Virtually Ideal Episode 1: Date or Die, Page 3

  Wednesday

  Why I ever thought working for a literary agent would be glamorous is completely beyond me. As I trudge to work, my feet wet from poorly dodged puddles, and my shoulder torn from its socket by the weight of the manuscripts, the only joy in my life is the steaming hot coffee in my hand.

  Amelia's office is off Collins Street, which is not the same as being on Collins Street, the business centre of Melbourne. It's upstairs to a boutique dress shop in a small alley that has artistic graffiti and smells of cat urine. Inside Amelia went for a white and concrete aesthetic, something that on a freezing day like today does little for the soul.

  As I walk up the stairs I call out, but get no response. Pushing open the glass door I find the main room empty. The reception desk is unmanned and the waiting area, complete with white vinyl couches and copies of Meanjin and Quadrant literary journals spread across the glass coffee table, is deserted. The walls hold posters of books Amelia has facilitated getting published; mostly Timothy Farren's works. There's also a life-size cutout of him standing in one corner, which has finally stopped freaking me out every time I walk in.

  Behind the desk I see the computer's not even turned on. Steph, the receptionist, must be having an early lunch, or a late brunch, or just getting her nails done. She has many excellent qualities, but a strong work ethic is not one of them, which is why I love her so much.

  I scrabble in the drawer for the key to the frosted glass door behind which lie the offices. 'Offices' is probably an overstatement. Amelia's room is at the back, with her large desk and neat bookshelves. Myself and any other lackeys she cons into working for her get the front room, which is little more than a corridor between Amelia's office and reception, where 10 years' worth of books, boxes, papers and dust have collected. Officially, I have my own desk, but in reality it's elbow high in papers Amelia can't deal with right now.

  I clear a patch big enough to work on, and take a stack of magazines off my chair. Rattling around in the drawers I find the 'with compliments' notepaper Amelia gave me, and release into the light the first of the self-addressed envelopes.

  'Dear Hannah,' I begin, then stop. I sigh, resigned to my fate, and pull out the list of general comments I've compiled for these occasions. Yes, I would love to give each manuscript a meaningful critique, being the person they thank in their TV interviews for encouraging them to keep going when everyone else told them to quit. But the reality is most of them should just quit. Quit now, because if this is what you've got, you'd better spend more time at your day job.

  So instead I fake it. They all have the same problems: ranging from not understanding the industry, to being self-indulgent little twerps. All it takes is two sides of handwritten A4 paper to cover 99% of the feedback I need to give. Sad but true.

  I write out the remaining notes and sign them off with Amelia's name. That was her addition to my brilliant idea. I give the A for Amelia and J for Johnston extra flourish: I think that's how she'd like it. Then I seal each envelope and dump them in the posting trays for Steph to fix up.

  On my way out I stop to admire Mr Farren's cutout. Yes, I'm sad that way. But you haven't seen how the cardboard has perfectly captured the wave of his blond hair, and the deep soulfulness of his blue eyes. I feel he gets me. I pat him on the shoulder and head back out into the cold.

  I make it all the way back home and start putting on a load of washing before I receive a text from Amelia asking if I could stop by the Cupcake Bakery to order two dozen red velvet cakes for the book launch (if you'd read Mr. Farren's book you'd understand the significance). I use my mathematical genius to calculate how long it will take me to get there, obviously taste test one of the cakes (on Amelia's account) and splash my way back. Add onto this drying the freshly washed clothes for work tonight, and I should still have plenty of time.

  As it turns out no, no I don't, and neither do the clothes I need for work.

  In undue course, I'm running late for the call centre and overdressed in a suit because I couldn't find anything else to wear. The after work tram is packed, and I'm trying not to speak too loudly as I tell Jessica about CareToDance. It's bad enough I can't manage my laundry, I don't think the whole tram needs to know I'm also desperate enough to try online dating.

  'So, we're meeting up for brunch tomorrow -'

  'What sort of guy is free mid-morning on a Thursday?' Jessica is a great interrupter. She can't hold onto a thought, so needs to come out with it as soon as it hits her. Pregnancy has only made her worse.

  'He owns his own company or something, so has a flexible schedule.'

  'It doesn't sound like he's very dedicated.'

  'How should I know? He could be getting up at 2am and doing an eight hour day before we even roll out of bed. Anyway, the point is I don't know what to wear.'

  'What about your grey skirt and white cashmere jumper?'

