RightSmart: The Second Round

7

RightSmart: The Second Round

    Veronica sat glumly in RightSmart’s waiting area. There were six other people there. Two of them were young men who knew each other. They were clearly out-of-work actors, in fact just listening to them, apart from the accents, she would have thought she was back in London at Fridays Every Day. The dark one was telling the fair-haired one how hot the Easter Bunny’s suit was at some department store she’d never heard of and swearing he’d never take on a job like that again. Two of the others also knew each other—not very well, she didn’t think, but they’d obviously worked together. They were both butlers. Well, one was a man and one was a lady, but they were exchanging reminiscences of buttling jobs they’d done. After a bit it emerged that the jobs weren’t all buttling: some of them had been waiting or, um, waitressing, were you allowed to say that in these non-sexist days? Anyway, they’d worked as temporary staff for several firms that did banquets and weddings and the lady had also worked for a very up-market firm that did small dinner parties, only the lady who ran that had gone to live on the Gold Coast. They were now discussing the possibility of housekeeping jobs, which might be all right but you had to watch that they didn’t turn you into a household slave... Involuntarily Veronica reflected that being a paid household slave wouldn’t be too bad: it was better than being an unpaid one like nearly all the women she knew, except for a handful like Meggie, who seemed happy on their own, and an even smaller sprinkling like Mum, who ran the men in their lives instead of slaving for them.

    The last two candidates for jobs with RightSmart were attractive young women. Highly suited to almost any temping job you cared to name except cleaning... Would any employer, given the choice between something young, fresh and pretty in a smart little tight-skirted suit with a pretty blouse, and an ageing has-been in a tired black trouser-suit more than six years old and a once-smart, now saggy silver-grey jersey-knit top, now more grey than silver, be mad enough to choose the latter? No. Right.

    Veronica had almost decided that since she wasn’t a young, attractive female with the right sort of figure, or a young, attractive male with experience as an Easter Bunny, even if he didn’t mean to do that sort of job again, or a competent older person with butler’s qualifications, she might as well forget it and go home, because she was never gonna be able to convince them she didn’t want any more accounting jobs, when the girl on reception said: “Mr Rowbotham’s ready for you now, Ms Johnson. Just go down the corridor on your right and you’ll see his office.”

    Blow. It’d be a waste of Mr Rowbotham’s time, that was for sure.

    Mr Rowbotham was not, of course, a gorgeous hunk with red-gold hair and a knowing look in his eye that immediately fell for Veronica and offered her his hand, heart and palatial residences in the Cotswolds and the South of France—no. Or even a gorgeous hunk that offered her anything at all. He was a slim, pale man, maybe in his mid-thirties, in a very neat grey suit and those peculiar glasses consisting of two almost invisible pieces of glass and some tiny specks of gold and two thin gold wires over the ears. His desk bore a neat notice that said: “Drew Rowbotham. Placement Consultant”.

    Veronica accepted his invitation to sit down and waited while he told her that they were very pleased with her résumé and had lots of temporary accounting jobs on their books, especially at tax time, and then managed to say firmly: “I’d rather not go back to accounting, Mr Rowbotham. I did tell them that when I rang up.”

    “Call me Drew, Veronica,” he said with a nice smile. “Let’s see... We’ve got some demonstration work on the books. Would you be interested in that sort of job? Mind you, it’s quite a specialist skill.”

    “Yes, I know: my mum’s done a lot of demo jobs. I couldn’t, I’m afraid: I’m not like her at all,” said Veronica on a glum note. “She actually enjoys standing in malls talking into microphones, she says it’s a real triumph when they come inside the shop.”

    “Yes: it’s quite a knack. Not many people have the right temperament,” he said kindly.

    “No,” agreed Veronica gratefully.

    After that it was pretty much plain sailing. It would have been going too far to say that  Drew played her like a trout, but it was close.

    ... “Well?” asked Gail.

    “She reckons she wants to dump the accountancy, but there’s always the chance we can place her in a temporary job at tax time, once she’s had a chance to see what the job market’s like. I mentioned those demo jobs but she’s definitely not a spruiker.”

    “Mm. Motor skills?”

    “No. Hopeless klutz.”

    “Waitressing’s out, then.”

    “Yes. And talking of motors, she can’t drive,” said Drew drily. “She lived in London: seems to of always taken public transport.”

    “That’d be right, you’d be mad to try to drive in London.”

    “Oh,” he said dubiously. “Well, she’s got good general office skills: used to complex filing systems, good on the phones—the English firm she worked for for yonks made the women associates fill in when the receptionist was out to lunch—and she’s very database-literate. I gave her the typing test, since she said she was interested in office jobs. She said she wasn’t an expert keyboarder but she turned out to be better than most that claim they can type. Um, you know that really weird test piece of yours? She reckoned it was Caesar.”

    Gail had to swallow. “That ‘Gaul is divided into three parts’ is a bit of a giveaway. Would you say she had people skills, Drew?”

    “Not really,” he admitted sadly. “She’s very nice, mind you. But Laurie could use her, she’s done a cordon blue course and she’s interested in housekeeping and she doesn’t mind if it’s out of town. It’s an awful pity she can’t drive, because I think old Mr Angardi would really like her.”

    “Well, yeah, but he wants a cook-chauffeur, Drew! No, well, Harry Blake was in today: that job he had filling in for that Double Bay dame’s butler’s finished, the permanent bloke came back from his holidays—must be a glutton for punishment. Harry’d better go to Mr Angardi, he can cook well enough for what he wants. And I’ve told Laurie that Marilyn Lewis had better do the Hewitts. Well, we’ll put forward a couple of others, they are new clients, but they’ll be mad if they don’t take her, she’s had miles more experience than anyone else who’s available at the moment.”

    “Mm. Um, is that permanent?”

    Gail snorted. “They tried to claim it was, and then they admitted that they usually let their staff go when they take off for flaming Club Med Noumea in July!”

    “Too mean to cough up for annual leave—right. Par for the course. Personally if I was lucky enough to get Harry or Marilyn I’d be hanging on to them like grim death!”

    “That’s why you’ll never be a millionaire like bloody Hewitt. Well, do your best with Veronica. Tell Christie she’s available for office positions. And you’d better tell Laurie that she’s apparently the only dame in the whole of metropolitan Sydney that’ll accept a housekeeping job in Outer Woop-Woop.” On which she strolled out.

