I became a little discombobulated during this last spiel as Amanda, beaming widely, had plonked down in the chair next to me and plugged in to my call.
‘Not really.’ The voice became uncompromising. I flapped at my sheets, realising that I shouldn’t have asked the question in that way as it allowed a ‘yes-no answer’.
‘Ask why not,’ hissed Amanda in a loud stage whisper that made me wonder if she had swallowed a voice projector. Oh no, I really didn’t want to do this, now was the time to say, ‘Oh okay, thank you very much for your time, have a good day, goodbye.’
But Amanda was in my other ear, listening to every word. So I said rather falteringly, ‘Erm, why not?’
‘Because I don’t have the budget for it,’ came the terse reply.
At that point, I wanted to apologise for disturbing her, finish the call and move on. But Amanda was whispering in my ear again, ‘Ask her how much she has in her budget.’
This was going to blow it. ‘Sorry to ask, but how much do you have in your budget?’ I asked, cringing inwardly.
‘I’m not going to discuss that sort of question with you!’ the woman snapped. ‘Bloody cheek ringing me up and asking me how much money I have!’ And she slammed down the phone.
‘She was in a hurry!’ Amanda tinkled. ‘Never mind, next number, back to selling. And in future…’ She stuck her immaculate blonde head close to my face to emphasise her point, ‘remember, stick to the script, darling.’
I’m kind of getting used to it now, although the lady on that call was one of the politer responses. As I said, I’d really like to move to Editorial and hope this might happen if I work hard. Writing is much more my thing and I have so many important issues I would like to address like ‘Should women over forty wear short skirts?’ To be on the Modiste editorial team would be amazing. I see them waft into the entrance lobby at Modiste House looking stunningly untouchable, off to premieres and exclusives with incredible people. They are like higher beings to us mere mortals down in Classified Sales. Actually though, I’m beginning to notice they’re all someone who knows someone important. Aaahhhggghhh, perhaps I’m going to be stuck in Classified Sales my whole life because I don’t know anyone important at all.
My phone buzzes again, thankfully I’d remembered to put it on silent. Sophie, I’m begging you, please stop ignoring me… I need to talk to you, Dean xxxxx
I look about surreptitiously as, ironically, Amanda is pretty strict on the no-phone rule in the office and I have enough problems right now. I quickly tap in a reply: You need to move on, Dean. This isn’t going to work, we’re different people… I think for a moment then harden myself to add – If you don’t stop contacting me, I’ll have to involve the police.
Hopefully that would get rid of him. It made me feel bad as he wasn’t horrible really, just very weird. His taxidermy collection. I shivered remembering it. I think that had been the moment I realised he needed to go. I guess Mel has a point, I do seem to attract total weirdos. The one before Dean was so much fun but when he started to wear my clothes and make-up, I knew we had a problem. The guy before that, Mike, turned out to be married and an alcoholic. In short, my life so far is a catalogue of dating disasters. My solution: every night I retire to bed to read a nice happy romance – generally Jane Austen, and lose myself in the world of Elizabeth and Darcy while consuming a worrying amount of chocolate.
‘Sophie!’ My reverie is broken by Mark who works in Account Management and is a complete sweetie. He is quite simply a rose in a bed of thorns. ‘Some leads for you, darling.’
‘Thanks,’ I say rather absently. ‘I could do with those.’
‘What’s up? Prêt a Porter have a flash sale and you missed it?’
‘No.’ I smile in spite of myself. Mark always makes me laugh – he’s the only one who is half normal in the office. ‘Just ex-boyfriend trouble.’
‘Marvellous, this calls for an early lunch break.’ He sweeps my chair from underneath me, grabs my stuff and propels me towards the door. ‘You know how good I am at solving your problems.’
‘What about Amanda?’ I ask half-heartedly.
‘Stuff Amanda!’
We leave the office, giggling like a couple of naughty children. A few of the sales team seem to have already gone for lunch so I don’t feel too guilty. We walk companionably downstairs into the lobby.
‘Oh, I’ve left my phone! I’ll catch you up.’ I run back up the sweeping staircase and across the landing into the sales room. It seems to be momentarily deserted; I’ve never seen it like this. I cross the floor quickly to grab my mobile and get out again before anyone returns, when I’m halted by one of the desk phones. It’s tempting to leave – it won’t be for me anyway – but something stops me. I have to answer it.
‘Good afternoon, Carter Whitrow Publications, how may I help you?’ I actually manage to make it sound quite natural for once.
‘Oh, hello, good afternoon. I wonder if you can, I’m looking to place an advert in Modiste Brides magazine,’ says a well-spoken lady in a pleasant tone.
‘Yes, of course, you would like to book a slot in the magazine?’ I repeat her words like a loon, unable to believe my ears.
‘Yes, this is the right number, isn’t it?’ The poor lady sounds confused.
‘Definitely,’ I reply, pulling myself together. ‘A 5x3 ad in the back of Modiste Brides is £350 for one insert, then £200 for the next couple of months as we are offering a promotion at the moment.’
‘That’s fine, what would I need to do next?’
‘If you’d like to send the details through to Modiste, my e-mail is [email protected] and I’ll get you booked in for a three-month slot. Please could you give me your payment details.’
The lady has all the info ready and rings off, seemingly happy with her transaction. I put the phone down and do a two-minute victory lap of the office, my arms high in the air, whooping until I’m suddenly stopped by the sight of Amanda walking past the door, followed closely by my fellow recruits.
‘You okay, Sophie?’ Amanda asks, peering round the opening. ‘Is there a mosquito or something?’ The immaculate girls either side of her smirk knowingly at each other.
‘Erm, no, sorry I erm…’ I stutter like an idiot. ‘Oh, I er… I’ve made a sale.’
‘Oh my gosh, Sophie! Everyone,’ Amanda claps her hands together, ‘gather round, we have our first sale. Sophie Johnson here has sold the first advertising slot in Modiste Brides. Well done.’
She stalks rapidly to her desk… ‘And here is your very-much-deserved bottle of Moët. Enjoy, darling!’
I sheepishly walk to the front of the room to claim my prize, wishing the ground would swallow me up, trying to ignore the fake congratulatory smiles of the rest of the sales team. God, I feel a fraud.
Having managed to fight off the not-very-sincere well dones/barely concealed scowls from the rest of the team, I escape gratefully to join Mark down in the foyer.