False Advertising (26 page)

Phoebe ignored her. ‘Helen, I reckon it might be better if you don't have too much time to think about it. If you're anything like me, the more time you have, the more nervous you'll become, the more you'll doubt yourself. And really, you're only going to meet the man. You don't even know if you want this job, so that puts you in the driver's seat.'

Helen was listening thoughtfully.

‘I hope what I'm about to say is not going to sound insensitive or disrespectful in any way,' Gemma said carefully.

‘Uh-oh,' Phoebe murmured.

‘I just think you'd probably understand the concept of seizing the moment better than anyone, Helen.' She paused, letting that idea sit with her for a moment. ‘No one knows what tomorrow's going to bring, or next week, next month. This could be the best decision you ever make, or not. But if you don't try, at the very least it'll be a lost opportunity, a moment that you'll never get back.'

Helen sat there, lining up all the lost opportunities of their lives like tenpins. David had always meant to go back to uni so he could do the kind of work he'd dreamed of. Helen had never exactly planned to become a nurse, she'd just drifted into it, and that's where she'd stayed. She'd had a dream once of meeting up with Tony overseas, but that hadn't worked out, and the opportunity had passed her by.

She stared into the distance, watching as the tenpins were knocked down, one after the other.

Helen finally took a deep breath, looking from Phoebe to Gemma. ‘Okay, let's go try on some of those suits.'

But none of them fitted. Gemma and Phoebe were aware Helen was a little shorter, which wouldn't have presented a problem on its own, but what neither of them had realised was that her figure was completely different. Helen always got around in trackpants and loose tops at home, and she never wore anything
fitted, or even the least bit flattering. The fact was, she had a pretty good figure: narrower hips than either Gemma or Phoebe, so the skirts just sagged in the bum, but more bosom than the both of them put together which, apart from making them highly envious, ruined the hang of any of the jackets. The shoulders bunched and the buttons strained across the bust. There was no escaping it, she looked like she was wearing someone else's clothes. Badly.

‘Let's check out your wardrobe, Helen,' Gemma suggested eventually, but there was little solace to be had there either. They stood in front of her open wardrobe, pretending not to notice that half of it was filled with men's clothing. Helen's mother had held onto her father's clothes for nearly twenty years, so Gemma figured Helen probably hadn't even contemplated getting rid of her husband's clothes yet. It was sad, and not a little morbid, to see them hanging there.

As it turned out, Helen's nursing uniforms were the only things she owned that could be considered suitable work clothes, but they weren't exactly the look they were going for. Then something caught Gemma's eye.

‘Hey, I remember this,' she said, pushing back some hangers to reveal the black and cream dress she'd found out in the old darkroom.

Phoebe stepped closer to have a look, lifting the hanger off the rail and holding the dress up to the light. ‘This is gorgeous,' she gushed. ‘It has to be vintage. Where did you get it, Helen?'

‘It was my mother's. It's not vintage; it's just old.'

‘It's so Audrey Hepburn,' said Phoebe as she held it against Helen. ‘It looks like it would fit you.'

‘I don't know . . .'

‘It's stunning,' Gemma declared. ‘You have to wear it: you'll knock his socks off.'

‘Is that the idea?'

‘Well it can't hurt.'

‘It might be a little bare up top for an interview,' Phoebe remarked. ‘She doesn't want to give the wrong impression.'

Helen felt herself blushing. ‘I think there was a jacket that went with it, I seem to remember . . .'

‘I'll go and look,' Gemma called, already on her way out of the room.

Phoebe thrust the dress at Helen. ‘I think I brought the perfect shoes with me,' she said, dashing out after her sister.

Helen stood there, looking into the mirror, holding the dress in front of her. She felt strange, as though she were going behind her mother's back. She remembered a party she had been invited to, a long time ago, she was only sixteen or seventeen; it was after her father had died, but before Marion's condition had become obvious. She was just moody and unpredictable all the time. The party was on the Chinese New Year and it was fancy dress. Her mother had an exquisite, oriental sheath made of sage green embroidered silk. Marion hadn't worn it in years, she'd lost interest in dressing up. She used to love nothing more, which was why she had so many clothes, unusual for someone of their relatively modest means. But Marion had always been vain, and she'd loved being noticed. Her father didn't mind her spending money on clothes; he probably felt he had to indulge her, seeing as the house was her inheritance. Helen had known the dress would be perfect for the party, but when she asked her mother if she could wear it, Marion had flatly refused, mocking her in the process. ‘Who do you think you are, Helen? You couldn't carry off a dress like that!'