    Drew got the unfilled jobs file up and began looking through it very slowly, frowning and muttering to himself.

    Iain had been such a good boy! He’d done a lot of smallish jobs for RightSmart, all of which could have been done by almost anyone, ranging from silly to totally unnecessary, but none quite in the class of the green Christmas frog for Greenacres Ponds & Garden Accessories. But anyway, RightSmart seemed pleased. And in the more personal sphere, he'd been awfully, awfully good too! Well, bit of backsliding—but then, he was only human. The rot had set in, more or less, barring the odd totty encountered with Scott down the pub or at the beach, with the job for old Max Mackay. A retired professor, according to Christie from RightSmart, who was managing the job. He wanted, also according to Christie, someone who could drive him and help him with his book. Further enquiry eliciting nothing very much, Iain let Christie, who would definitely have been in the totty class had she been capable of looking upon him as a yuman bean rather than a Contractor to be Placed, drag him off to meet the old boy.

    Okay, lovely old chap, still sharp as Hell in his seventies, needed help with proofreading his manuscript and checking his citations. Described the helpful facility on his computer as “the bloody Gates-driven a-grammatical grammar checker,” good for him! The egregious Christie Wilkins, Placement Consultant, had described him as “on medication, that’s why he can’t drive,” but this wasn’t a euphemism for “completely gaga”—well, it might have been, Christie was definitely that type, but he wasn’t: the medication was merely for his blood pressure. Max Mackay himself would have been just about enough to swing it as far as Iain was concerned, but the car clinched the deal. A lovely Fifties Bentley. Described by Christie as “a vintage car,” yes, well.

    The Christie Wilkins version, “writing a book,” turned out to be a study of the degeneration of literary standards in Australian journalism, using as its yardstick quotations from or references to works of literature, philosophy or science over the last two hundred years. Iain would have said it was a matter of a plethora versus zero, ’nuff said, but Max wasn’t taking a simple statistical approach, he’d looked in detail at writers from several different periods. He had a huge list of citations. Some of them, that he’d quoted from, he’d verified himself. A lot, however, were classics in their fields, and he needed someone to find standard editions and get a decent citation written up for them.

    “I see: you want contemporary editions,” said Iain, smiling.

    “Yes, or at least early standard editions. –You’ll do, you can use the word ‘contemporary’ correctly,” he said on a dry note.

    As far as the citation stuff went, Iain’s plan was just to trot along to the nearest big library—there was a huge State Library of New South Wales, might as well use it—but Max was evidently quids-in with the librarians at his alma mater and gave him someone’s card. “Rachel Simpson. Senior Reference.” Er, Senior Reference what? Officer? Assistant? Um, Person? Drily Max told him to ignore it: these days the universities were all playing at being corporately re-engineered—Iain choked—and that was Corporatespeak.

    So he trotted along to speak to this Ms Simpson—she’d be forty-plus, bony all over and with a face like a— Gosh! Not a camel, no. Well under forty, a delightful figure in a neat, dark business suit, endowed with wavy brown hair in a smart modern cut and big brown eyes. And very willing to put him on the right track. In fact she asked him into her own office, cor! True, the ranks of computers amidst the big notices explaining how to use the university’s online catalogue were all occupied, mostly by Chinese students. It could scarcely represent the proportion of Chinese at the university, surely? Was the phenomenon peculiar to Sydney, or to Australia, or, uh— Well, it was odd. Were they perhaps more earnest about their studies than the Caucasian lot?

    “Um, lot of Chinese students you seem to have here, Rachel,” he said cautiously.

    “We do have quite a few overseas students: they’re paying students, you see, it’s the Howard government making the universities cost-effective. They do work very hard but a lot of them tend to rely on the computers, I’m afraid.”

    Uh—oh! Help.

    She sat at the computer and asked him to pull up a chair beside her, so he did. She smelled delightful, some light, fresh scent he wasn’t familiar with. Okay, this was the best place to start—right, national union catalogue of all the major libraries in Australia, maintained by their National Library. How many million titles? Iain’s jaw dropped. Yes, she said reassuringly, the state libraries, the National Library and some of the older university libraries held nineteenth-century editions. Max had mentioned Plato’s Republic, so, smiling a little, Rachel showed him how to search for— Help!

    “Am I going to find that many editions of everything?” he said feebly.

    She thought so, but obligingly showed him ways of narrowing it down. Er—yeah. Easier just to get the list up and go through it, really.

    “This display is based on cataloguing style,” she added kindly. “Citation styles are slightly different. You’ll need to make sure you get all the details Max needs for his bibliography. It might be best just to copy the entry you want and save it in a Word file. It sounds a very interesting project. I wish I had time to do it myself, actually.”

    Him, too! He had understood the message in that last speech, but only just, in fact it was fair to say he’d never heard those words together in his puff. Well, uh, better not take up any more of her time. He thanked her fervently and got up.

    “No problem!” she smiled, sounding very Australian for the first time. “Max is one of our favourite users. But we’re not allowed to undertake that sort of project ourselves, of course.”

    Er—no, of course not, it’d only contribute to research—and specifically Australian research, at that! Okay, the modern world was mad. But in his opinion a university should exist for more than just the purpose of garnering—he glanced at the earnest black heads at the computers visible through her office’s glass walls—fee-paying undergraduates.

    “Uh—no: sorry!” he said as she asked him nicely if there was anything else. “Well, brooding about the ultimate purpose of a university, I’m afraid,” he admitted ruefully. “That out there doesn’t look much like it, and if you can’t help a scholar like Max, what the Hell is the damn place for?”

    “It’s all user-pays these days,” said neat, nice, pretty Rachel Simpson grimly. “If you ask me, true scholars like Max Mackay will have disappeared once his generation’s gone!”

    Ooh, wasn’t she luverly? Bright, and definitely on the right wavelength, and what was under that neat suit jacket looked ever so promising, so he said it. “You wouldn't fancy a drink after work, would you, Rachel? Just a little thank you from a grateful oik who’ll never be a scholar if he lives to twice Max’s age?”

    “You know what scholarship is, though,” said Rachel, still grim. “Um, well, yes, I’d love to, actually, Iain!” she agreed, going very pink.

