled onto her small, yellow teeth. “That brings me onto my next point. Can I ask why you’re leaving your current role?”
I should’ve thought this through. Of course she was going to ask why. Okay, don’t say you’re being made redundant. Don’t say you’re being made redundant. It’ll only devalue you.
“I just feel as though I’ve got as senior as I’m going to get in this position and there isn’t much more room for growth.” That was a good lie, you’d think I worked in PR.
“That makes sense.” Another nod. “I have to warn you, one of the roles I’m thinking of for you, would involve a lot of autonomy. There isn’t another person to report to, so you might not find the growth ladder is there quite so much.”
“Uh... that’s okay. If it’s a senior role, I don’t mind so much. My current role is pretty autonomous.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jane is probably scribbling down: desperate candidate, will take anything. She wouldn’t be far off.
“Regarding the job I applied for, will you be putting me forward?”
“That one went this morning, I’m afraid,” says smiley Jane. “Things move at such a quick pace but there’s always something popping up. Now I’ve met you and know more about your experience, I can start seeing what’s available.”
“So... is there a lot around right now?” I’m hoping the eagerness doesn’t creep into my voice.
“Oh, yes.” She nods like one of those puppies you see on car dashboards. “You’re in a really good position, with a secure job you’re not desperate to leave. Often, candidates get in touch when they really hate their job or worse, are out of work. The ball’s in your court, in that respect.”
And that is why I decided to keep my impending redundancy a secret.
As I step out of the office, I feel the crisp November air hit my face. It’s sharp but soothing. The sun has made way for darkness. I love this time of year. Yes, it’s biting cold, but winter in London is so romantic, with the streets illuminated with warm, yellow light.
Then I hear a bang. Then another, and then another. The sky above me spits out gold, then green, then red. It’s like a glittering waterfall.
Anxieties about work, money and my future have dissolved into the atmosphere, muted out by the sound and sight of the early bonfire night fireworks.
***
“How was your day?” M disguises the real question of how my job hunt is going.
“It was okay.” I don’t want to give anything away, not just yet. I must remain glass half empty.
“I hope you were skiving.” He is desperate to ask me but also doesn’t want to ask me.
Should I just tell him? I’m dying to share my news that there is progress. There is hope. That we’ll be okay, just like he said that night at the theatre.
“I skived a bit, yeah. Ended up taking a jaunt to Blackfriars.”
“Nice. What were you doing there?” His eyes lights up with hope, making me feel like I must keep the fire burning.
“Just a long lunch,” I say, as the light dims in his eyes.
“Ah okay. Make the most of it.”
I am rubbish at keeping things from him but I don’t want to get his hopes up, or mine. Then my mouth goes: “I actually met a recruiter.”
“Oh yeah? Anything good come of it?”
Damn. Well I’ve opened the door, I might as well walk through it.
I talk through the options on the table with M.
“Brilliant! I knew you’d find something. And even if it’s a bit further out, don’t worry about that. Our contract’s up for renewal, anyway. We could just move somewhere else near your work, depending on where that is.”
“Alright! Hold your horses. Let’s not talk about moving near my fictional work just yet. I haven’t even got an interview. These are all speculative.”
“I’m just saying. It’s good to think about these things. The accountancy one sounds good as well. It will give you a broader breadth of experience. And from what I’ve heard, pharmacy pays shit loads, so that’s a good one, too.”
I say nothing. I don’t want to get excited. I don’t want to discuss it.
“Out of them all so far, which one is your preference?” M asks.
“Okay, just stop!”
“What?”
“Stop getting excited! I wasn’t even going to say anything about these jobs. You always take it too far! Getting ahead of yourself. Making me get ahead of myself.”
M holds his hands up. “Okay, I won’t say anything. I’m just proud of you, that’s all. My mum always said she feels like you have good luck and everything always falls together.”
I forgot that his mum thought that of me. He told me this early on, before we were married.
Then it occurs to me. “You haven’t told your mum or anyone about my redundancy, have you?”
“No, I’ve not said a word. And I won’t. It’s your business. Not that it matters. You’ll get a job in no time. I know you will. You know your shit more than anyone. But anyway, there’s more important stuff in the world. Like the fireworks. Let’s go on the roof and catch some before it’s too late.”
Five flights up the lift and we are out on our rooftop, surrounded by other inhabitants of our building we rarely see and never speak to. There’s groups of guys and girls huddled around the garden table and chairs, wrapped in blankets, smoking and clinking glasses and beer bottles. There’s a couple next to us, his arms wrapped around her, while they both look out into the sky. He whispers something to her in a language I don’t understand but I think to be French. All of us, so different, yet living under the same roof and sharing this patch of sky. More fireworks pop in the air, spraying the atmosphere with all the colours of the rainbow.
And just like that, M puts an arm around me, breaking down my walls and building me up. I try to be glass half empty to balance his eternal optimism but he always gets to me. My caution is being tossed out in favour of hope.
If he says I’ll be okay, I truly, truly believe it.