| |
It’s good to be back. After my extended stay up north, I am delighted to return to home comforts, breathing in the polluted air of the capital.
There’s been no rest as I’ve hit the job hunt hard. It seems the whole new year, new beginnings, is applicable to the job market, as so many positions have come up. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve applied for. It’s like when I was online dating and there seemed to be an endless supply of suitors just waiting for a message. The market was bustling. Also, similar to my time as a single lady, I’m almost dizzy from stating the same criteria countless times.
Salary expectations: 36k (I’ve lowered my expectations slightly).
Location: Zone 1 and 2 (again, learning the art of compromise).
Sector: I’ll take bloody anything.
I’ve taken Sophia’s advice and I’m looking at freelancing opportunities. She’s right (as per usual) there are businesses on my doorstep. I looked at London with fresh eyes on the drive back on New Year’s Eve. Nestled between the big, fancy buildings housing investment banks and law firms, there are a wealth of small businesses in every industry imaginable. Oh, and I should also mention, M and I caught the main fireworks for the first time ever. We arrived with enough time to do a cheeky little detour to the south of the river and were lucky enough to find a spot which offered a great view of the fireworks display, without having to elbow our way through hoards of tourists. It was almost like fate telling us you can plan all you like but things will happen when they’re supposed to. You could say that’s a bit deep and meaningful but, right now, my jobless self is looking for positive signs in everything.
Anyway, back to the job hunt. That’s the order of business today. I’ve secured a meeting with a small law firm and am expecting a call back from, rather excitingly, an independent recording artist. Granted, I know bugger all about the music industry, however I’m going on the basis that all PR is the same, regardless of sector. Plus, how amazing would it be if I boosted this guy’s career and helped him get a BRIT Award, or a million pound record deal? I appreciate that’s a little ambitious but, like I said, positivity is the new me.
He is due to call me ahead of my meeting at the law firm. As I was conscious of time, I left work early to take the call. After all, with less than a month before I leave, who’s checking up on me?
I typically underestimated the speed of my usual walking pace and the close proximity of Liverpool Street and Aldgate, so I’m awkwardly early for my call. I haven’t quite got enough time to go home and make myself a cup of tea (plus, I want to avoid small talk and nosey questions from Mauricio, the new concierge), yet I’ve got too much time to warrant calling the recording artist ahead, instead of waiting on him. So I have to walk up and down Commercial Road like a bad smell, willing my phone to ring.
I decide to browse the wholesale shops that supply the local markets. There’s a pokey little jewellery shop with wall-to-wall necklaces, bracelets and earrings creating a peacock-like mosaic. Some of the pieces look like they’d be at home hanging from the stands of a high street jeweller. I pick up a bracelet adorned with ruby-red beads, punctuated with the odd gold stone. Should I treat myself? Is this store open to the general public, or just traders? A sign on the wall, sitting on the only blank space, says: Minimum order - £100. I put it back. Then my phone rings.
“Hi, it’s Daniel. We were in touch by email about you doing some PR work for me?”
“Oh... yes,” I say, as though I hadn’t been walking around with my phone in my hand, ringtone on loud, eagerly awaiting his call. “Tell me more about how I can help.”
“Great. Well, I’m an independent artist. I do DJ work, mainly in some of the smaller clubs around the East End.”
My heart sinks a little.
“And I’m looking to raise my profile a bit. I’d love some exposure in the music magazines.”
Glass half full. Glass half full.
“That sounds great. Have you had anyone do your PR before.”
“Oh, God no. Penniless artist here. But while I don’t have a budget for marketing and that sort of thing, I was thinking we could do some kind of skill swap.”
“A skill swap?”
“Yeah, like, maybe you could give me some free publicity, and I could perform a DJ set for you any time you have a party?”
I should’ve left it right there. I need money, not music. I’ve never hosted a party in my life that’s required a DJ. I may live in a high-rise apartment that has a rooftop garden, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be raving on top of it. Also, getting him coverage in Rolling Stone magazine in exchange for a free disco seems like an unfair deal.
Of course, I listen on for five minutes before giving a cop-out answer of: “I’ll have a think and get back to you.”
I hadn’t even considered working for free. Is that what I’ll have to do to get my foot in the freelancing door?
I end the call just in time for my next opportunity. The face-to-face meeting with the lawyer should be better. It has to be. If nothing else, if they do offer a skill swap, at least it will be in the form of legal counsel, which might be handy in the future.
It’s far from the swanky glass fronted buildings I’ve seen in the city, or the old, grand, stately structure that Julia works in at Chancery Lane. This law firm, like most businesses in overcrowded Aldgate, is below a block of flats. I only spot it due to the old-school sign hanging sideways, saying Raheem and Partners.
As I set foot in the waiting room, I’m greeted by Tasleem, the secretary. She looks fresh out of university, all long, black curly hair, thick rimmed glasses, and a scratchy-looking black trouser suit with an unfortunate shine to it. It’s the kind of thing I would have bought when I was fresh out of uni, too.
The office interior matches the front fascia - basic, minimal, cheap. The plasterboard walls are so thin they can’t hang anything with nails. Instead, there’s an A4 sheet of white paper stuck on the magnolia walls with the words ‘minimum meeting charge, £50.’ I’m hoping that doesn’t apply to me. I’m here to take money, not give it.
“No, no! Papers we sent are fine. Issue is when it go immigration. We did our job,” a man shouts in Bengali smattered with bits of English, just like my mum.
The owner of the loud, shouty voice is a deceptively small, skinny man who’s bald on top with jet black hair on the sides and some wispy tufts of grey coming out of his ears.
“Salaam Alaikum, sorry for making delay,” says the man, eschewing the business handshake in favour of a gesture to follow him. “Come, come.”