    Ooh, goody! He arranged to meet her at five-thirty and went off, grinning.

    Somehow a drink at a pleasant watering hole led to a meal at a nice restaurant she knew of, not far away. It was licensed, so they had some wine, why not? Neither of them was driving. Rather a pleasant Shiraz, Rachel liked Shiraz, did she? Good show! The steak wasn’t bad, either. She liked steak, too? Jolly good! They thought they could both manage some pud, so they had some, and then they thought they could just manage a coffee and maybe a brandy, since neither of them was driving, and then somehow the taxi took them back to Rachel’s place and actually he would like to come in, mm.

    So he came in, since by this time the rot had definitely set in. Nice little flat, pretty but stylish, notable absence of frills. She didn’t have a cat, she didn’t think it was fair to keep an animal in a flat, and though she liked birds she didn’t have one for the same reason. Once you’d seen a flock of budgies in the wild you never wanted to see one in a cage again—right, got it. Nice, wasn’t she? Mm, wee sip of liqueur would be nice, Rachel: could probably manage that. Grand Marnier? Yes, yummy! He managed it and she managed it, and somehow he managed to get his arm round her on her neat fawn sofa and just get his hand inside that neat suit jacket and onto one of those neat breasts and gee, Rachel shuddered all over and squeaked: “Oh, Iain!”

    Promising, promising... Ooh, gee, look! Underneath the neat blouse there was a very lacy slip top and under that a completely redundant bra, so he unhooked it and pushed it up out of that way and— “Oh, Iain! Oh, Iain!” This was so discouraging that he kissed her very thoroughly—convincingly, really—and then mumbled his face between ’em and then mumbled his way further down— Gee, lacy knickers, not what you might have expected from a nice library lady at all!

    “Oh, Iain!” she screeched, grabbing his shoulders fiercely.

    Gee, she must like it. So he did it for quite a while and then, since it was that or burst, suggested they try the bed out for size. Rachel thought, breathlessly, that’d be nice, so they did that. It was nice, actually, in fact it was highly reminiscent of that time with Celia in the motel, ’cos very shortly after his tongue got up there again she shrieked her head off and clawed his shoulders to blazes. And as he hadn’t actually had it for a while, Iain sort of leapt up, hauled a condom on, and sort of leapt on her while she was still—

    Oh, God! She was, still! Jesus, Jesus, JESUS! “AAARGH! Uh—AAARGH!” ...Phew.

    A little gent didn’t oughta rush off after doing a nice library lady, so he obligingly stayed the night and obligingly gave her another come, next morning. Then she had to go to work, so after a couple of very quick showers and an extremely rapid cup of coffee, he’d just call her a— No, she’d catch her usual train, it’d be much quicker, honest.

    Nice Rachel looked at his dumbly dismayed face and said shyly: “It’d take more than half an hour for a taxi to get here. I think you must be used to London taxis, Iain.”

    Er—yeah, used to London taxis and to ringing for one or nipping out and flagging one down and ta-ta, it was lovely, darling, and no regrets on either side. Oh, Hell. Talk about the rot! Rotter, more like. He’d known from the first it wasn’t gonna be more than a one-night stand, why had he ever—well, the usual reason, yeah.

    “Let me at least walk you to the train, then,” he said lamely.

    “Yes, um, if you caught it into town you could get to Max’s place much faster: didn’t you say you were starting the job this morning?”

    Shit, so he was! What was the ti— Oh, shit. Okay, train.

    They did that. It was packed and they both had to stand the entire way and take it for all in all it was one of the most embarrassing episodes of Iain’s life, he couldn’t think of a thing to say except inane chat about Max and his project and, very obviously, nor could she. So they chatted inanely about Max and his project.

    Well, uh—bunch of flowers? Shit, what exactly was her address? ...Oh, bugger. Should he send her some to the library, or not? He could just put “Thanks for your help” on the card. Would that be better or worse than simply dumping her, cold, like the rotter he was? She was very nice, she was keen, and she was certainly bright, but she was too nice. Little Iain was a bad boy, he didn’t have what it took to live up to the standards of a lovely person like Rachel who denied herself the comfort of a pet out of sheer principle. And that flat had been maniacally neat. Maniacally. No way could he hack that! And conversely, he’d drive that sort of woman mad in very short order.

    Um, well, flowers. Without any doubt whatsoever they’d raise rabid curiosity in her workmates, but— Yeah, better part of valour, or something. He found a nice florist’s that would deliver, no worries. “With thanks from Iain” was the eventual message. Well, it was neutral enough. If that counted for anything.

    At the end of the week Gail asked him to come in for a chat—wanted to make sure the job was going okay, in other words. Well, at least it was her and not Christie of the persuasive, don’t-see-you smile.

    “So you’re getting on okay with him?” she said in response to his report to the Colonel.

    “Yes; he’s a fascinating old boy. He’s enjoying being able to jabber on about his blessed research, but fundamentally I’d say he’s a loner. Gets totally absorbed in what he’s doing, forgets about lunch—that type. Probably drove his late wife mad.”

    “More likely she kept him up to the mark relentlessly, and since she died he’s just backslid. That’s the usual pattern.”

    “What: relentless keeping up to the mark?”

    “Sure, for the ones that stick it out. The ones that get driven mad have a series of rows early on and wash their hands of the wanker,” said Gail cheerfully. “Don’t try to tell me it’s any different in Britain!”

    “Uh—never really thought about it. Uh—God,” he concluded in a hollow voice.

    “According to my observations, that’s what marriage is. The bloke sits back and lets himself be organised by the little woman, and she takes over the entire management of the family unit.” She raised her eyebrows mockingly at him. “The onlooker sees most of the game?”

    “That’s a very pretty picture! So what in Hell’s the alternative?”

    “Don’t ask me. Fee and I try to have an equal relationship. We’re both pretty managing but neither of us wants to manage the other. Find a woman that doesn’t want to manage you?”

    Iain thought of Rachel’s ’orribly neat flat and shuddered. He could just see her trying, nicely but firmly, to make bad little Iain over in its image. “Are there any?”

    “Well, the groupie type,” she said fairly. “Though even they, having captured the adored object, settle down to mould and manage him, come to think of it.”