Helen looked in the mirror, and her heart began to flutter uncomfortably in her chest. She never wore clothes like this. She didn't have anywhere to wear them.

Gemma burst back into the bedroom, holding the matching jacket aloft in victory, but she was suddenly stopped in her tracks. Phoebe had returned ahead of her, and she was standing back, admiring Helen. The dress fitted her as if it had been made for her. It was basic black but for a broad scooped neckline edged in a band of cream, a wide cream belt at the waist, and pointed cream cuffs on the hip pockets. But it was the cut that made it special: the dress hugged her figure, cinching right in at the waist and clinging to her hips.

‘Wow,' Gemma said in a low voice. ‘You've got the job.'

Helen was blushing. ‘You don't think it's a bit much?'

‘No!' they both assured her.

‘Try on the jacket,' Gemma suggested. ‘That'll make you look more businesslike.'

Helen took the jacket from her and slipped it on.

‘What I don't understand,' Gemma went on, ‘is why you get around in those loose trackies all the time when you've got a figure like that.'

‘Don't.' She was blushing furiously now.

‘Do you always blush when you're embarrassed?' asked Gemma.

‘Or nervous,' said Helen, adjusting the jacket. ‘And I've been known to throw up as well.'

‘I'd try to keep that in check tomorrow, if I were you.'

‘Oh, you think?'

‘You're going to be fine,' Phoebe assured her. ‘Take a look at yourself now, with the jacket on.'

Helen turned around to the mirror again. The cream jacket was simple, box style, cropped at the waist and caught with one large button at the neck. It did help to make her look a bit more businesslike, while at the same time covering up the red blotches on her chest.

‘How are the shoes?' asked Phoebe. They were black sling-backs with pointed toes, and cream piping right around the mouth. They looked as though Helen had bought them to go with the dress, except they didn't have her size.

‘They're a little roomy,' said Helen.

‘They're only a half-size bigger than you normally wear,' Phoebe reminded her.

‘I don't normally wear shoes like this,' Helen said doubtfully.

‘So you should keep them on tonight,' said Gemma. ‘Get used to walking in them.'

‘You look like a professional working woman,' said Phoebe approvingly.

‘Except I'm not.' The anxiety was creeping into Helen's voice again. ‘What am I going to say in the interview?'

‘It's not an interview, remember?' said Phoebe. ‘You're just meeting him.'

‘Besides, we can work on what you're going to say,' said Gemma. ‘And we'll update your résumé –'

‘Résumé?' said Helen vaguely.

‘You do have a résumé?'

‘No, I don't,' she said. ‘I've never needed one. When I applied to get into nursing, I filled out forms. I filled out more forms to get a placement, and I've been at the same hospital ever since. Different departments over the years, on internal transfer, which meant more forms.'

‘No problem,' said Gemma. ‘A résumé is like a marketing brochure, and I know a bit about them. We'll put something together that will make it look like your skills are tailor-made for the job.'

‘I don't want you to make things up,' said Helen.

‘I'm not going to,' Gemma assured her. ‘I'm just going to be creative.'

Helen looked suspicious.

‘Give me examples of what you have to do as a nurse – standard, everyday stuff.'

‘Well, there's routine observations,' said Helen. ‘You know, check temp, heart rate, respirations, blood pressure.'

‘Completes routine tasks with accuracy and professionalism,' said Gemma, ‘at all times maintaining a sensitive and appropriate level of client interaction.'

Helen just looked at her.

‘Go on,' Gemma urged. ‘What else?'

She shrugged. ‘Give out meds . . .'

Gemma was thinking. She started to pace the floor. ‘Observes schedules, interprets and implements written orders. Demonstrates attention to detail and accountability in the handling and administration of sensitive material.'

Helen shook her head in awe. ‘Keep charts up to date?'

‘Well, that's easy,' said Gemma. ‘Accurate management of client records . . .'

‘Write up reports for change of shift.'

‘Too easy – highly developed written and verbal communication skills when reporting to colleagues at all levels.' Gemma sighed. ‘Give me a challenge.'

Helen narrowed her eyes, thinking. Her mouth curved into a smile. ‘Empty bedpans, wipe patients' backsides, clean up vomit and assorted bodily fluids . . . I could go on.'

Gemma looked squarely at her. ‘Proven ability to multi-task across situations of an acutely personal nature requiring a high level of empathy and diplomacy. Displays focus and determination while maintaining order and regularity in the day-to-day functioning of the workplace. Nothing is a challenge too great.'

Phoebe gave her a clap.

‘That's amazing,' said Helen. ‘How did you do that?'

