Wedding Night
Page 23
There’s silence. Deborah is furiously chewing her lips.
“Beauty,” she mutters at last. “Most are trainee makeup artists. And some are dancers.”
Makeup artists and dancers?
I’m so flummoxed I can’t reply. No wonder they’re all so stunning and fit. I catch a glimpse of Steve—and he looks so gutted I suddenly want to giggle.
“That’s a shame,” I say innocently. “Steve thought this seemed a very promising bunch. He wanted to offer them all scientific research scholarships. Didn’t you, Steve?”
Steve scowls evilly at me and rounds on Deborah. “What the fuck is going on? Why are we giving a lecture on a career in pharmaceutical research to a room full of bloody makeup artists and dancers?”
“I’m sorry!” Deborah looks like she wants to weep. “By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. I’ve been set a target of attracting more blue-chip companies, and you’re such a prestigious firm, I couldn’t bear to cancel—”
“Does anyone here want to work in pharmaceutical research?” Steve addresses the room.
No one raises their hand. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I got up at six A.M. to be here. Not that I’d been asleep, but still.
“So what are you doing here?” Steve sounds like he’s going to explode.
“We have to go to ten career seminars to get our career-search credit,” says a girl with a bobbing ponytail.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve picks up his jacket from his chair. “I do not have time for this.” As he stalks out of the auditorium, I feel like doing the same thing myself. I’ve never met anyone as incompetent as Deborah in my life.
But, on the other hand, there’s still a roomful of students watching me. They all still need a career, even if it’s not in pharmaceutical research. And I’ve come all the way from London. I’m not just turning round and going home.
“OK.” I take the remote from Deborah, flip off the DVD, and walk center stage. “Let’s start again. I don’t work in the beauty industry or the dance industry. So there’s not much point me advising you on that. But I do employ people. So, how about I try to give some general advice? Do you have any questions for me?”
There’s silence. Then a girl in a leather jacket hesitantly lifts her hand.
“Could you look at my CV and tell me if it’s any good?”
“Of course. Good idea. Anyone else want me to look at theirs?”
A forest of arms shoots up. I’ve never seen such a well-manicured selection of hands in my life.
“OK. Form a line. That’s what we’ll do.”
Two hours later, I’ve scanned the CVs of about thirty students. (If Deborah is their CV adviser, then Deborah should be fired. That’s all I’m saying.) I’ve done a Q and A session on pensions and tax returns and self-employment law. I’ve shared all the advice I think might help these guys. And in return I’ve learned a lot about many areas I was totally ignorant of, such as: 1) How you make someone look wounded in a movie; 2) which actress currently filming in London seems really sweet but is actually a total bitch to her makeup artist; and 3) how you do a grand jeté (I failed on that one).
Now I’ve opened the floor to any subject at all, and a pale girl with pink streaky hair is speaking about the cost of shellac and how difficult it is to make the margins work if you want to open your own salon. I’m listening and trying to make helpful comments, but my attention keeps being drawn to another girl, sitting in the second row. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she hasn’t said a word, but she keeps fingering her phone and blowing her nose and dabbing her tissue to her eyes.
There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—
No, Lottie. Don’t go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.
“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.
Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.
“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”
“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”
“Beauty,” she mutters at last. “Most are trainee makeup artists. And some are dancers.”
Makeup artists and dancers?
I’m so flummoxed I can’t reply. No wonder they’re all so stunning and fit. I catch a glimpse of Steve—and he looks so gutted I suddenly want to giggle.
“That’s a shame,” I say innocently. “Steve thought this seemed a very promising bunch. He wanted to offer them all scientific research scholarships. Didn’t you, Steve?”
Steve scowls evilly at me and rounds on Deborah. “What the fuck is going on? Why are we giving a lecture on a career in pharmaceutical research to a room full of bloody makeup artists and dancers?”
“I’m sorry!” Deborah looks like she wants to weep. “By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late. I’ve been set a target of attracting more blue-chip companies, and you’re such a prestigious firm, I couldn’t bear to cancel—”
“Does anyone here want to work in pharmaceutical research?” Steve addresses the room.
No one raises their hand. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. I got up at six A.M. to be here. Not that I’d been asleep, but still.
“So what are you doing here?” Steve sounds like he’s going to explode.
“We have to go to ten career seminars to get our career-search credit,” says a girl with a bobbing ponytail.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve picks up his jacket from his chair. “I do not have time for this.” As he stalks out of the auditorium, I feel like doing the same thing myself. I’ve never met anyone as incompetent as Deborah in my life.
But, on the other hand, there’s still a roomful of students watching me. They all still need a career, even if it’s not in pharmaceutical research. And I’ve come all the way from London. I’m not just turning round and going home.
“OK.” I take the remote from Deborah, flip off the DVD, and walk center stage. “Let’s start again. I don’t work in the beauty industry or the dance industry. So there’s not much point me advising you on that. But I do employ people. So, how about I try to give some general advice? Do you have any questions for me?”
There’s silence. Then a girl in a leather jacket hesitantly lifts her hand.
“Could you look at my CV and tell me if it’s any good?”
“Of course. Good idea. Anyone else want me to look at theirs?”
A forest of arms shoots up. I’ve never seen such a well-manicured selection of hands in my life.
“OK. Form a line. That’s what we’ll do.”
Two hours later, I’ve scanned the CVs of about thirty students. (If Deborah is their CV adviser, then Deborah should be fired. That’s all I’m saying.) I’ve done a Q and A session on pensions and tax returns and self-employment law. I’ve shared all the advice I think might help these guys. And in return I’ve learned a lot about many areas I was totally ignorant of, such as: 1) How you make someone look wounded in a movie; 2) which actress currently filming in London seems really sweet but is actually a total bitch to her makeup artist; and 3) how you do a grand jeté (I failed on that one).
Now I’ve opened the floor to any subject at all, and a pale girl with pink streaky hair is speaking about the cost of shellac and how difficult it is to make the margins work if you want to open your own salon. I’m listening and trying to make helpful comments, but my attention keeps being drawn to another girl, sitting in the second row. Her eyes are red-rimmed and she hasn’t said a word, but she keeps fingering her phone and blowing her nose and dabbing her tissue to her eyes.
There was one moment during the Q and A when I could have done with a tissue myself. I was talking about vacation benefits, and it brought all my anguish back in a whoosh. I’d been saving up vacation myself. Three weeks’ worth. I thought I’d be needing it for a honeymoon. I’d even found this amazing place in St. Lucia—
No, Lottie. Don’t go there. Move on. Move on, move on. I blink hard and refocus on the girl with pink hair.
“… do you think I should focus on brows?” she’s saying, looking anxious.
Oh God, I wasn’t listening properly. How did we get on to brows? I’m about to ask her to recap her main points for the benefit of the room (always a good way out) when the girl in the second row gives a massive sob. I can’t ignore her anymore.
“Hi,” I say gently, waving to attract her attention. “Excuse me. Are you OK?”
“Cindy’s had a breakup.” Her friend puts a protective arm round her. “Can she be excused?”