We go into an equally generic room with big glass windows. The thin wooden beams running along the walls haven’t been sanded down. Everything looks unfinished.
“You can do some advertise for us?” he asks.
“Not quite advertising, uncle, but it’s similar.” I can’t help but make him my family to establish the nature of our relationship.
This is probably the only time in my life it’s appropriate and necessary to go into PR mode with a Bengali elder. I talk about how free publicity is three times more valuable than advertising, because you’ve earned the column inches with credibility rather than cash. I talk about my relationships with journalists and how, by working with them, I can present the law firm as an expert in their field above the competition. I explain how PR is not just desirable for a small business such as his, it is essential, as if they should ever be unfortunate enough to be the subject of a negative news story, the bad news will get lost in the sea of good that I will have created for them when I execute my six-month publicity campaign.
I pause for a breath and wait for his response to my watertight onslaught of services.
He smiles. “I see you very clever girl.”
“Thank you.” I feel my cheeks straining under the pressure of my extended smile.
“Hmm. My daughter very clever, too. You met her, she one at reception.” He points through the glass to Tasleem, who sees him, rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Very clever. She just finished university. Did economics. We now looking for nice boy for her. Nice and educated. If you know any good grooms...”
***
Well, that was a complete waste of time. I should’ve listened to my self-hating Asian side. Nothing fruitful would come from meeting with Abdul Raqeeb of Raheem and Partners. He wasn’t even a partner! I should have known. I should have bloody known.
I’m also marginally offended that he didn’t think of a nephew, or other distant relative, that could be a suitor for me. I didn’t mention I was married. I’m still eligible, aren’t I? Obviously, I would have politely declined, but the offer wouldn’t have hurt. If nothing else, I would have got an ego boost from the meeting.
So now I’m off to Chancery Lane, where the real law firms are. Where Julia is. I need a friend right now. I also need food.
I load my box until I can’t close the lid. I put in lasagna, a whole chicken leg, two spring rolls, puy lentils, sweetcorn, spiced chickpeas, stuffed vine leaves, roast potatoes, pickled cabbage, hummus and a boiled egg. It’s an eclectic mix but it works.
Julia lays down a neat row of peas in her Tupperware, with cous cous and chickpeas either side.
“You do know they charge by the box, not by each item?” I say, feeling sorry for her almost-empty container.
“I know. I’m taking it easy as I’m going out for dinner tonight.”
“That’s a whole different meal! And hours later! It never makes sense when you say that.”
“Fine.” Julia adds some sweetcorn to her box before firmly closing the lid.
“Oh, will you put a bit more in? You’re making me look bad.”
“Shush!” Julia elbows me. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”
She’s got me there.
I love Leather Lane. I just love it. However, I wish they’d have better seating. The cafe where I loaded up my box had more customers than seats. We walk through the packed out street in search of somewhere to rest our bums. I’m careful of spilling my leaky container as we navigate our way through market stalls, well-heeled workers and the girl who stands outside the falafel van with a tray of her wares for passers by to sample. With my spare hand, I take two of the piping hot, deep fried balls with some tahini sauce. It would be rude not to. Once we settle down on a bench that is surrounded by slightly less pigeon shit than all the others, I tell Julia my sad tale of meaningless meetings.
“I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that you always have the best stories!” Julia covers her mouth with a napkin. As she struggles to conceal her pearly whites behind the olive green cloth, I see that she’s got a cous cous grain between her teeth. That’s not like her, she’ll be mortified if she goes on her date with Miles like that. I might not mention it.
“Well, I’m glad you find my employment-based anguish funny.”
“No, I don’t find that funny at all. I worry about you.”
It’s not the first time Julia’s worried about me.
“Are you okay for money?” she asks.
“Yes! Yes, of course. I’ve got my redundancy pay and then there’s M. It’s not like I’m paying rent by myself.”
“Good, well if you’re ever short -”
“I won’t be!” I say, a little too loud.
Julia picks at her sweetcorn as I tear strips from my chicken leg whilst trying not to look like a Neanderthal. It’s so much better eating this kind of thing with M.
“Anyway,” Julia says, “there’s a PR role that’s just come up in my firm.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We’ve got quite a big marketing department already and they’re expanding further still.”
I wipe the chicken residue off my hand with my napkin. It would seem uncouth to lick my fingers. “Well... go on.”
“Okay, so it’s a great firm as you know but, and hear me out here, it’s a bit more junior than you’re used to. It’s executive level rather than managerial.”
She pauses. I wait.
“And it’s £25k starting salary... but you know with these in-house roles, once you’re in, you’re in. In most cases.” Julia remembers my current in-house role which I will soon be kicked out of.
Sod the formalities. I pull the spring roll out of the box and bite the end, except it doesn’t come away so easily. The pastry is stretchy and soggy, so half of it’s contents dangle from my mouth, while some stray shreds of carrot fall back into the Tupperware. Julia looks away.
“Would you go for a role like that?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Would you go for a job that was £25k. Would you take such a big drop in salary and position?”
Julia looks ambushed. “No, I wouldn’t, but then I’m not the one being made -” She stops herself and looks to her chickpeas. “Just an option, anyway.” She shuffles away from me, noticing there’s a dried-out drop of greeny-white bird pooh on the bench.
People always suggest options they’d never take themselves. When I was looking to get married, relatives would put forward suitors they would never consider for their own daughters. It’s the same here. I get Julia’s intention, she’s trying to help, but that’s not the help I need. I’ve been told once too many times that beggars can’t be choosers and I’ll have to manage my expectations. I’ve even heard it from my own mum. I don’t need to hear it from my best friend when it comes to my work, something I held onto with so much pride.
“Thanks but I’ll pass,” I say.