‘Years of bullshitting,' Phoebe told her.

‘I'm just talented, that's all,' Gemma retorted. ‘And the thing is, so are you, Helen. Everything I just said is the truth. They're called transferable skills, and you're loaded with them. All we need to do is identify each skill and then describe it in a way that makes sense in this workplace.'

Helen was still looking a little doubtful.

‘Why don't you get out of those clothes,' Gemma suggested, ‘but keep the shoes on, don't forget, and we'll meet you out at the computer and write this baby up.'

Helen followed them out to the back room a short time later, back in her ubiquitous trackies, still wearing Phoebe's shoes.

‘That's a good look,' Phoebe smiled.

Gemma was already sitting in front of the computer. ‘I'm just looking up the bus timetable for you, Helen,' she explained, studying the screen. ‘You can take the 431 at 11.55, it gets you there a little early, but the one after might be pushing it –'

‘I can't take the bus,' Helen said flatly.

‘Why not?'

‘I, um . . .' she hesitated. ‘I just, I have to drive.'

‘You don't want to drive,' said Gemma, turning around to look at her. ‘You'll never get a park. Take the bus, it's virtually door to door.'

‘I can't take the bus,' she repeated firmly.

Phoebe was the first to twig. ‘She can't take the bus, Gem. Okay?' she said, meaningfully.

Gemma finally got it. ‘Oh, sure, well, that's fine. No worries, there's visitor parking down in the basement,' she went on, thinking aloud. ‘I'll clear that with security in the morning – it shouldn't be a problem. Then you'll take the lift to the ground
floor so Eddie can sign you in and give you a temporary pass. Then you'll come to me on the fifteenth floor. Does that all sound okay?'

Helen suddenly realised that she was doing this for real. It wasn't just dress-ups and playing around. Doubt and uncertainty began to course through her veins, making her heart pump a little faster.

Gemma knew the look; she could almost smell the fear. She mustn't give Helen any room for hesitation, no space for dillydallying. She turned back to the computer. ‘Okay, let's get on with it,' she said chirpily, opening a Word document. ‘Résumé of Ms Helen Chapman . . .'

The man at the boom gate was very nice and treated Helen as though she were a VIP or something. He glanced briefly at his clipboard before giving her a broad smile.

‘Of course, Ms Chapman. You're expected. Welcome to Bailey's. If you'll just follow the signs to visitor parking around the first bend to your right, you can park wherever you like in that section. Have a really great afternoon,' he signed off cheerily.

She smiled and mouthed ‘Thank you.' She meant to actually say the words, but her voice didn't seem to have any volume, and her throat was dry, and she was a little out of breath as well. She had to pull herself together. She hadn't been able to sleep till some very ungodly hour of the morning – she wasn't exactly sure what time it was because eventually she'd had to stop herself from watching the minutes tick over into hours, gobbling up half the night like some greedy nocturnal parasite.

Even worse were the hours after Gemma had left the house this morning and Helen had dropped Noah off at preschool, when she was on her own with no one and nothing to distract her. She even tried Spray'n' Wiping, but it just didn't do it for her this time.

She was nervous, of course; that was normal before a job interview. But there was more to it, and it had been niggling away at her since last night. She felt as though she was going behind David's back. There was no way in the world he would have approved of her working in an advertising agency. Helen had her own reservations, but David would never have let her even consider it. And she wouldn't have, when he was alive. After Noah was born, she'd raised the idea of leaving nursing a couple of times. She was worn out looking after people, she still had her mother to worry about, and she wanted to have the energy to enjoy her own child. But David had talked her out of it. Nursing was a noble profession, he maintained, and she had a responsibility to the community to use her training for the good of others.

Why had Helen been the one who had to be so responsible, so self-sacrificing all the time? David had hardly been doing anything to save the world or serve humanity, stuck as he was in his paper-pushing job, with no ambition, or dreams, or even the will to do something different. At least she'd been having a go.

But advertising? This might be going too far, not only out of her comfort zone, but way out of her moral and ethical zone and into another stratosphere altogether. The sublime to the ridiculous in fact.

Helen felt like a fraud, wearing someone else's clothes and someone else's shoes, pretending to be someone she wasn't even sure she wanted to be. She pulled into a parking space on a wonky angle, but she didn't care. She cut the engine. Why did she let herself get talked into this?

Well, why did you?
David would have demanded to know.

Helen breathed out heavily. Because she had to start earning some money; she had no choice. But she was not ready or willing to leave Noah a minute more than she had to. If she got this job she would only be away from him a couple more hours a week, at least for the meantime. Gemma was right, it was a tailor-made solution and she would be foolish not to give it a try at least.