    “Look, shut up!” he said with a laugh.

    “You brought the subject up. Fancy a drink? It’s happy hour, the staff will’ve sloped off by now.”

    Gratefully Iain accepted a drink with good old Gail. What a Helluva pity she was a Les. ...And what a Helluva pity he was a rotter who’d gone and let the rot set in with a really nice young woman like Rachel—yeah.

    Fate or the malign universe or the Great Wheel or whatever it was that gave you your comeuppance had its revenge, though, ’cos when the job with Max was over Christie found him a lovely job driving Mr Pearson’s Rolls Royce for him while his broken ankle healed.

    Mr Pearson was a plump, ladylike person of fifty-odd who collected modern art. The lovely Roller was about ten years old and had never done more than thirty m.p.h. in her life, Iain would have bet his last Australian cent. The job wasn’t precisely arduous: Mr Pearson never required Iain before ten and spent most afternoons either sussing out the auction houses and the galleries, or sipping elegant “short blacks” in a series of elegant little cafés, or both. He was thrilled to discover that Iain appreciated the art works but not so thrilled when he turned down his very, very tactful proposition at the end of the contract.

    Iain had just completed a digging job for an elderly Mrs Weinberg, who knew what she wanted in no uncertain terms but compensated for it by giving you absolutely yummy morning and afternoon teas, not to mention the entire lowdown on the Weinberg side, he could probably have made a fortune on the stock exchange if he’d been concentrating, that or blackmailed Old Man Weinberg for immense sums and retired to Tahiti, when Marlene from RightSmart rang him in a panic.

    “Slow down, Marlene! I am free; what’s up?”

    It was one of Laurie’s jobs and Laurie had gone home—yeah, she would have, it was nearly six—and Coralie Catering & Cuisine had just rung to say that Robbie McCormack had broken his leg and they’d absolutely promised their end client a waiter— Yo, boy.

    “I can do it, but I don’t guarantee I can do it elegantly, Marlene!”

    “That’s okay, but have ya got a black tie?”

    “Yes, the whole outfit, dinner suit—tux, you might call it—cummerbund, the lot!”

    “No, a black tie. Like, a bowtie.”

    Iain was conscious of a desire to scream. “Yes, Marlene.”

    “Oh, good! ’Cos see, Coralie, she gave Robbie one and he took it home.”

    Silly Coralie. “I see. You’d better give me the details.”

    “I can tell you the rate we promised Robbie—hang on!”

    Iain hadn’t meant that. He waited, listening to the clicking of the keyboard.

    Marlene came breathlessly back on the line and told him the rate. And, finally, where the job was, who he had to meet, and where. And if he could just write down the times, ’cos they would of faxed Coralie a timesheet but she might of given it to Robbie— Yeah, yeah.

    Iain finally got to ring Coralie Catering & Cuisine. It was the actual Coralie, terrifically grateful and if he could come straight over? Yes, that was right, the office, well, actually she worked from home but he’d see the sign. Then they could all go over to the client’s together.

    It was completely pointless trying to get a taxi to travel halfway across Sydney at this hour—Rachel had been quite right about Sydney taxis, of course—so he borrowed Scott’s old banger. Noting by the by that he ought to sign on with RightSmart again. And getting for reply the expected answer: “They made me help this stupid ole bloke lay a patio, he was worse than Pop!”

    Coralie Catering & Cuisine was situated in a very nice house in a nice suburb, and it dawned as Coralie Burton in person opened the door to him in an apron over designer jeans, a fine-knit fawn sweater and pearls that she was, in the local vernacular, “a sea-changer”. Over forty, upper-middle, divorced or with a hubby who took no interest in her or her concerns, and looking for something different from the rat-race. Iain had been driven to say to Gail: “What in God’s name has ‘a sea change into something rich and strange’ got to do with the nayce middle-aged ladies with the pearls that your staff can’t place?” To which Gail had replied: “It’s not Shakespeare, you over-educated Pom, it’s from a bloody silly TV series. Sea Change. The entire country was glued to it a few years back. Mad menopausal lady lawyer who went off to do judging in a small seaside town, geddit?” The phrase cropped up unendingly: from the Sugdens, on the idiot box, and even from old Mrs Weinberg, who’d referred to her middle-aged neighbours who’d suddenly taken off permanently to a hobby farm in Outer Woop-Woop as: “Sea-changers.” –Sniff.

    Right, this was Lindy Wainwright, who was going to help with the waiting—a slim, pretty brown-haired girl grinned cheerfully at him—and this was Jan Connolly, who helped in the kitchen. Surprisingly, Jan wasn’t another middle-aged lady in pearls: she was middle-aged, but just ordinary, bit like Daph Harris, in fact. And, it turned out, had been supplied by RightSmart and, between Coralie and Iain, was a treasure. The job was catering for a dinner party and actually, his dinner suit would be lovely, if he’d brought it! Good show. Iain got into his dinner suit in a bedroom which screamed: “Child left home.” Large, hideous posters on the walls, but absence of sound system and computer gear, bed made up, no clothes scattered around, desk completely cleared. And a body in the corner. One of those dressmaking things. Had Coralie perhaps dabbled in couture before she took up cuisine?

    Coralie’s clients owned a large two-storey, um, two-and-a-half-storey house, situated very near the harbour. Mr and Mrs Rimmer. Coralie wasn’t sure what he did, she thought it was something on the stock exchange. Coralie’s station-waggon drove meekly round to the back door. Well, yeah, Iain had realised it wasn’t entirely the land of mateship and sunshine as touted in the ads, but shit! The house was pinkish render and “real terracotta” tiles on the outside, claimed by Coralie to be Florentine, and New Age ’Ideous on the inside. Acres of white marble flooring interspersed at infrequent intervals with small black marble diamonds, icy white leather furniture, giant stems of white orchids—pretty in themselves, yes—glass dining table sitting on steel legs and thronged by ’orrid rawhide leather slings hung from steel frames. The ’uge Thing over the giant steel fireplace was possibly modern art but possibly just a very big rip-off, Iain knew he wasn’t qualified to judge, but he also knew he hated it. Black scribbles on a white background with one large blue splodge.

