The Holiday Job
‘I’ve found you a job for the holidays,’ said Mum, ‘It’s on the Estee Lauder counter. They need someone to promote their range. What do you think?’
I was beyond ecstatic. Estee Lauder. What glamour! What sophistication! I’d never been able to afford their products which only increased the allure. I’d have to dress up, look my best. Maybe I’d attract a bit of attention? For a plain and overweight nineteen-year-old, with abominable frizzy hair, it was both terrifying and aspirational. Perhaps the association with the brand name alone, would be sufficient to conjure some kind of Cinderella moment? I could only hope. I imagined telling my friends, ‘Oh, you know, I was the poster girl for Estee Lauder this summer.’ They wouldn’t have believed me and would have branded me a liar. Quite right, too.
Most importantly, it was work and work meant money. Money to pay off the debts I accumulated each term at University, however hard I tried to budget. Alcohol was expensive, after all.
I arrived for my first day and was introduced to the manager. She was stunningly beautiful. Her long black tresses were swept up in a towering bun at the very apex of her head. I had never seen a hairstyle like it. Her skin was olive and flawless. Her make up a study in perfection. She frowned as she looked me up and down.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s a boring job, so I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Here’s the sample bag of goodies we’re giving away with every purchase over thirty-five pounds. All you have to do is walk around the store and encourage people to buy our products. Oh, and there’s promotional material too, but just be careful where you put it because some managers refuse to have it in their department.’
She rifled under the countertop for a wad of leaflets. ‘Come back at twelve and watch the counter while I nip to the canteen for lunch.’
And with my training complete, I was bustled away.
It took about an hour to dent my enthusiasm. I discovered that customers were just like me. They didn’t want to be accosted by a perfume-spraying salesgirl when they had more important things to do. Knowing my own aversion to similar merchandising tactics, I could hardly blame them. But I persevered. I tried every combination of smiles, words and phrases to entice them from their important purchases. Some were reasonably polite, others put up a practised hand to bar my advances. By 11.45, I felt utterly defeated and returned to the front of the shop.
‘You’re early!’ said Rima. She even had an exotic name.
At half past twelve I was shooed away again with instructions to take my own lunch break, and come back at five-thirty. It seemed an eternity. Five hours! I picked at my lunch and willed the minutes to pass slowly. The bag and leaflets sat beside my plate, already a heavy burden.
‘Are you doing the beauty promo for Rima’s counter?’ said a friendly face.
I nodded enthusiastically with a tight smile.
‘I expect you’ve been banished for the afternoon.’ She gave me a pitying look. ‘She’s not the ….. easiest of people, is she?’
I might only have been nineteen but I recognised a hole when I saw one. I sat quietly.
‘You’re the third in as many weeks. We all know what an awful job it is, so come and have a chat when you’re bored. The manager of Jaeger has a stockroom where you can sit and read. No-one will find you in there.’
I gasped.
‘Don’t look so shocked. They all did it. Talk to her if you get desperate.’
And, with that, she took off.
I gathered my things and made a purposeful exit onto the shop floor. I would not be the fourth in a line of ‘beauty school drop outs’. I smiled, remembering the movie from where that line had come.
I made a plan. One hour of dedicated sales. One hour getting to know the shop and staff. And one hour people watching, in rotation. I wasn’t being fully committed, I knew that, but given the public’s palpable distaste for what I was supposed to be doing, I had to find a way of enduring the next six weeks. As much as I liked the idea of hiding in the storeroom, it seemed too much of a deception.
Then, I spotted something interesting. A woman, middle-aged and dowdy. She only stood out to me because I had paced the store several times and seen her on every pass, as I wafted the sickly smell of ‘White Linen’ in my wake. She wore a beige raincoat, beige scarf and sensible, flat shoes. She looked as defeated as me, wearily walking the aisles, picking up this and that without any obvious enthusiasm. I spotted her most days, in many different departments. She carried a shopping bag but never appeared to have purchased anything that required a store-branded carrier bag. Window shopping, I decided. She was either a compulsive browser or she came to fritter away her days.
Several times, I tried to catch her eye but she always looked away. Sadly, miserably. I had now added ‘no make-up’ and ‘drab hair’ to my list of features. Was she married? I realised I hadn’t looked for a wedding ring. I made my move the very next day, casually bending to adjust the ankle strap on my shoe, to get a better look at her left hand, Yes, the mark of a ring, but no golden band.
By this time the poor woman had noticed my attention and, to my shame, had begun scanning the shelves and clothes racks, meerkat-style, to monitor my presence. With my manners checked, I did my best to avoid her. The pause simply allowed my mind to ram together the jigsaw pieces I had conjured and determine her past and present. It went like this: a widowed or divorced lady who so disliked spending time at home, she chose to while away her days in our department store. There was a sadness at the core of her life. The loss of a life-long spouse, no doubt, which would explain the missing ring. She hadn’t much money either, so the window shopping was just that. Pointless and heart-breaking. I wanted to reach out to her, despite her reactions to me. Mrs Brown, Mrs Beige Brown, needed a friend and that friend was me.
When I wasn’t stalking my prey, I discovered the salesgirls were friendly and approachable. They had their slack times too, and were glad of my chats as I passed through their departments. The girl who had spoken that first day was called Caroline, and she was full of mischief and store gossip. My endless journeying to and fro took on some small pleasures. I had back stories for them all too. The put-upon mother, the ambitious department deputy, the flirtatious beauty with an eye for one of the delivery men. That was Caroline, by the way. I couldn’t possibly divulge those theories to them so, one lunch break, I took the opportunity to impress and entertain them with my keen observations of Mrs Brown.
‘Describe her again,’ said Caroline with the ghost of a snigger in her voice. I cleared my throat with a policewomen’s authority.
‘You must have seen her. She’s here all the time. Middle-aged. Wears a beige raincoat. Doesn’t ever seem to buy anything. Sad. Always terribly sad and miserable. I think she’s all alone and comes here to keep herself occupied.’ I looked around for signs of recognition, both of the lady herself and my acute perceptions.
A roar of laughter was released by the group.
‘It’s Sheila. The store detective, you idiot!’
I withstood the ribbing and feigned amusement at my error, all the while feeling crushed and humiliated.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. News spread like the proverbial wildfire. ‘Seen Shelia today?’ they’d jibe and snigger until even they could tell the joke had worn thin.
I never did approach Shelia. I’m quite sure she would have heard the story. I chose to believe it pleased her and made her smile. She had fooled me for days on end, so her cover must have been credible to a would-be shoplifter. As it turned out, she was happily married with two daughters and a grandchild on the way. The missing ring was exactly that. Missing, lost, mislaid.
But my mortification delivered an unexpected and welcome outcome. Rima was greatly amused by my mistake and softened her attitude towards me. We talked and began to get to know each other. One day she mentioned Layla.
‘Who’s that?’ I asked.
‘My daughter.’
‘Daughter? How old is she?’
‘Fourteen. Why?’
‘But I thought you were in your twenties, which makes that more or less impossible,’ I blurted.
Rima somehow managed to beam and scoff at the same time.
‘Are you serious? Well, that’s either a huge compliment to Estee Lauder or you’re even worse at sizing people up than I thought,’ she laughed.
I returned home, and dwelled on my deficiencies. Note to self: learn to sell stuff OR cut down on the lager and limes so you don’t have to sell stuff. Most importantly, stop jumping to conclusions. And if you must persist in creating back stories for other people; next time, keep them to yourself.
THE END