‘So, David, that's why I let myself get talked into it,' said Helen, out loud. ‘No, I'll rephrase that: that's why I decided to do this.'

And now she was talking to herself. She took three deep, slow breaths, like she'd learned in yoga, ignoring the trickle of perspiration she could feel running down the small of her back. No matter, the jacket would hide it. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 18.47. Fat lot of good that did her. It had been out for months now, since soon after the accident, when she'd left the headlights on overnight one time, running the battery down. Helen didn't know how to adjust the clock. She was quite sure she could figure it out, it was just that she'd never had to do it before. And she only ever thought about it when she was driving. And she always wore her watch anyway. But not today, because Gemma said her utilitarian nurse's watch would spoil the outfit. Anyway, Helen was almost certain she wasn't running late – she'd left home too early to be late – but she hated this limbo feeling of not knowing the time for sure. Should she stay sitting in the car for a while longer? Or get out and walk around a bit more in these shoes? Or go in early? Would that make her look desperate, when she wasn't desperate at all? She was nervous. She'd never done this before . . . it was okay to be nervous . . . it didn't mean she was desperate . . .

Breathe.

And again.

Get a grip, she told herself. You're a grown woman, you can do this, you don't need David's approval, he's not even here. You have to look after yourself from now on.

The man up on the ground floor would no doubt be as kind as the man at the boom gate, and she could ask him what the time was. If it was still way too early, Helen was sure she could wait in the foyer for a while, or even call up to Gemma and see what she suggested.

Now that she had a plan, Helen stepped out of the car and straightened the dress, feeling the fabric lift away from the wet patch on her back. She reached in to get the jacket from where it was hanging behind the front seat, slipped it on and then reached back in to pick up her handbag and the folder with her résumé. She locked the door of the car and started to walk carefully across the concrete floor towards the lift bay, just as she heard a ping and saw the lift doors glide open, coming to a stop
with a clunk. A man stepped out. Without really thinking it through, Helen decided for some reason that it was imperative she catch that very lift, and so she began an awkward, hurried skitter across the carpark. The shoes seemed bigger today, probably because she was wearing stockings, so her foot lifted in and out of the sling-back, causing the heel of the shoe to make a sharp clacking sound against the polished concrete.

The man near the lift saw her approaching and he held back the door, raising his hand to signal there was no need to rush, just as Helen's foot went over on its side and she lurched forward, watching the folder and her handbag fly out in front of her in slow motion.

Somehow, she didn't fall. She was still upright, barely, her arms flailing about in front of her like she was a blind person in unfamiliar surroundings. The man was suddenly at her side, taking a firm grasp of her arm.

‘Are you okay?' he was asking.

She couldn't find her voice, it must have fallen on the floor along with her handbag and . . . oh no. Oh shit. Her bag had flung open and all its contents were lying scattered across the floor. A lone coin was rolling along on its edge, picking up speed as it headed for freedom. It hit a seam in the concrete and bounced once before falling flat on its side, all its tiny hopes dashed. Helen wanted to cry. She also wanted to move, but she couldn't seem to manage it. She seemed to be stuck somehow.

‘Hey, hey, you're trembling,' the man was saying. His voice was soothing, and very close to her ear, and then she realised the rest of him was very close as well. He had one arm already around her waist, and he was closing his other arm across in front of her, holding her firmly. ‘It's okay, just breathe,' he said gently.

She did as he said; there didn't seem to be much else she could do right now. He was taking deep, steady breaths, and she found herself matching his rhythm, slowly calming down, leaning into him, breathing in unison.

‘Feeling better?' the voice said, still close to her ear.

Helen turned her head to look at him. She wasn't trembling any more, but she felt a little giddy. He had a kind face, such a
kind face. Was everyone here so kind? It would be nice to work here if they were.

‘Oh, what's the time?' she said suddenly.

‘Just after twelve-thirty,' he said, releasing her, but still leaving one hand at her elbow. ‘Do you think you're okay now?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be.'

Helen looked down. ‘I seem to be stuck.'

The man was crouched on the floor before Helen could stop him.

‘Ah, here's the problem,' he announced. She felt his hands around her ankle, sending an unexpected shiver up her stockinged leg. ‘The heel of your shoe is caught in the grate.'

‘Oh no, is it ruined?' she asked. ‘They're not my shoes.'

‘Try to lift your left foot out of the shoe,' he suggested. ‘It might hurt, lean on my shoulder for support.'

Helen winced as she released her foot from the shoe, and though she hadn't planned to, she did lean one hand on his shoulder.

