begin to worry about the impression I’m giving. ‘I mean, of course. I applied online and took part in the virtual interview for a trainee position in hotel management.’
Months ago, back in March, I think. As for a virtual interview, what a crock. I sat in front of my ancient laptop and gave a personal account of myself, as instructed. I was supposed to inform the robotic voice of a time in my life that I was most proud, and I’d begun to recite the well-rehearsed tale of how I’d travelled around the world by myself; my one big accomplishment. I’d intended to cover all the interview candidate buzz words—organised, passionate, enthusiastic, detail-orientated, flexible—in an effort to sell those highly valued transferable skills.
Unfortunately, I’d gotten no farther than explaining how I’d worked in hospitality on several continents when the dumb Poodle I was working on rehoming jumped up on my knee, pressing his front paws to my laptop. The interview I actually sent them was of me mouthing “what the fuck, mutt!” along with one final horrified look at the camera as excitable doggy paws hit the enter key, my interview immediately uploading and pinged to the agency. To add insult to injury, he then peed on me. Suffice it to say, I felt pretty downhearted about the whole thing. When I didn’t hear back, I wasn’t surprised. But hallelujah, it looks like they’re desperate, and I’m about to get a second chance!
‘I have wonderful news, Miss Ryan.’ The woman’s forty-a-day voice brings me back to the moment in a snap. ‘A position has just become available, and after viewing your interview, our client would like to go ahead and offer you the job.’
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . wonderful.’ And as well as so, so strange. ‘When would they like to interview me?’’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that. The position is yours. Isn’t that wonderful?’ she gushes. Yes, gushes. The woman who gave zero fucks when I called to explain what happened during my so-called interview. It wasn’t even an interview for an advertised job but an interview to get me on their books, so to speak. And now this?
‘Yes. Wonderful,’ I answer haltingly. ‘But isn’t it also a little,’ weird, whacky, not to mention downright, ‘strange?’
‘It is a little unorthodox,’ she demurs, ‘but hardly unprecedented.’
‘My interview recording was a disaster.’ I rub the heel of my palm against my eye, not quite believing I’m bringing this up right now.
‘Well, what can I say?’ she replies, not bothering to hide her annoyance. ‘They must’ve seen the funny side as well as being impressed with what else you had to say.’
‘I find it hard to believe you sent it to them.’ Especially after not responding to my botched interview. Right now, the competition is pretty fierce in the current job market, as I’ve found since coming home. Surely, they must have had better interviews than mine.
‘Do you want to hear about this job or not? Because I’m sure there are lots of other candidates who would receive this news with much more grace.’
Grace; the thing Southern women are supposed to have an abundance of. That’s the whole cat born in the stable thing again. But hell, what am I doing?
‘No, of course I’m interested!’ I begin, hitting reverse. ‘I suppose this has all just come as a shock. I mean, like a wonderful shock. A surprise, in fact!’
‘There are more surprises to come,’ she adds, a touch inscrutably. And then she mentions a figure that causes me to curse, though I have the decorum to do so silently.
‘That’s . . . that’s the whole package, though, right? The figure? It includes all benefits.’ Because ho-lee-hell, that is a lot of money. More money than I ever dreamed I’d earn.
‘Oh, my dear, not at all. That is the figure of your base salary only.’
My eyes are as wide as saucers in the dresser mirror as she goes on to explain the scope of the position, the opportunities for promotion, and how, with my experience, I’m a great fit for the team.
‘My experience?’ I halt my happy dance mid-hop. What experience? The fact that I work in a strip joint? That I serve drinks to men with grabby hands and an obsession for shoving dollar bills between my tits? Amber has a theory. She thinks it’s because they want to shove other things there. And she doesn’t mean Legos.
‘Yes. The fact that you worked for Riposo Estates in Australia is