The endless metamorphosis from secretary, to cleaner, via waitress, sometimes within the same shift, made me feel displaced, even at work. It was a horrendously glum feeling for a person yearning for some stability and routine in an already uprooted life. I didn’t know which position I might be expected to fill on first entering the premises of a well-established export-import company, run by a father, mother and two sons. The minuscule sum of cash paid once in a blue moon, followed by abuse from three generations of male owners, with added unwanted criticism from the mother, made me rethink my values.
After leaving that company, unsuccessfully based on inbreeding rather than any business plan, I decided to try my luck at getting a job in one of the glossy skyscrapers scattered around inner London. You know the ones; where you’re in awe of the lustrous receptionist, checking out all your details at the entrance, making you feel inadequate. I used to do a dummy run at some of these offices, pretending to have a meeting, but then running off when asked to spell my name. It always takes ages for anyone to get my name right, and even then, it sounds wrong when they say it. I often wonder who would employ me with an unspellable name, which sounds like all the English consonants juggled together.
I was an office-obsessed person, who measured the success of the company by the size of its square footage. When I walked into the Work Easy Agency, an enormous space with heavenly lights, filled with cluttered furniture, decorated with strangely titled books in pristine condition, I thought of triumph, of someone who’d made it! The Director and proud owner of the employment agency, Martha, was on the phone, giving the impression of a highly successful woman, delighted with herself. I couldn’t guess her age, but the bald patch on the top of her head made me think of someone who was likely older or maybe had alopecia. Her dress sense matched the chair she was sitting on. It looked like they both went to the same re-upholsterer. She looked so pleased with herself that it bordered on arrogance.
After acknowledging my presence, she gestured for me to sit opposite her large glass table while she continued with her phone discussion. The steamy conversation in Italian involved lots of hand gestures and occasional screaming, making me uncomfortable. The whole exchange sounded like a hot sex line between London and Italy, and it made me feel like a pervert, listening in. Perhaps finally sensing my apprehension, Martha reluctantly put the phone down and, without looking at me, said insincerely, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
I forgave her. People at the top are not perfect. Just successful.
‘Here is my CV.’
I was hoping for a job in my field, the one I spent four years learning at university. Martha took the CV, still without making eye contact, and with her head down, focused on the piece of paper, she began to shout slogans.
‘You have to be tough! You have to know what you want and go for it. Don’t let anybody stop you.’
Confused, I turned around to see if there was anyone else in the vast office, whom she might be talking to, and it dawned on me it was all aimed at me, a loser with a degree.
She must be trying to sell me her cheap life philosophy, that only those without education lead a successful life, and we, poor souls with university degrees, are born losers. And I was a typical example. For a moment, I wondered if I’d come for a life coaching session, not a job interview.
But then she said, ‘I have a job for you. An excellent job at the top Italian restaurant in the West End, but I want a 20% deposit, which you can pay now, or I will take it from your wages every week.’ She looked me straight in the eye for the first time since I’d entered her office.
‘Do you take cards?’
‘No.’
‘I have no cash. Can I come back at four?’
‘Yes.’
Outside the glossy office and away from its arrogant director, the rain was pouring down, but I only felt relief at being out in the almost-fresh London air. Wrapped in my 30% waterproof mac made in China, as I didn’t have money for 100% waterproof made in the UK, I slowly walked back to my house. Once inside, I checked my CV and, as I had thought, there was no mention of waitressing experience, just a proud declaration of an MSc in Physics, obviously not very useful to the successful Martha. Needless to say, I didn’t go back at four.
The following day, determined to find a job and happy with my life-changing decision to better myself, confident and ludicrously optimistic, I had an English breakfast. It consisted of cold Heinz baked beans from the tin, splattered on a piece of bread that was embellished with suspicious green visual effects.
The art of surviving London had trained me to quickly scrape off the green dots and toast the bread, restoring it to its former taste. The friendly group of homeless people I often passed, usually found at the most convenient place for them, outside the off-license, had a theory that eating the mouldy bread is healthier, as you get antibiotics for free. Plus, you don't have to go through the hoops of making an appointment with a GP.
