Two interviews later, shortlisted from over four hundred applicants, and to my amazement, I reached the final listing. The only problem is, I think I was so caught up in trying to win the position, I’m not really sure I wanted it when it was offered.
My mum isn’t impressed either. She thinks I’m wasting my time in sales (probably true), as I should really like to work in Editorial. But those jobs hardly ever come up. Anyway, you would think I work in B&Q (not that there is anything wrong with that but you couldn’t exactly call it glamorous) for the amount of respect my mum gives to the fact I work for Modiste.
‘It doesn’t matter how you dress it up, love, you’re essentially a cold-caller. Whether it’s a glamorous glossy magazine or a double glazing company you work for, you basically phone people who are innocently minding their own business, trying to sell stuff to them they don’t want and aren’t interested in.’
The whole experience was so incredibly exciting though, being whisked off to Harvey Nicks with Amanda Beale, Head of Classified Advertising, to sip from tall elegant flutes of champagne at 11am. It was all so glamorous and sparklingly captivating, I was entranced right from the start.
‘Sophie,’ Amanda had said, ‘I’m pleased to say you have the position, absolutely super interview. Simply thrilled to have you. Welcome to Modiste, darling.’
I was amazed and sort of in shock. Of course I accepted the position, there was no question. You don’t turn down a job somewhere like Modiste. Naturally I had to go out and spend a fortune on an entire new wardrobe, as you can’t wear any old suit to the offices of Modiste each day. What’s a student loan for anyway? The problem is, my salary doesn’t reflect the glamour of the job. Actually, I could have earned loads more as an administrator in my hometown and that wouldn’t involve the exorbitant costs of living in London.
My rent on the flat is pretty high but I like living in Islington and it’s not that far to the Modiste office in Hanover Square, once I got over my fear of the daily tube journey that is. When I first started I was so scared I took a taxi to work each morning but rather unsurprisingly, I couldn’t afford to keep this up. In fact, now I’ve got used to it, the tube is okay; it’s just all the people and I’ve got this thing that the train might start going before I get in the door so I end up hustling inside it really quickly.
But this is Modiste and I’m in, which is pretty amazing. Of course it means I get in quite late in the evening, something like eight, after a long day, which doesn’t leave much time for socialising. But I’m sure there will be loads of opportunities to go to really glamorous premieres and other amazing events. Not that there has been yet, but I’ve only been there a couple of weeks. There’s bound to be, because this is Modiste after all.
I hate to admit it but my mum does sort of have a point re. the cold-calling. The position is selling advertising space in the back of Carter Whitrow publications. It isn’t really cold-calling though; it involves phoning specialist shops and offering them the amazing opportunity to advertise in some incredibly popular publications.
The only thing is, they don’t always really want to advertise, or they are already advertising somewhere else cheaper or they just don’t want to be bothered by us, like at all, ever. So, calling them up and pestering them gets them annoyed and they start telling you to go away, not very politely either. I was told to ‘f’ off three times in one week, and not all by the same person. So you can see, it isn’t quite as glamorous as I thought.
The training when I first started was intensive; we spent an entire week writing and practising sales scripts. There were six of us trainees, all pretending to phone and persuade each other to buy extremely expensive advertising space. I didn’t really enjoy it, acting can be fun but sales role-play is pretty boring and was bordering on the patronising. But it was okay because I had a plan. I was going to just be my normal polite and friendly self and as soon as I heard or could sense someone was not interested, I would apologise for bothering them and ring off to phone another poor victim, I mean ‘lucky prospective customer’.
There was just one terrible flaw in my plan. I didn’t realise this until the Monday of the week after training had finished. We were shown the slightly daunting sales room, with its open-plan desks and row after row of phones and headsets.
‘Right,’ Amanda had trilled. ‘You’re now the best-trained sales team Carter Whitrow has ever known. Remember you work for Modiste, one of the most prestigious magazines in the world. You are offering these people the most amazing opportunity of a lifetime. I want to hear the pride in your voices as you sell the UK’s most glamorous and exclusive advertising space. Remember the script and keep to it. The script is your law, your creed. Always, always stick to the script, we don’t want any mavericks in here.’
She paced up and down the room restlessly on long spidery legs, feet clad in what I have recently discovered to be Manolo Blahniks, slapping her hand with the all-important scripts. ‘I, meanwhile, will be nearby at all times, popping in on the other line to listen to your conversation and add any suggestions in your left ear with my handy little headphones here.’ She waved a cream pair of headphones ominously at us.
My heart had started to beat rather fast all by itself. I’d never ever thought that someone could be listening to my sales conversation and then telling me what to say in my other ear. But there was nothing I could do but rather fakely mutter ‘great’ and go and sit down at my desk looking suitably enthusiastic.
‘Now, Sheena, Gina and Kelli – you are working on Modiste. Here are your copies of the classified ads, pricing lists and terms and conditions. Caitlin and Sophie, you are on Modiste Brides. Marie, you can start with Modiste Traveller.’ Amanda flicked copies of the relevant magazines and price lists towards us. ‘And before I forget, the first person to sell an advertising space, wins…’ And she paused dramatically while I thought, yes! It’s going to be something designer and cool from Modiste… until Amanda finished with, ‘A bottle of bubbly.’
Oh, a bit of a let-down but it was quite a nice prize, I supposed, and it wasn’t going to be me in any case. I tried my first couple of calls on the Bridal Directory as quickly as I could to get a bit of practice in before Amanda got to me. I was ducking down behind the screen, hoping not to catch her eye; it reminded me of being back in maths class at school. Hah, that’s a shame, the first couple of people weren’t answering; this list wasn’t going to take long. But the third lady did.
‘Surrey Brides,’ she answered in a happy and helpful tone. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Oh, good afternoon, this is Sophie calling from Modiste Brides magazine. How are you today?’ I recited in my best Queen’s English.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The lady didn’t sound quite as cheerful now – I could hear a hint of reserve creep in. I knew how she felt, I hate people trying to sell me things.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I gushed nervously. ‘I am phoning today to ask if you would like to take up a fantastic opportunity to advertise your fabulous shop in the UK’s biggest and most glamorous bridal magazine, Modiste Brides, thus reaching a huge audience, thus achieving greater footfall in your shop, thus maximising your profits?’