Page 6 of Oz
“I’ve left James.” I give a wry smile as she tries and fails not to look ecstatic.
“Oh, mo stór. That’s so sad.”
“That’d be a lot more convincing if you weren’t smiling like the fucking Cheshire Cat.”
She grins, a wry quirky twist on her lips that I see on my own. “Okay, I’ll drop the act. I’m so happy about that. He was bloody embarrassed of you, Oz.”
“Well, he wasn’t wrong,” I say slowly, and she gasps with all humour gone.
“Don’t you ever say that,” she says sharply. “You might not have had his advantages in life but you’re a wonderful person. You’re clever and funny. A man would be lucky to have you, and the day you introduce me to a man who looks at you as if you’re all his Christmases in one go then I’ll be happy. You should look for one like that.”
Concern suddenly clouds her face. “Does that mean you’ve lost your job? Oh my God, where are you going to live?”
She looks at the brochures. Determination and a soft sadness fill her face, and it’s this that decides me.
“No,” I say firmly. “You arenotgiving up the cruise. Not for anything and certainly not for me.” I reach over and drag out the crumpled magazine from my jacket pocket. I never thought I’dlook at it again. “Anyway, I’m applying for this job, Ma. I think it’s just what I need.”
Chapter
Two
This is going to be a disaster
Oz
A few days later I shift uncomfortably in my chair and look around. I still can’t quite believe that I’ve been summoned to an interview in a suite at the Dorchester. Not with my CV, anyway. Even with the highly creative liberties I’ve taken with my job history, the holes seem very evident to me. Still, if all else fails, I’ve obviously got a lucrative career as a fantasy writer in my future.
I sneak a quick look around at the other applicants sitting near me. They’re eerily similar, like they rolled off a production line somewhere for earnest posh people. They’re dressed in variations of expensive suits, and a few of them seem to know each other judging by the muted exclamations about people called Piers and India and recitations of evenings spent at eachother’s country houses. They look sparkly and untouched, and I look down at my own outfit of black pinstriped trousers with braces and a white shirt. I fold my arms across my chest, feeling slightly self-conscious.
I’ve obviously been judged somewhat because most of them have taken a second look at my bright blue crocodile lace-up shoes and the tattoos from my sleeve that are peeking out from my shirt cuff. I cross my legs and try hard to look serious and focused. I think it probably comes off more as boredom, because that’s what I am. Bored to fucking death.
It takes a second call of my name from a nervous-looking man to register that the tedium is about to end. I know it’s probably going to be replaced with abject humiliation, but at least I won’t be stuck in that room listening to what someone called Bunty did to Rupert while playing sardines at the weekend.
I leap to my feet with alacrity. “That’s me,” I say loudly.
The young man jumps nervously and waves me in.
I wander past him into the other room where a very good-looking blond man is reclining in a chair pulled up to a table. In front of him is another chair which is obviously where I’m supposed to rest my bum. I start towards the man, trying not to gawp too noticeably at the beautiful room and also trying not to notice that he has a copy of what looks like my CV in his hand and a smile playing on his full lips.Shit.
“Oz Gallagher?” he asks, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “I’m Niall Fawcett. I’m the Earl of Ashworth’s estate manager.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say lightly, shaking the hand before stepping back and sitting in the chair he indicates.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Oz,” he says deeply. “Was your mother a fan of the book?”
“The Wizard of Oz? No. She just really likes Ozzy Osborne.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” He pauses. “I’ve been wanting to meet the author of this wonderful … CV all day.” The pause is noticeable, as is the smirk which is growing wider.
I raise my chin and sit straight in my chair and as tall as my body makes possible. If he thinks he’s going to intimidate me he’s going to be wrong. Better men than him have tried and been shot down in glorious flames.
I don’t want this poxy job anyway,I remind myself.I’ll just head off to The Crown and Arrows and get a bar job from Chris the manager. He’s been wanting in my undies for a long while.As soon as I think that, I relax into the chair and smile at the man.Time for some fun.
Something must amuse him because his lip quirks. He sits back down and ruffles my CV rather dramatically. “So, Oz, I see that you have a first class degree in Fine Art and History of Art.” I nod encouragingly and he strokes the side of his face contemplatively. “And can you say that you’ve used this in a productive manner?”
I shrug and smile earnestly. “It’s allowed me to work on Bernie’s Antique stall on Camden Market.” I lean forward in the manner of someone imparting great knowledge. “So many people trying to fence shit these days. Always trying to pass off total tut for Titian.” I smile and sit back. “My name wasn’t Milo or Hilary and I didn’t go to Eton or Roedean. Not many opportunities in the Fine Art arena for me.”
He looks down at my CV. “And is it on that stall that you pursue what you say in here is your goal of preserving and defending the property of the aristocracy?” There’s a tremor of laughter running through his voice.
