Day 28: Paranoia Sets In...

My daily routine has evolved to one which involves spending as little money as I possibly can, and phoning my employment agents to make sure that I am not forgotten. Disappointingly, it is true that things which would appear to be worth writing about are generally the sorts of things which cost money and thus the sorts of things that I am not actually doing. Of course, even the costs of the mobile telephone calls to the agencies gradually accumulate until I find myself making a reluctant trip to the bank to extract just enough cash for a new top-up card. Having said that, the phone calls themselves seem to be getting considerably shorter:
"Hello, Grays Recruitment. Chris speaking." The voice is automaton-like, reeling off its too-familiar corporate welcome message with minimal enthusiasm.
"Hello," I say, trying to sound as though I haven't just stumbled out of bed, "May I speak to Alana, please?"
"Sure... can I say who's calling?"
"Uh, it's Vince... Vincent Haig?"
I never seem to sound very sure of myself when quoting my own name down a telephone, and so it invariably sounds as though I am asking a question, to the extent that at some point I half expect someone to answer me by telling me that I am actually someone else.
There is a slight pause, followed by a momentary scream of static before I am connected to a looped advert which tells me in cheery tones how adept the agency is at securing people work. It gives me time to consider that they have been failing to secure me work for over a month, but the advert is so compelling, that it almost convinces me that it is all my fault. Eventually Chris picks up the phone again and I regain my senses.
"Hello? You still there?" he asks,
"Yes." I say.
"I'm afraid that ... ah ... Alana's not here at the moment." He says, but for some reason I find myself choosing not to believe him. There's an improvisational quality about his tone which sounds a little desperate.
"No?" I say anyway.
"No," He says, "I mean, she's here, but she's on the telephone."
"Oh, I see."
"To a client."
"Right."
"So, she can't speak to you. You see?"
"I see." I say again.
"Can I take a message?" he asks more brightly.
"Uh. Sure." I say, floundering, "Just say I called, You know. Just checking in. That sort of thing."
No wonder I haven't got a job, I think gloomily. It's almost as though every one of these phone-calls is testing my telephone communication skills and finding them lacking.
"Will do," He says, "Righty ho, bye."
He hangs up, and of course, I immediately get irrationally paranoid, because in the version of events replaying in my mind's eye, Alana was standing right beside him as he spoke to me on the telephone, holding up signs reading "I'm not here" or "Get rid of him."
Later in the morning, the mobile phone twitters into life and I pounce on it. It is Alana.
"Hello!" I say with reckless enthusiasm, then hold my breath, insanely hopeful that the only reason that Alana might call me is to offer me a job. But I can tell by the tone of her greeting that she is not here to deliver good news.
"I'm really sorry." she says, sounding as though she empathises with my plight as though it were her own, "But we really appreciate you calling in all the time, really. And if anything comes through, and I mean anything, you're first on the list, I mean it."
She sounds genuinely upset by the whole state of affairs and I feel rather foolish for having assumed the worst earlier. So much so in fact, that I actually end up apologising to her for incessantly nagging her with non-stop telephone calls.
"Oh no," she assures me, "It's fine, really. In fact it's useful to know you're available just in case ... that job comes up, you know? I just feel really bad that we haven't got anything for you at the moment... It's very quiet right now, you see."
She sighs, and I sigh.
"Oh well," I conclude.
"Yes." She agrees.
"I did say that I wasn't fussy?" I say as a desperate afterthought, "That I'm willing to do absolutely anything. I did say that right?"
"Oh yes." Alana assures me, "Every time."
We hang up. The illuminated keys of the mobile telephone go dull as I hold it in one hand and flick through the pages of my notebook with the other. I have a list of agencies with numbers to call each day. I scroll up and down the address book in my telephone until I find the next and hit the dial key.
It's a strange, rather perverse little routine. A list of agency phone numbers - a list of women's phone numbers no less, to be dialed patiently on a daily basis and to receive a rejection from each. For some reason, the whole set up sounds like something you might expect to find stuck in the window of a Soho phone-box printed on a coloured slip of paper: "Phone Alana for Rejection!" or "Want an Apologetic Dismissal? Call Louise!" or "Susan Spurns!"
There's a click at the other end of the line, and someone picks up the phone, reeling off another parroted corporate greeting. I pull myself together and put one my best telephone voice.
"Hello," I say, "Can I speak to Oddette, please?"