Skye Templeton is sick of living in a small village in the Scottish Highlands where everyone knows every single little thing about her. She's tired of her dead-end "situationship". She desperately needs to escape . . . So when a chance encounter ope...
Crap. The worst question to ever exist in history, with so manypossible answers . . . None of which you can think of right now!
Do you:
A) Tell them everything? Including your bad luck curse, your failed relationship, and the ridiculous reason that you decided to start your life over elsewhere? Maybe your blatant honesty will prove to be a refreshing breath of fresh air!
OR
B) Just go with the dull basics. No recruitment agency wants to hear your crazy tales of woe. They just want to know you can type 60 words per minute and know how to use Excel. (Even if you don't know.)
You'll be glad, I'm sure, to know I opt for the more sensible option in this scenario. Sometimes - very occasionally - I can use my brain wisely.
It was Orlagh who suggested I give temping a go. It was a great suggestion which hadn't even occurred to me. Possibly a way to find out what I want to do with my life without having to actually immediately commit to anything . . . While also, hopefully, still making enough money to afford rent, cocktails, and pricey hair products in the meantime.
It sounded pretty perfect to me.
I mean, in an ideal world, I wouldn't have to work at all. I'm fairly sure I would make a fantastic lady of leisure. But unless I've somehow missed the announcement that I'm heiress to a massive fortune or an email from the lottery folk to say that they have "exciting news" about my ticket (spoiler alert: that usually means I've won about £2.50 and is in noway "exciting"), I'm a slave to the 9-5 for the foreseeable future.
Another advantage to temping? If I'm really shit at a job, the company might not catch on until I've finished my stint!
I really need to have a bit more faith in my own ability, don't I?
"I've worked as a hotel receptionist for the past five years," I explain smoothly. "In a boutique hotel in the village I grew up in."
"The Thorne Inn," Stacy - the recruitment consultant I'm having this "informal discussion" with - confirms, eyes scanning my decidedly short CV. "So did you enjoy that particular role?"
"Of course, and I learned a lot there. But I really want to use that experience as a stepping stone to progress in a career." Honestly, I have no idea what I'm actually on about at this point. And I think Stacy knows I'm full of it, as I can see the corners of her lips twitching.
"Any particular career in mind?" She prompts me. And I immediately collapse like a souffle removed prematurely from the oven.
"I have no idea," I confess, feeling my cheeks redden. "I just really need a job at this point. And pretty much any job would do." I bite my lip. "Well, except for waitressing, but you really don't want to hear about that!"
She laughs. "I've got to applaud your . . . transparency," she tells me. "You don't really get enough of it in this line of work - at least, that's been my experience."
Phew.
A few hours and three further "informal discussions" later, I've signed up with several agencies and am hoping someone will take me on as their resident charity case/office clown. I do feel like my best bet for a job is through the agency Stacy is with, rather than any of the other consultants I've spoken to. The other meetings felt more like formal interviews I really wasn't remotely prepared for, and I responded accordingly - stilted replies, awkward pauses. If I'm bound for hell, my own personal version will be one where I'm just asked competency based questions for eternity. Probably while Satan's minions drink red wine and judge me.
At least once I cut the bull with Stacy, the rest of the conversation flowed easily - we discussed how the experience and skills I had could be transferable into other roles, and I left feeling optimistic. It genuinely seemed as though she wanted to help me.
I let myself into my cousin's flat, safe in the knowledge that she should be at work. She works ridiculously long hours as a lawyer, which I suppose is lucky because she'd probably have been sick of me even quicker if she was always around. Thank goodness I'm moving into that Finnieston flatshare with Orlagh and her friend in just a few days!
When the flat door clicks softly behind me, though, I realise I can hear faint noises coming from the living room. What the hell?
Now, this is the sort of thing I was warned about by my mum. "Cities are so dangerous, Skye," she told me repeatedly, as I was preparing to move here. She was determined to try to talk me into staying put and stagnating. "Murders around every corner, robberies . . ."
"Your next door neighbour got burgled just last week . . . While she was asleep in bed!" I'd argued. "It's not entirely safe here either."
She'd ignored that, of course. My mum has always been notorious for turning her back on any argument that doesn't suit her own narrative. "Just don't you come back haunting me after Bible John makes you his comeback victim," she told me darkly. Which seemed a somewhat harsh thing to say, even by her standards.
Bible John, in case you aren't someone who is au fait with their serial killers, was an infamous murderer in the late 1960s in Glasgow who was never caught. There are various theories about his identity, and there's probably a good chance that he's no longer with us, but my mum has thankfully never really been up-to-date with her true crime references.
Anyway, maybe Mum actually had a point about the city, I think now, eyeing the living room door warily, my ears pricked up like a wary cat. I hear a creak followed by a smashing noise. We're definitely being robbed!
Looking desperately around for something that can double up as a weapon (because I've clearly exhausted today's common sense supply and have decided fight trumps flight), I grab the golf umbrella propped against the wall in the hallway and charge into the living room, screaming what I'm going to call "a sassy battle cry". I'm a woman possessed. No one will take what is rightfully ours! I will defend my temporary home to the hilt.
Instead, what I find is my cousin having frenzied afternoon sex with her boyfriend on the sofa.
The sofa I've been using as my bed for the last week.
And, to be perfectly honest, this might actually be worse than being burgled.
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