A combination of cold beans with the mouldy toasted bread left a metallic taste in my mouth, a rumbling but full stomach, and a sense of shame at not even having bothered to warm up the baked beans. I didn’t develop the grown-up trait of reading the small print on tins until much later.
Feeling perky from the cold protein and free antibiotics, but equally gloomy at my overdrawn bank balance, I set myself on the narrow path to finding a job.
I had decided to give fruitless window job shopping through a maze of notes with difficult-to-read messages.
‘Cleaner wanted. Good rates of pay.’
‘Experienced dog walker needed for a friendly chihuahua. Twice a day.’
‘Free room to rent for light housework.’
By the time you discover the cleaning job includes long hours, the unfriendly chihuahua can't walk, and light housework means cutting the grass in a farmer’s field, you’re forced to call your parents and ask for more money.
Packing bland homemade sandwiches, with a bottle of water and a packet of stale crisps, for long walks around London in a search for the well-established eateries, while meekly asking for a job, any work, was a tactic of the past. The experience of looking for a job makes you stronger. And slightly more imaginative. From browsing agency windows in the street, I moved to scanning adverts in magazines.
Outside the tube station, you can always pick up a free magazine. The one with the glossy first and last pages, while the inside pages are printed in black and white, leaving your fingers covered in enough lead to kill you.
My attention was automatically drawn to a black and white half-page advert, repeated at regular intervals every few pages, which stood out by its size and very simple English:
‘Looking for hostesses. Good rates of pay.’
Then the phone number and contact name, Patrick. In my language, hostess means air hostess, but the absence of any airline logo in the ad confused me. The posh English voice of Patrick made an appointment to interview me the following day, without asking me about any previous experience or telling me to bring my CV.
Obviously, I was perfect for the job.
Dressing up for an interview is easy, especially when you haven’t got that many clothes. Buried at the back of my wardrobe was a black skirt, feistily thrown into my luggage back home, or what was home, just in case I got invited to any of those famous London parties. The social life of a foreigner, restricted to watching endless whodunnit movies, which one doesn’t understand but enjoys nevertheless, accompanied with a few cans of beer, is the cheapest option for entertainment. An invitation is a rarity, even for an interview.
It was a hot day and I needed to look and feel good, which is very difficult if your bank account is showing minus figures. The last cash withdrawal from my unauthorized overdraft went on a few strong beers. While intoxicated, I decided to name my future daughter Stella, or, in case I had a boy, his name would be Becks. It sounds German, but you can forget the two wars and admit they do make good beers.
Wearing my black winter skirt, combined with a summer shirt bought at Portobello Market, I managed to find the place where I was supposed to meet Patrick, close to the Hotel Ritz. Without makeup or nail varnish, which I find oppressive as I bite my nails religiously, even though I had no traumatic experiences as a child, if you don’t count growing up in a communist country, I felt good. The building itself was easy to find, but entry to the building was a challenge, as all the doors seemed to lead to wealthy private properties, the ones purposely designed to make you feel insignificant.
Worried I would end up being late, I decided to follow one of the cleaners, who was taking out some rubbish at the side of the building. Surprisingly, he led me straight to the bar where Patrick was waiting. He stood up, held out his right hand and looked very disapproving, which he zealously tried to cover with unconvincing English politeness.
‘Nice to meet you.’
He looked wrinkly, like old dog skin in his grey and creased too-big suit and a tie, which seemed to have come from a greasy Chinese kitchen, with stains of mutton hotpot. He politely gestured for me to sit in an armchair covered in dark and silky velvet. A smothered laugh came from a dark corner of the room, and a girl in a loud red dress came out, with a tray full of empty champagne glasses. She was tall with long dark hair and very gracious, the complete opposite of the short and boorish me. She was Asian. The idea of working for an Asian airline was attractive, and suddenly my secret desire to see Hong Kong and take a tram to Victoria Peak seemed plausible.