    The cutlery was so modern it was almost unrecognisable as such and the glasses were Scandawegian ’Orrid, circa approximately 1965, no doubt classics of their time, and young Lindy’s verdict was that the laid table looked awful and Mum’d have a fit at the mere sight of it. –Lindy was, at a guess, nineteen, and very evidently looked on him, Iain Ross, in the light of an elderly uncle. Sort of as a compensation, though, another lady didn’t. One of the lady guests. She arrived tiddlers and took it from there.

    “Marla, darling, where did you get this gorgeous butler?” she cooed, batting the ’orribly mascaraed eyelashes at Iain, who was merely offering a tray of drinks while looking neutral. Exceedingly neutral, in that Mr Rimmer had ordered “Straight Scotches, and don’t use the Black Label, this mob won’t know if it’s Teacher’s,” and Mrs Rimmer had ordered: “Dainty martinis, Coralie, please, with those tiny onions and the small olives, I can’t stand the sight of a huge olive in a nice glass, not that they’ll know the difference, they’re his business contacts and we had to have them, but a little goes a very long way.” Iain’s face must have expressed something during this speech because after the hostess had wobbled out of the kitchen in her immensely high heels Jan had said kindly: “They’re usually like that. Don’t care what they say in front of you.”

    He was innocently getting a fresh round over at the sideboard—they might not know what they were drinking but they could certainly knock it back—when the woman came up very close, smothering him in clouds of something expensive—Guerlain, was it? Cor, hadn’t known you could get that out here in the Colonies, but doubtless anything was obtainable anywhere, at a price—and said in what was possibly supposed to be a sultrily seductive voice but didn’t come off in that Aussie accent: “So, what’s your name?”

    “Wilberforce, madam,” said Iain smoothly.

    He was pretty sure she’d never have cottoned on, but Lindy, who was refilling her tray of little nibbles—they were also great nibble-eaters in between, or sometimes simultaneously with, the grog—collapsed in smothered giggles.

    “Ooh, it is not! Go on, you can tell me!” ’Orribly intimate squeeze of his upper-arm, accompanied by a loud giggle.

    Iain looked prim. “My name’s Iain Ross, madam, and I rather think Mrs Rimmer would be extremely glad if you’d merely address me as Ross.” –Downright lie: Mrs Rimmer had blinked when Coralie introduced him as “Iain Ross” and then said smoothly: “Ross will be quite happy to answer the door if you wish, madam, as well as serving.”

    “Aw, her!” she said with another loud giggle. She got even closer, though Newtonian physics might have dictated this wasn’t possible, and said in his ear: “Thinks she’s someone, but actually she’s a country girl from flamin’ Gilgandrah.”

    This wasn’t on quite the spiteful note that might have been expected, and not as loud as might have been expected, either, especially with the tiddlers factor, so Iain took a second look. She had a very wide, high-cheekboned face, with a rounded chin and what would have been lovely blue eyes but for the amount of muck on the lids and lashes. The mass of red curls was undoubtedly out of a bottle, but not too ’ideous, though of course in their current setting anything’d pale into insignificance.

    “I see, madam; and may I ask, where are you from?”

    Dissolving in giggles, she hissed: “Collingwood! Dad usedta run a newsagent’s there! I’m still a supporter, only don’t tell her!”

    Now grinning all over his face, Iain agreed: “Wouldn’t dream of it. Can I give you a card? Any time you need a butler, I’m available.”

    “Why not? Chatty could buy and sell them, that's for sure! Put your private number on it,” she prompted as he produced a RightSmart card.

    Okay, the rot had set in for good, and he put his name and number on the card.

    After coffee and liqueurs had been served back in the lounge-room Mrs Rimmer came into the kitchen to thank them graciously and tell them they could go as soon as the cups were washed up, and not to worry about the last glasses, his business contacts always drank like fish and the wives were worse. And that was that.

    Coralie was yawning her head off as they headed thankfully for the station-waggon, so Iain offered to drive.

    “She had one joker,” Jan revealed as he headed down the street according to Coralie’s instructions, “that used to drink the booze behind the client’s back, he’d be pickled by the end of the evening, eh, Coralie?”

    “Yes, that dreadful Paul! He seemed all right when he applied for the job and his references checked out, but I think they must’ve been friends that he’d got to lie for him. It was after that that I got on to RightSmart,” she confessed.

    “It works out good, because they just bill her, she doesn’t have to do the wages and stuff,” explained Jan.

    “Mm,” said Coralie, yawning again. “ –No, left here, Iain.”

    He changed lanes, though noting: “I thought we came the other way?”

    “Yes. But I always drop Jan and Lindy off at home,” she said placidly.

    “What about this door-to-door stuff for the timesheets, though?”

    “That’s just for RightSmart,” said Jan. “Office door to office door, that’s why she told you to add the extra half hour on top of the ten past ten.”

    “Right. –Felt like ten past forty-two, actually!”

    “It always does,” said Coralie calmly.

    “Not with her friends, so much,” conceded Jan.

    “No, that’s true! They’ve been very loyal,” said Coralie happily. “I’d never have got started without their support. They like me to try out new recipes on them, too. Of course I don’t always do that as a paying job, but sometimes when I’m fairly sure of a recipe I do.”

    “I see: family friends,” said Iain with a certain guile.

    “Huh!” snorted Jan. “Not his mates, that’s for sure! Never saw hide nor hair of a single one of them when he upped and left her for a tart in the office half her age!”

    “No: my friends,” said Coralie calmly. “They’ve been wonderful right through the divorce, and Ben’s crisis over his career—he’s a practical boy, Iain, good with his hands, but never much good at his academic subjects, and of course his father wanted him to follow him into law, he insisted on sending him back for another year when he did really badly in Year Twelve—well, he was only seventeen, and Robert was still his legal guardian, you see.”

    “Yeah, right! Two weekends a term, if the poor kid was lucky!” put in Jan. “And you can count the number of sports matches he turned up to on one hand, too!”

    “So what did your boy decide on in the end, Coralie?” asked Iain.

    “Cabinetmaking. He’s working with the man who made our dining suite—all handmade, to order.”

    “These days?” he said faintly.

    “Yes, well, that’s what Robert said, but there is a market, and isn’t it better to be happy doing what you like rather than making money in a job you hate?”

    Iain smiled. “I’ll say.”

