Cecelia Ahern - The Year I Met You

‘Spanish sailor.’

‘You don’t look Spanish.’

‘I’m joking. The Snapper ? Anyway. No, it’s my mother’s equivalent – a travelling salesman, apparently. Never met him, no idea who he is, she’s never told anyone. Though my friends and I used to guess it was every black man that we saw when I was growing up, which there obviously weren’t many of in Galway. It used to be a game. Guess who Monday’s dad is. There was a busker on Quay Street who played the saxophone; my friends used to joke that it was him. When I was twelve I asked him.’ He laughs. ‘It wasn’t him, but he said he’d meet my mum if I wanted.’

It’s sad but we both laugh, and then he suddenly snaps out of it and into business mode. ‘So. The job.’ He lifts a leather folder on the table and unzips it. ‘I have been hired by DavidGordonWhite – are you familiar with them? If not, here you go.’

He places a business folder down before me. Very corporate, very serious, very expensive-looking: a photo of a man and a woman in pinstripe suits in front of a glass building, both of them looking into the sky over the camera as if a meteor is headed at them but they are not in the least bothered. My heart sings. They want me. They need me. They think that I am highly qualified and wonderful. They think that I am necessary, that I am an asset. They want to pay me to distract me from the world and real worldly issues. I am beaming and I can’t help it.

‘They’re a tax advisory company,’ I say.

‘Top ten in the world. Correct. You are aware that corporations such as these have corporate social responsibility programmes?’

‘PR exercises,’ I say.

‘You might not want to mention that in the interview.’ He grins, then the professional face is back. ‘If it were just a PR exercise then it wouldn’t qualify as a charity, which is what they have in mind: the DavidGordonWhite Foundation, a charity campaigning for climate justice – human rights and climate change. They want you to work for them …’ He pauses, obviously waiting to see whether I will ask a question or if he should continue. I am so disappointed I don’t know what to say. It’s not a proper job; they want me to work for a charity . ‘I’ll keep talking about everything, you stop me if you have any questions, okay?’

I nod. I am annoyed. At DavidGordonWhite. At him, for fooling me with his handsomeness and flattery, making me think I was being offered a proper job. I feel my cheeks flush. He talks and talks and talks about the job. Nothing in what he says piques my interest.

Eventually he stops and looks at me. ‘Shall I continue?’

I want to say no. I want to say more than that, I’m feeling hot-headed, but I mustn’t take out my personal frustrations on this man, handsome as he is.

‘I’m confused as to why I’m in the running for this,’ I tell him. ‘I have never worked with or for a charity. I create start-ups, I make them into brilliant successes, and then I sell them on for as much money as possible.’

Even I know that that is an awful way to describe what I do. In fact it sounds like something Larry has barked at me in the past, when in reality I am incredibly passionate about what I do. There is more involved than what I have said, but I want to make it sound as far away from a charity as possible. He has got it wrong. How did my name pop up in the system when he typed in ‘charity’, apart from the fact I’m starting to feel like a charity case.

He seems a little surprised by my outburst but takes a mature moment to choose his next words, fixing me with his caring, green-eyed, I-understand-where-you’re-coming-from look. ‘You would be responsible for the general control and management of the charity. It is a business like any other and it’s starting from scratch.’ He can see the uncertainty on my face and he is trying to sell it to me.

He goes on to talk about what I’ve done in all of my businesses, as though I don’t know myself, but it is clever, it is an ego boost and he has researched me well. He openly admires me, praises my decisions and good work, and I am feeling mightily flattered and as though there is no one cleverer than me. I am being reeled in. He tells me that while he was asking around for the best candidate my name came up on a few different occasions. His handsomeness helps, because I want to please him, because I want him to think that I am talented and clever and all of those things; he is the perfect hire for a headhunter, able to fill people with self-belief, convince them that there is something out there greater for them than what they are currently doing. He almost has me. I mean, he has me, but the job … not so much. My gut isn’t jumping up and down the way it usually does when I have an idea for a new project, or come across someone else’s idea that I can improve on.

He looks at me, hopefully.

My green tea arrives. As the waiter places it before me I have time to think. This job is not for me, but there is nothing else on offer. I’m torn between expressing interest and being honest. And I like him, which should be an aside, and it really is, but at the same time it’s inescapable. Being fired has knocked the confidence out of me, has made me question the how, what and why of every decision I make. Do I wait for the right thing, or do I grab the first thing, just in case?

He studies me, intensely, those hazel green eyes gazing deep into mine, and I feel as if I’m falling into them, being sucked in. Then I feel like an idiot because all he is doing is looking at me and I’m the one reacting. I break our stare, though he continues to watch me. I’m convinced he knows, that he is seeing deep into my soul. I can’t do it, I can’t lie to him, this one person who is offering sunshine in the middle of the longest of my winters.

‘Actually, Monday, I’m sorry …’ I rub my face, ashamed. ‘There seems to be a misunderstanding. I no longer work at the Idea Factory. I lost my job over two months ago. A disagreement between me and the co-founder.’ I feel my eyes spark as I talk. ‘So, I don’t have a job at the moment.’ I don’t know what else to say. Feeling my cheeks flush, I take a sip of the green tea just to give me something to do. It burns my tongue and all the way down my throat and it’s all I can do not to react, but at least it’s headed off the tears that were about to come.

‘Okay,’ he says, quietly, his posture relaxing and changing to a different mode. ‘Well, that’s good, right? They don’t have to steal you away from another job. You are actively looking, I assume?’

I try to look bright-eyed and wonder whether to explain the gardening leave. I can’t do it. I can’t watch the only opportunity I’ve had for a new job fall by the wayside by admitting my dirty little secret: that I’m on Larry’s payroll for another ten months, preventing me from working. Nor can I not tell him, a headhunter. He makes my mind up for me by filling in the silence.

‘I’m going to leave this with you …’ He slides the folder across the coffee table. ‘It’s information about the position. You can read up on it then give me a call. We can meet again, discuss any questions you might have.’

I look at the folder, suddenly desolate, forlorn. What had begun as an ego boost, the highest of all highs, has left me feeling flat. It is not a job that I want, but I know that I need one. I take the folder and hug it to my chest. He downs his espresso and I try to drink up my scalding tea so that we can go.

‘We can meet again before the interview,’ he says, showing me to the door and holding it open for me.

I smile. ‘Who says there’ll be an interview?’

‘I’m sure there’ll be one,’ he says confidently, pleasantly. ‘It’s my job to know that you’d be right for the position, and I happen to be very good at my job.’ He gives me a big smile to ease the sales pitch, make it seem less phoney. It should have come across as a cheesy sales pitch, but it doesn’t. Something tells me he is great at his job. His voice takes on a gentle note as he adds, ‘And it would be good for you, Jasmine.’