‘Well, what we do here is very simple.’ Patrick started the interview. ‘When the guests arrive, you need to greet them at the door and offer them a drink.’
It sounded like they were looking for an air hostess for business or first class. My wandering mind went even further, using Hong Kong as a stopover for a flight to Tokyo, to see the alluring cherry blossom.
‘We don’t give you a salary, but you earn commission from drinks sold, and of course, everything the guests offer you is yours,’ he blurted out quickly, presumably hoping the person in a winter skirt and polyester shirt, wouldn’t be able to catch the flaws in his business proposition.
‘It sounds simple,’ I said nervously, starting to realise the word ‘hostess’ could have various meanings.
‘Yes, sometimes guests will ask you to sit with them, which is a very good opportunity to sell drinks. If you sell them champagne, we will give you a £50 reward.’
‘Our guests are civilised and very well-behaved,’ Patrick continued. ‘They come here after a hard day at work to unwind and they appreciate some attention. They do pay well.’
I wanted to ask if a blow job was a part of the job description and if the company would provide any incentives for that, as well. But instead, I managed to ask if we had to dress nicely. It was an interview, after all.
‘We do provide uniforms for beginners, but after a probation period of six months, you will be allowed to wear your clothes,’ Patrick answered readily.
‘Makeup?’
‘That is a must.’
‘I bite my nails.’
‘You will have to stop. It’s not very hygienic.’
‘Do I get training?’
‘Yes, you will do.’
It was stupid to ask if they provided any other benefits, like private health care, gym membership or a pension scheme.
Reading my thoughts and sensing my doubts, he added a unique selling point. ‘We provide transport home after midnight.’
And sensing that his sales pitch wasn't doing him any favours, he quickly closed the interview by asking, ‘When can you start?’
‘Today,’ I said, though I had hoped he wouldn’t offer me the job.
‘You are too enthusiastic. Why don’t you come tomorrow night? We are expecting a group of Japanese businessmen, from about 11 pm.’
A trifling nod, followed by a tight handshake, sealed the deal between Patrick, my future boss, and me. He showed me to the front door with a polite, ‘See you tomorrow.’
I never returned.
It took me a few days to recover from the shock of legal prostitution taking place, in the centre of London, at that amazing Victorian building, on a beautiful spring day. Once I got over it, I phoned my parents to send me some more money. They did it, without asking any questions.
I was an office-obsessed person, who measured the success of the company by the size of its square footage. When I walked into the Work Easy Agency, an enormous space with heavenly lights, filled with cluttered furniture, decorated with strangely titled books in pristine condition, I thought of triumph, of someone who’d made it! The Director and proud owner of the employment agency, Martha, was on the phone, giving the impression of a highly successful woman, delighted with herself. I couldn’t guess her age, but the bald patch on the top of her head made me think of someone who was likely older or maybe had alopecia. Her dress sense matched the chair she was sitting on. It looked like they both went to the same re-upholsterer. She looked so pleased with herself that it bordered on arrogance.
After acknowledging my presence, she gestured for me to sit opposite her large glass table while she continued with her phone discussion. The steamy conversation in Italian involved lots of hand gestures and occasional screaming, making me uncomfortable. The whole exchange sounded like a hot sex line between London and Italy, and it made me feel like a pervert, listening in. Perhaps finally sensing my apprehension, Martha reluctantly put the phone down and, without looking at me, said insincerely, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’
I forgave her. People at the top are not perfect. Just successful.
‘Here is my CV.’
I was hoping for a job in my field, the one I spent four years learning at university. Martha took the CV, still without making eye contact, and with her head down, focused on the piece of paper, she began to shout slogans.
‘You have to be tough! You have to know what you want and go for it. Don’t let anybody stop you.’
Confused, I turned around to see if there was anyone else in the vast office, whom she might be talking to, and it dawned on me it was all aimed at me, a loser with a degree.
She must be trying to sell me her cheap life philosophy, that only those without education lead a successful life, and we, poor souls with university degrees, are born losers. And I was a typical example. For a moment, I wondered if I’d come for a life coaching session, not a job interview.