   “If you can manage to make a living at it, yeah,”  noted Jan darkly.

    “They’re doing okay.”

    “Yeah, and that awful Jodelle doesn’t seem to be giving Robert any more kids, does she?” added Lindy.

    “No, kids’d ruin her figure,” agreed Coralie drily. “I think a fair bit’ll come to Ben eventually.”

    “See, we were afraid she might grab the lot,” Jan explained, “but no fear, the great legal expert insisted on a prenup, wouldja believe?”

    “Yes, Jan,” said Iain primly.

    Jan collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “Yeah! Too right! What a wanker!‘

    Coralie sighed. “Yes. It took me years to see through him. –Mind you don’t get married at twenty-one, Lindy, it’s a fatal error.”

    “Nah, I want a career. Twenty-one’s far too young. I don’t think any girl needs to get married in her twenties, I’m gonna wait till I’m at least thirty-two,” said Lindy sturdily.

    Surprisingly enough there was no disbelieving outcry at this statement, though Iain, glancing at Coralie beside him, saw she was smiling wryly and the back-view mirror confirmed that Jan was, too.

    There was a slight dispute over whether Iain should drive Coralie back home after they’d dropped off Jan and then Lindy, but as she forced him to admit that Daph Harris’s place wasn’t far from Lindy’s, she won.

    “I’m a big boy, Coralie, I can get myself across the city without risking me fair body,” he explained as they headed for Lavender Avenue.

    Coralie gave a surprised giggle. “Um, yes, I’m sure you can,” she said weakly, “but if it’s a late job I don’t think it’s fair to keep people up.”

    ’S matter of fact she was doing that anyway. She was a pretty, fair woman with a lovely figure, slim but curved, so to speak. And the car was very warm, she’d told him to put the heater on. Iain cleared his throat. “No, keeping people up wouldn’t be fair, Coralie, and I must say you’re being very unfair right now.”

    “No, I—” Coralie broke off with a squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “Involuntarily, as it were,” he murmured.

    “Stop that,” she said in a muffled voice.

    “Can’t!” replied Iain insouciantly.

    A bit of swallowing ensued and then she said weakly: “You are awful.”

    “Mm-hm. RightSmart usually send you very proper types, do they?”

    “Yes!” she snapped. After a moment she admitted: “Gay, mostly,” and Iain collapsed in splutters.

    “Well, thanks again for helping us out,” she said as they pulled up outside the Harris place.

    “Any time. Call on me for any sort of service,” said Iain smoothly. “I’ve been doing driving, digging, bit of promotional green frogging—”

    “What?” said Coralie in a weak voice.

    “Green frogging. In a mall. Don’t tell me you’ve never had a green frog in your mall!”

    “You don’t mean you wore a frog suit?” she said weakly.

    “Of course! Rivet, rivet!” he grunted, and Coralie collapsed in giggles.

    He got out of the car, but bent down and said: “Are you quite sure you’ll be okay going home?”

    Coralie wiped her eyes. “Of course.”

    “Yes, well, don’t stop for anything and don’t let your window down for anyone.”

    “I know!” she said with a smile. “I’m not a silly kid.”

    “No, I’ve noticed that. You’re quite well grown, really.”

    “You can drop that.”

    “I’m dropping it but I’m very sad about it,” Iain told her plaintively.

    She smiled feebly. “Yeah, hah, hah.”

    He closed the door, grinning, went round to the footpath, and tapped on the passenger’s window. Coralie leaned over and let the window down.

    “What are you doing? Didn’t I just tell you not to let the window down for anyone?” he said severely.

    “Idiot! –What?”

    “If you can manage to see me as a guy rather than as a temping butler, you’ve got my number, and I’ve almost worked up the courage to go into your Aussie pubs, only need a tiny bit of encouragement to be brave as a li-on. Nighty-night, mind the bugs don’t bite!”

    “You, too. Bye-bye,” said Coralie very weakly indeed, putting the window up.

    Iain stood back, smiling a little, as she revved up and drove away.

    Of course the paperwork all had to be in order for RightSmart’s records, so he fronted up bright and early next morning. It wasn’t just a matter of signing the job contract and seeing if he could get Marlene to giggle, Gail in person would like to see him! Ooh, ’elp, had Coralie said he’d been a bad boy? But he’d been a very good boy! He tottered along to the Colonel’s office.

    “Thanks for coming to our rescue, Iain,” was the opening gambit.

    Iain eyed her warily. “Permission to speak, Colonel?”

    “Go on,” said Gail drily.

    “I’m happy to fill in any time you need me, but don’t ask me not to let a pretty, pleasant woman in her early forties know that I think she’s attractive.”

    “This wouldn’t have been a Mrs Duckworth, would it?” replied the Colonel on a grim note.

    “No,” said Iain blankly.

    “Then— No, let’s take it one at a time, shall we? Who was the pretty, pleasant woman in her early forties?”

    Oh, bugger. Foot in mouth, Ross! “Coralie, and that was as far as it went.”

    “Our client? What did I say when we first took you on?”

    “Well, um, not in these actual words, but as I recall it, the Colonel said it was obvious Iain was a naughty little boy and to watch it and clients were strictly off-limits.”

    “Exactly!” shouted Gail.

    Oh, shit. “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Um, we’d all worked very hard, it was late, and she was insisting on making it lifts home for us all even though it was gonna add on at least an hour to her evening. And I was the last and, um, well, had to say something to the woman.”

    “Had to flirt with her?” said Gail evilly.

    “Pretty much, yes,” he admitted glumly. “It was mild as mother’s milk—honest Injun. I mean, she thought me being a frog was funny— Sorry. Absolutely nothing happened.”

    “Did your hands—either of your hands—get anywhere on her person?”

    “No. They would have done with a bit of encouragement, not claiming otherwise, but she’s a very nice woman.”

    Gail took a very deep breath. “Don’t dare to tell me this means we ought to be thankful for small mercies!”

    “Wouldn’t dream of it. And the waitress was a dear little kid who treated yours truly like an elderly uncle.”

    “Good. In future we’ll place you with geriatric scholars and teenagers, then,” she said evilly.

    “Yeah,” he conceded glumly.

    “All right, who’s Mrs Duckworth?’

    “Gail, I don’t know!”