  'I thought that looked a bit ? you know, not very ?'

  'Sexy?'

  'Wasn't actually the word I was looking for.'

  'You could always wear that tight fitting, wool dress. That always looks great.'

  'That's true. I've always loved that dress.'

  'So tell me more about him.'

  I glance around the tram to check if anyone's listening. There's a teenager next to me with the music through his headphones so loud I can recognise the song. Behind me is an older man absorbed in his paper. I then notice the guy in a well-cut suit sitting a few metres from me. He has his head down reading a Penguin Classic. Unexpectedly he looks up, catches my eye and smiles in a way that makes me catch my breath. I automatically smile back then quickly look away. Wow, he's cute.

  'Lau, you there?'

  'Hi, sorry, um yes. Ah, not much to tell really.' I'm thinking carefully through all my words just in case the cute guy is listening in. 'I guess I'll find out more tomorrow.'

  'Well, is he Christian at least?'

  Trust Jessica. 'Um, I think so.' Okay, so he ticked the box 'Christian' but then chose the option 'and laughing about it', but I decide not to share this information.

  'Lau!'

  I lower my voice and try to avoid any keywords. 'Yeah, but you know I don't mind as much as you.'

  'Well, are you planning to marry a non-Christian?'

  We've discussed this before, so she knows the answer. 'No, but you know ? at the beginning.' I look up quickly. Cute guy has his head down in his book. Did I mention he has a really good head of hair: thick, dark brown waves with just a hint of curl here and there. Hmmm ?

  'Well, when exactly do they need to become Christian?'

  I snap back to the conversation. 'Jess, don't worry. That's a long way off. It's just brunch.'

  'Yes, but you need to remember that sex is a long way off for you too, but not for most couples now. How are you going to handle that issue?'

  'I'll handle it just fine when it comes up.'

  'Fine. I'll give you a call after half an hour and pretend I'm going into labour.'

  I replay that sentence in my mind. 'You're going to pretend you're going into labour?'

  'Yes, it's the perfect excuse. You're my birth partner and you need to rush to the hospital. And if he ever meets me in the future, I'll have a baby, so it won't be a problem.'

  'But you aren't due for another two months.'

  'Well, in that case I can say it was a false alarm.'

  'I'm very touched you're prepared to lie for me - '

  'Only to save you from a possible murderer. But yes, in such situations, I will perjure my soul.'

  I tip back my head and laugh, my long hair swaying with the sudden stopping of the tram. I think it's a pretty good laugh, if anyone were watching. I quickly glance over to see if 'anyone' is, but the seat is filled by an old woman. I turn around to see where he's gone, and brush against him as he's about to exit.

  'If you are trying to decide what to wear, I think you look gorgeous in what you have on now.' His eye-crinkling smile and expensive cologne l
inger as he disembarks the tram. Maybe I should catch this tram more often.

  'Laurie? You still there?'

  'Yeah, sorry, got distracted for a moment. Anyway, emergency call would be great, tomorrow at 11am, please.'

  'Ok. And sorry I can't make it on Saturday, but you still free for dinner on Sunday?'

  'Of course. Anyway, my stop is coming up, so I'd better go.'

  'Speak soon.'

  'Love you.'

  I jump off the tram and check that I have all my bags, then look at my watch. Ten minutes late already. Okay, maybe I shouldn't catch this tram more often. By the time I get to my desk I'm a good fifteen minutes late, for the first time in months I should point out. But of course, Rabib is standing over my desk waiting for me.

  'Miss Barker, you are late!'

  Thanks for stating the obvious. Does my hair and general appearance not indicate I've tried to rush?

  'Yes Rabib. I'm sorry, it won't happen again.'

  'You had better see that it does not.'

  Sandy and I originally postulated that Rabib learnt his English from corny action movies. So far, he's done nothing to disprove this thesis. He storms off, yelling at Betty who's stuck her head out to see what the commotion is. That's just mean: it's not her fault she's easily distracted.

  'What's his problem?' I mouth to Sandy as I disrobe.

  She does a conspiratorial look around to make sure he's well gone. 'Heard he's being transferred, and isn't pleased about it.'

  'Know when?'

  'No exact details, but it's going to be soon.'

  'Well, not soon enough.' I sit down and turn on my computer, moving aside the stats sheet Rabib has Blu-Tacked to my screen. Subtle. I'm sure CuteTramGuy doesn't have to put up with things like this.