Chapter Three

Perhaps the clearest distinction between the Goblin Woman versus the Blog Woman can be made through the process of the job hunt. Blog Women don’t apply for jobs, they have friends from university who build start up companies for apps that deliver artisanal jam to your door. While everyone else slaves away with applications, interviews and probationary periods, Blog Women put out positive energy into the universe and the universe grants them a career in jam tasting. We Goblin Women have no such luck.

At this thought, my inner Blog Woman flicked her artfully tousled hair and offered me a sympathetic look. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘I make my own luck, like the wise virgins.’ Hey, I mean I know it’s been a while. ‘From the Bible! Prepare, go out, hand in your CV, dress for the job you want, reach for the stars!’ At this point, the Goblin Woman made herself known.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘You just have to pay the bills. Get a job at Waitrose or something. Maybe you can get a staff discount on the biscuits.’

If that were a film, I would have taken the Blog Woman’s advice and in a flashy montage I would have gone out to shop for an interview outfit and over the course of a song, potentially Miss Independent by Ne-Yo, I would be seen shaking hands with a man in a suit having just accepted a job that’s a challenge, but a challenge I’m ready to face. At that point I would find out that it was across the other side of the world, and someone I’d had a brief flirtationship with would rush across town to stop me from going and then I’d have to decide on a life changing job opportunity or a life affirming opportunity for love. And then, in true postmodern narrative fashion, I would choose the job and fall in love with someone else across the world.

Since it wasn’t a film, I spent the week following the news of my job loss making no effort to seek out work but panicking internally while watching Louis Theroux documentaries and eating tortilla chips. 

At night in bed, I listened to the Goblin and the Blog Woman argue about what course of action I should take. Of course, I was caught in the middle of it all. Maybe losing my job would give me a chance to escape the Goblin Woman/Witch Woman eventuality that loomed in my future. But I had to be realistic and realise what was in the realm of what I could achieve. When I was little, I loved watching films, especially kids’ films. I was never one of those kids who tried to sneak into older movies or stay up late to catch the post-watershed shows. Kids’ films tell you that you can do anything no matter what if only you set your mind to it. A zebra can be a racehorse, a girl locked in a tower can find true love and a group of children can be relied to save the world and put into mortal danger by adults. But then you get older, you learn that magic doesn’t exist, not everyone finds love and you’re not as special as you think. Chances for adventure are replaced with obligation to spend money. No one ever talks about the economy of Alice’s Wonderland.

The decision finally came to me at 3am, when I was too wired after watching a documentary on serial killers to go to sleep. There’s nothing like murder to put your problems into perspective. I could do this! I got a job once before. I met Mr Green and Mr Cole at an alumni mixer for my university. They told me they were looking for an assistant, I told them I was looking for a job. They asked if I could use a phone and I said yes. I’m sure that that ease of securing an occupation was not simply due to their eagerness to find someone and was down to my own skills. I reminded myself of this as I scrolled through pages of job adverts looking for someone with a speciality in Science or Maths. My passions lay in other areas growing up, like History. I could teach! They were always looking for teachers! Images flashed across my mind: a chair thrown across the room, stacks of essays on Henry VIII, me crying on the shoulder of a dinner lady. I shelved that idea for later.  

As the days ticked by to the wedding, I was no closer to finding another job. My nightly binge watching had been postponed in favour of writing pages and pages of application essays. Human resources, management schemes, social media consultancy had transcended the bounds of employment jargon and had become the cornerstones of my life’s purpose. As had rejection. I was going out of my wits when I saw an advert about a job in an office, I called up and was offered an interview. For the time in this process I was genuinely excited. I had done it, I was managing to make progress just like a spunky heroine trying to make it in the big city. The interview was being held in an office block in a part of the city that sounded vaguely familiar. When I jumped off the bus I remembered why. As a student, this was the part of town that you’d get your post-night out kebab. A friend of mine had once had her glowsticks stolen a couple of streets away.

The office was a squat building next to a closed down factory, the offices were quite literally in its shadow. Blotches of paint covered what I assumed was old graffiti, the brightness of these paint patches only served to highlight the drabness of the rest of the walls. Inside, there was a woman sitting behind a desk at a computer. Both the woman and the computer seemed to be products of the early last century.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m here to meet Lydia Coleman.” The woman looked at me and said nothing. She was chewing. “For an interview?” In that moment I thought that I had got the wrong place but then the woman blinked once.

“I’m Lydia Coleman.”

“It’s lovely to meet you!” I held out my hand to shake. Lydia scraped back her chair and ambled over to me she shook my hand limply.

“Can I see your CV?” I handed her a copy. I wasn’t sure if I should have laminated it, so I went halfway with a plastic wallet. She spent a minute looking over it, murmuring periodically. My work experience amounted to my time at the theatre and a summer at McDonald’s before University. The skill that went into making that look relevant for each job application could have gotten me a job turning water into wine. Eventually, Lydia looked up. “Fine,” she said, “It’s eight to five Monday to Friday, twenty-three grand a year. You answer phones, you get coffee, you occasionally have to clean a toilet. Do you want the job?”

“Yes please,” I answered.

Lydia shrugged and told me she’d email the information. I looked at the computer dubiously. I wasn’t sure whether it could send a telegram let alone an email. But I just thanked her and told her I was excited to work with her. And I was, excited that is. So the location was a little rugged and my boss seemed a little … unique, I could make it work. I was getting paid and getting to see other parts of my local area.

So why did I feel such a strong sense of dread?