    Gail consulted her notes. “She rang about five minutes after we opened to beg for your services as a butler, and as last night was your only stint as butler for us, I don’t think it can be a coincidence.”

    “It’ll be one of the dames that was jealous that Mrs Rimmer had a... Oh, fuck.”

    “You said it! Who is she?” she shouted terribly.

    Iain cleared his throat. “Don’t know her name, but there was a red-haired dame who, uh, came on to yours truly and, uh, well, half seas over, didn’t encourage her, thought it’d wear off with the grog, actually, but she did ask me for a card.”

    “Kindly don’t pass out our cards to dames who come on to you! We don’t want to get a reputation for running an escort service!”

    Iain cringed. “No. Right.”

    “Leila Duckworth—Mrs Chatty Duckworth, that her?”

    “Chatty, that was the unfortunate spouse, yeah. Well, better tell her I’m not available.”

    “Funnily enough I’ve already done that.”

    Iain gulped. “Right. Yes.”

    “Go and see Jase,” she said tiredly. “He’s got another warehouse job for you.”

    “More barcoding?”

    “Yes: it’s a distribution centre for a supermarket chain, in other words a giant tin shed halfway to Outer Woop-Woop. You’ll have to get up at four to get there on time. Failing that, Mr Pearson has decided he wants a permanent part-time chauff—”

    “I’ll take the barcoding!” said Iain quickly.

    “Yeah, I thought you might. I suppose there’s no point in telling you to treat the female ones allee same like you treated Mr Pearson?”

    “He’s not a bad little fellow. I tried to let him down nicely,” said Iain feebly.

    Gail looked at him pointedly and let the silence lengthen.

    “I take your point, but I don’t think I can do it.”

    “No. Just go, will you?”

    Iain came to attention, saluted smartly, and—

    “Believe you me, New Chum,” said Gail Vickers nastily, “anything your colonel threw at you, I can throw at you in spades. If you wanna work again in this burg, just bloody watch yourself!”

    —and didn’t wheel and march out smartly, no. “Got it. Sorry, Gail,” he said glumly, going.

    The frighteningly smart, thin-faced Ms Hutchinson looked down her nose at Veronica’s résumé—or at least, it was a résumé and it had her name at the top but RightSmart had “reformatted” it in their house style. They must have rewritten the whole thing, it was unrecognisable: three times longer than it had been, for a start.

    “I’m afraid you’re overqualified for the position, Ms Johnson.”

    “Oh,” said Veronica meekly. “Am I? Sorry.”

    ... The frighteningly smart, silk-tied Mr Jenkins raised his well-shaped eyebrows slightly over Veronica’s résumé. “I see. Well, I’m sure you could do the job, Ms Johnson, but we have to think of how a newcomer would fit in with our existing staff, you see. I’m afraid there might be some resentment... Well, let me think about it!” he said, smiling the sort of bright smile that went right through you without seeing you at all.

    “I see,” said Veronica meekly. “Thank you, Mr Jenkins.”

    ... The frighteningly well-corseted Mrs Kent looked down her substantial nose—for once at Veronica, not at the copy of the reformatted résumé RightSmart had emailed her. “The position requires excellent keyboard skills, Ms Johnson.”

    “Um, I can use a computer,” said Veronica meekly.

    “How many words per minute?”

    “Um, I’m not sure.” Wasn’t it on the dratted résumé? She was almost sure that Drew had said they always listed that sort of thing.

    “Hm. No experience at all with general office duties?”

    “Um, only in the accountants’ office.”

    “I’m afraid you’ll find general office duties quite different, Ms Johnson. But if you care to take our standard test, by all means do so.” She handed her a closely typed sheet of paper. “You can use that workstation,” she said, nodding at it. “Start when I tell you, please.”

    Veronica went over to the workstation. It already had Word up. Cautiously she hit a few keys to see if it was live—she’d had experience of it crashing if you left it up without using it for a while.

    “What are you doing?” said Mrs Kent sharply.

    “Juh-just checking to see if it’s live,” faltered Veronica.

    “Live!”

    “Sometimes they crash,” muttered Veronica miserably.

    “Nonsense. Please start typing.”

    Obediently Veronica got on with it.

    “What have you stopped for?’

    “I’ve finished, Mrs Kent,” said Veronica meekly.

    Mrs Kent came to look at it. “Did I tell you to use this formatting?” she said sharply.

    “No, but I just copied the document,” replied Veronica limply.

    “That was not required.”

    “I’m sorry,” said Veronica meekly.

    Mrs Kent drew a deep breath. “Very well, Ms Johnson, we’ll let you know.”

    ... The frighteningly smart Mrs Isaacs looked at Veronica’s typed sheet and conceded: “Very good. You may sit our standard psychological test. Please tell Maeve, the receptionist, that I said you’re to take it.”

    RightSmart hadn’t said anything about psychological tests but possibly they were so much the norm in Australia that they hadn’t thought the point worth mentioning? And after all, this was much further than she’d got in any other interview. Veronica stumbled out to reception, where the terrifyingly well-groomed Maeve looked down her perfectly tinted nose at her and told her to fill it in over there—use that desk.

    It was the sort of multiple-choice thing that Veronica never had been able to cope with. The sort of thing that never defined its terms and so you could think of a dozen reasons why each choice was appropriate to you, or inappropriate if that was what the form wanted you to say. After some time Veronica went and stood silently at the reception desk until Maeve deigned to notice her presence.

    “Um, can I say yes to more than one choice?” she asked meekly.

    Maeve looked down her nose. “Haven’t you finished it yet?”

    “Um, no.”

    “Mrs Isaacs usually only allows half an hour,” she warned.

    Veronica returned to the desk.

    “Time’s up,” said Maeve in an indifferent voice.

    Silently Veronica handed her the form.

    “You haven’t filled this in right! You have to tick one box for each question!”

    At least it had roused her to some sort of reaction. “I’ve answered them honestly,” said Veronica. “The form says you have to answer them honestly.”

    “How am I gonna put this in the computer?” wailed Maeve.

    “I don’t know, but if it’s the program I saw when you had your screen up before, I could reset it for you to let it accept multiple answers,” replied Veronica drily. “It’s all right, just tell Mrs Kent I couldn’t do it. She doesn’t want me anyway.”