But then she said, ‘I have a job for you. An excellent job at the top Italian restaurant in the West End, but I want a 20% deposit, which you can pay now, or I will take it from your wages every week.’ She looked me straight in the eye for the first time since I’d entered her office.
‘Do you take cards?’
‘No.’
‘I have no cash. Can I come back at four?’
‘Yes.’
Outside the glossy office and away from its arrogant director, the rain was pouring down, but I only felt relief at being out in the almost-fresh London air. Wrapped in my 30% waterproof mac made in China, as I didn’t have money for 100% waterproof made in the UK, I slowly walked back to my house. Once inside, I checked my CV and, as I had thought, there was no mention of waitressing experience, just a proud declaration of an MSc in Physics, obviously not very useful to the successful Martha. Needless to say, I didn’t go back at four.
The following day, determined to find a job and happy with my life-changing decision to better myself, confident and ludicrously optimistic, I had an English breakfast. It consisted of cold Heinz baked beans from the tin, splattered on a piece of bread that was embellished with suspicious green visual effects.
The art of surviving London had trained me to quickly scrape off the green dots and toast the bread, restoring it to its former taste. The friendly group of homeless people I often passed, usually found at the most convenient place for them, outside the off-license, had a theory that eating the mouldy bread is healthier, as you get antibiotics for free. Plus, you don't have to go through the hoops of making an appointment with a GP.
A combination of cold beans with the mouldy toasted bread left a metallic taste in my mouth, a rumbling but full stomach, and a sense of shame at not even having bothered to warm up the baked beans. I didn’t develop the grown-up trait of reading the small print on tins until much later.
Feeling perky from the cold protein and free antibiotics, but equally gloomy at my overdrawn bank balance, I set myself on the narrow path to finding a job.
I had decided to give fruitless window job shopping through a maze of notes with difficult-to-read messages.
‘Cleaner wanted. Good rates of pay.’
‘Experienced dog walker needed for a friendly chihuahua. Twice a day.’
‘Free room to rent for light housework.’
By the time you discover the cleaning job includes long hours, the unfriendly chihuahua can't walk, and light housework means cutting the grass in a farmer’s field, you’re forced to call your parents and ask for more money.
Packing bland homemade sandwiches, with a bottle of water and a packet of stale crisps, for long walks around London in a search for the well-established eateries, while meekly asking for a job, any work, was a tactic of the past. The experience of looking for a job makes you stronger. And slightly more imaginative. From browsing agency windows in the street, I moved to scanning adverts in magazines.
Outside the tube station, you can always pick up a free magazine. The one with the glossy first and last pages, while the inside pages are printed in black and white, leaving your fingers covered in enough lead to kill you.
My attention was automatically drawn to a black and white half-page advert, repeated at regular intervals every few pages, which stood out by its size and very simple English:
‘Looking for hostesses. Good rates of pay.’
Then the phone number and contact name, Patrick. In my language, hostess means air hostess, but the absence of any airline logo in the ad confused me. The posh English voice of Patrick made an appointment to interview me the following day, without asking me about any previous experience or telling me to bring my CV.
Obviously, I was perfect for the job.
Dressing up for an interview is easy, especially when you haven’t got that many clothes. Buried at the back of my wardrobe was a black skirt, feistily thrown into my luggage back home, or what was home, just in case I got invited to any of those famous London parties. The social life of a foreigner, restricted to watching endless whodunnit movies, which one doesn’t understand but enjoys nevertheless, accompanied with a few cans of beer, is the cheapest option for entertainment. An invitation is a rarity, even for an interview.
It was a hot day and I needed to look and feel good, which is very difficult if your bank account is showing minus figures. The last cash withdrawal from my unauthorized overdraft went on a few strong beers. While intoxicated, I decided to name my future daughter Stella, or, in case I had a boy, his name would be Becks. It sounds German, but you can forget the two wars and admit they do make good beers.