‘Well, the shoe seems okay,' he said. ‘Give them a wipe-over and you'll never know.' He was still crouched at her feet. ‘Let me just check this ankle while I'm here.'

She felt his hands again, his fingers prodding gently but with an assured touch. ‘Are you a doctor or something?' she asked.

‘Once upon a time I nearly was. Didn't quite get there.'

‘Oh . . .
Ow!
'

‘Sorry.'

‘It's okay.'

‘You've probably strained your
peroneus tertius
,' he said. ‘I don't think you should be walking on it if you can help it.'

‘Well, I can't help it,' Helen sighed. ‘I have an interview for a job.'

He jerked his head back to look at her. ‘You do?'

‘Yeah, what's the time now?'

He glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty-five to one. You've got time,' he said. ‘I think you'd better take the other shoe off, I wouldn't try walking just yet in those heels.'

Helen slipped her foot out of the other shoe as he stood up.
‘Come and rest against the wall and catch your breath. I'll get your things.'

‘No,' she protested. ‘I've taken too much of your time already.'

He smiled at her, firmly taking her arm in his. ‘How about we see if you can manage to walk first before you go dismissing me so lightly.'

Helen smiled weakly back at him as they started off towards the lift bay. So much for her great leap towards independence – she couldn't even make it across the carpark without needing assistance. She felt so hopeless. The pain was localised, but quite intense right at the spot where her ankle met her foot. She had no choice but to limp. She was going to look ridiculous walking into this interview.

‘How does it feel?' he asked.

She winced. ‘It hurts, but I think I can put my weight on it. Just.'

‘You really should get some ice on it as soon as possible.'

‘Can't –'

‘Interview,' he nodded.

They made it to the wall near the lift and Helen leaned back against it while the man placed her shoes on the ground nearby.

‘Now while you're standing there, very gently rotate your ankle, just to keep some movement in it,' he said. ‘I'll get your things.'

She went to protest again but he was already walking away, waving an arm to dismiss her protestations. She watched as he picked up her scattered belongings, trying to remember if there had been any loose tampons rattling around in her bag, or anything else potentially embarrassing. He walked back over towards her, handing her the folder and her bag.

‘You know what they say about women's handbags,' said Helen ruefully. ‘Now you know all my secrets.'

‘Does that mean you're going to have to kill me?'

She smiled. ‘Thank you so much,' she said sincerely. ‘You've gone way beyond the call of duty.'

‘That sounds like dismissal.'

‘I just don't want to keep you from whatever it was you were on your way to doing.'

‘Well, I was only sneaking off for a cigarette,' he said, taking a packet from his pocket and offering it to her. ‘Might calm your nerves.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't smoke.'

‘Neither do I,' he said, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

She laughed. ‘Well, you're doing a pretty good impression of it.'

‘I mean I have the odd cigarette, obviously,' he admitted, exhaling away from her. ‘But I don't smoke every day.'

‘But when you do, you stand in front of the airconditioning duct so your smoke gets recycled around the building.'

He looked at her sideways. ‘You think the air is drawn in from the basement carpark, exhaust fumes and all?'

She blinked at him.

‘I'm afraid this, in fact, is where the used air is expelled. I leave the comfort of my office for the sake of my co-workers to stand in a draughty, smelly garage, and have their second-hand carbon dioxide blown out at me. Please don't give me a hard time while I'm at it.'

‘Sorry,' said Helen, duly chastened. ‘So, you work here, for Bailey's?'

He nodded. ‘I do.'

‘What's it like?'

‘It's all right. Depends where you work, I guess. Like anything.' He glanced down at her foot. ‘Keep it moving,' he reminded her.

She gingerly rotated her ankle again. ‘I don't know why I wore those stupid shoes in the first place.'

‘Why did you?'

‘Because I didn't have anything that would go with this dress, which is not technically mine either.'

‘Are you wearing a stolen outfit?'

She smiled. ‘No, the dress was my mother's. They tell me it's “vintage”, but I feel a little silly, like I'm playing dress-ups in my mother's cast-offs.'

‘Well, you don't look silly at all,' he said seriously, gazing at her. ‘You look, um . . . well, you look great, for an interview, you know.'

She felt herself blushing. ‘What's the time, please?'

‘A few minutes after the last time you asked, which makes it almost twenty to.'

She shook her head. ‘I left too early. Though I guess it was just as well: I needed time to injure myself and still make it limping to the interview.'

He grinned. ‘There's nothing wrong with being early for an interview. Better than being late. Shows you're keen.'