Wearing my black winter skirt, combined with a summer shirt bought at Portobello Market, I managed to find the place where I was supposed to meet Patrick, close to the Hotel Ritz. Without makeup or nail varnish, which I find oppressive as I bite my nails religiously, even though I had no traumatic experiences as a child, if you don’t count growing up in a communist country, I felt good. The building itself was easy to find, but entry to the building was a challenge, as all the doors seemed to lead to wealthy private properties, the ones purposely designed to make you feel insignificant.
Worried I would end up being late, I decided to follow one of the cleaners, who was taking out some rubbish at the side of the building. Surprisingly, he led me straight to the bar where Patrick was waiting. He stood up, held out his right hand and looked very disapproving, which he zealously tried to cover with unconvincing English politeness.
‘Nice to meet you.’
He looked wrinkly, like old dog skin in his grey and creased too-big suit and a tie, which seemed to have come from a greasy Chinese kitchen, with stains of mutton hotpot. He politely gestured for me to sit in an armchair covered in dark and silky velvet. A smothered laugh came from a dark corner of the room, and a girl in a loud red dress came out, with a tray full of empty champagne glasses. She was tall with long dark hair and very gracious, the complete opposite of the short and boorish me. She was Asian. The idea of working for an Asian airline was attractive, and suddenly my secret desire to see Hong Kong and take a tram to Victoria Peak seemed plausible.
‘Well, what we do here is very simple.’ Patrick started the interview. ‘When the guests arrive, you need to greet them at the door and offer them a drink.’
It sounded like they were looking for an air hostess for business or first class. My wandering mind went even further, using Hong Kong as a stopover for a flight to Tokyo, to see the alluring cherry blossom.
‘We don’t give you a salary, but you earn commission from drinks sold, and of course, everything the guests offer you is yours,’ he blurted out quickly, presumably hoping the person in a winter skirt and polyester shirt, wouldn’t be able to catch the flaws in his business proposition.
‘It sounds simple,’ I said nervously, starting to realise the word ‘hostess’ could have various meanings.
‘Yes, sometimes guests will ask you to sit with them, which is a very good opportunity to sell drinks. If you sell them champagne, we will give you a £50 reward.’
‘Our guests are civilised and very well-behaved,’ Patrick continued. ‘They come here after a hard day at work to unwind and they appreciate some attention. They do pay well.’
I wanted to ask if a blow job was a part of the job description and if the company would provide any incentives for that, as well. But instead, I managed to ask if we had to dress nicely. It was an interview, after all.
‘We do provide uniforms for beginners, but after a probation period of six months, you will be allowed to wear your clothes,’ Patrick answered readily.
‘Makeup?’
‘That is a must.’
‘I bite my nails.’
‘You will have to stop. It’s not very hygienic.’
‘Do I get training?’
‘Yes, you will do.’
It was stupid to ask if they provided any other benefits, like private health care, gym membership or a pension scheme.
Reading my thoughts and sensing my doubts, he added a unique selling point. ‘We provide transport home after midnight.’
And sensing that his sales pitch wasn't doing him any favours, he quickly closed the interview by asking, ‘When can you start?’
‘Today,’ I said, though I had hoped he wouldn’t offer me the job.
‘You are too enthusiastic. Why don’t you come tomorrow night? We are expecting a group of Japanese businessmen, from about 11 pm.’
A trifling nod, followed by a tight handshake, sealed the deal between Patrick, my future boss, and me. He showed me to the front door with a polite, ‘See you tomorrow.’
I never returned.
It took me a few days to recover from the shock of legal prostitution taking place, in the centre of London, at that amazing Victorian building, on a beautiful spring day. Once I got over it, I phoned my parents to send me some more money. They did it, without asking any questions.
Tara Goldsmith left the country of her birth and much later went back to the third version of the same country. In between, she has travelled the world, exploring not only the cultures of other countries but also her own identity and inner conflicts about family, tradition, loss and the struggle to create a meaningful future. She is now settled in the English countryside with her dogs and books.
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