    “Mrs Kent? You mean Mrs Isaacs!”

    “Oh—yes. She didn’t want me, either.” And with that she went.

    ... The cheery Mr Lennox grinned at her. “Ride a bike, can ya, Veronica?”

    It was a courier firm: frantically busy, with young fluorescent-garbed persons—and some not so young, that very skinny man looked around fifty—rushing in and out madly. It was maybe a converted garage: Mr Lennox’s tiny hutch of an office and the adjoining, very noisy general office were on a kind of mezzanine and the ground floor was occupied by bikes, couriers, packages and small vans.

    “No!” gasped Veronica. “They said office duties!”

    “Yes, but sometimes we need someone to fill in, the ruddy couriers are always letting us down. Worked under pressure before, have ya?”

    “Um, I’ve worked to tight deadlines, but not in a noisy office like yours,” admitted Veronica. “Um, I honestly don’t think I could concentrate.”

    “No. Well,” said Mr Lennox, scratching his chin, “I’d say it’s no-go, then, Veronica. ’Cos if you think you can’t, and I think you can’t—”

    “Yes,” agreed Veronica, getting up. “Thanks for seeing me.”

    Mr Lennox also got up, holding out his hand. Very surprised—some of them had shaken hands on meeting her, but never at the end of the interview—Veronica took it.

    “Wouldn’t fancy coming out for a drink this evening, wouldja?” asked Mr Lennox with a grin, not letting go.

    He was the sort of short, red-cheeked man that Mum always called “a little doggy man.” Veronica had always sort of vaguely assumed the reference was to a Scotch terrier, heretofore. Now she began to see that it wasn’t. “No, thank you!” she gasped.

    “I could show you a good time,” he assured her, grinning.

    “No, thank you very much,” said Veronica very, very faintly.

    “All right, no hard feelings,” said Mr Lennox cheerfully, releasing her hand at last. “Findja way out, can ya? Righto. See ya—and good luck!”

    ... The frighteningly smart, thin-faced Ms O’Connell looked down her nose at Veronica’s résumé.

    “I’m afraid you’re overqualified for the position, Ms Johnson.”

    It was beginning to feel like she was in some sort of time-warp!

    “Oh,” said Veronica meekly. “Am I? Sorry.”

    ... The frighteningly smart, thin-faced Mrs Percy looked down her nose at Veronica’s résumé.

    “Excellent qualifications, of course. I’d like to tell you we could use you, but I’m afraid you’re overqualified for the position, Ms Johnson.”

    What was this, Groundhog Day?

    “Yes,” said Veronica meekly. “Am I? Sorry.”

    ... The harried Mr Tomkins thrust his hand through his short, trendy, spiky fawn hair, rendering it possibly less trendy but even more madly spiky. “Drew sent you, did he?”

    “Yes—”

    “Sit down, um... Veronica. Hang on.” He sorted through the piles of paper on his desk. “Um—yeah. Oh, yeah, in Accounts. Only short-term and it’s pressurised, of course. Used to data input, are you?”

    “Yes. Won’t it be mainly figures?”

    “Mm,” he agreed, giving her a sharp look. “Done that?”

    “Yes, of course.”

    “Right, well—um, hang on... This’ll do,” he decided, producing a sheet of paper covered with rows of figures. “Hang on.” He picked up his phone, dialled and said: “Oy, Bert, where’s that test program you wrote for the applicants? –Hang on, lemme get it up.” He tapped at his keyboard. “Did you say K drive? –Well, why didn’t you say so before? ...Heck, it looks just like the real one! Are you sure it— Yes, Test on K, one of us is deaf but it isn’t— Okay, yeah. ...Aw, right, got it.” He tapped again. “No, shows we made a profit of 2 cents!” he admitted with a snigger. “Right, I’ll use it. Thanks, Bert. –Come on, uh, Veronica, you can use my computer. Just input these figures, and tell me what the computer says the result is.”

    Obediently Veronica input the figures. Once she’d clicked in the field in which Mr Tomkins hadn’t told her to click—was this misplaced initiative that would make him throw her out like Mrs Kent had?—the total was displayed as 127,569.14. Mr Tomkins peered at it and consulted a piece of paper.

    “Um, yeah. Why’d you put brackets round those ones?”

    “Um, that’s a standard way of indicating minus amounts in accounting databases, Mr Tomkins,” said Veronica weakly.

    “That right? Well, it came out right, didn’t it?” he said brightly.

    “Mm.”

    “You were very quick, too, that’s what we want!” he approved. “Siddown again, Veronica.” Veronica stumbled back to the visitor’s chair and he continued cheerfully: “Well, like I said, it’s only short-term. Two weeks. That okay?”

    “Um, yes,” said Veronica dazedly. “Do you mean you want me?”

    “Sure!” said Mr Tomkins with a grin. “That’s all it is, mind, just inputting figures. Fulltime over the two weeks, start on Monday—okay?”

    “Yes!” she gasped.

    “Good. Now,” he said nicely, “you’re RightSmart’s employee, not ours, Drew explained that, did he? –Good. But I’ll just give you our standard— Damn, run out,” he muttered, scrabbling on his desk. He picked up the phone again.

    Veronica listened in fear and trembling. Was it gonna be another psychological test that’d lose her the job?

    “Oy, June,” he said cheerfully, “where’s the occ. health and safety cra—uh, form, for new employees? ...No, not the warehouse staff, the one for office temps. ...Hang on. P drive? What’s it doing on— Never mind, if you tried to understand IT’s little ways you’d go mad in very short order. Right: P, slash—yes, backslash—Admin4, slash General, slash HumanRes, slash Forms, slash Temps, slash OHS. What? Run that by me again.” He wrote, muttering.

    “They give them such ludicrous names,” he said, looking up with a grin, “that it’s completely hit or miss. Hang on. Uh—no, up! Okay, P drive. Admin4. Hang on, nothing here! Aw—no: General. Boy, the system’s slow today,” he muttered. “Right, here we go.”

    Eventually a form was up on his computer screen and Mr Tomkins, admitting it looked like the right one only it wasn’t yellow so, with a laugh, he wasn’t sure of it, printed it out on his little printer.

    “Show it to Drew, he’ll tell you if there’s anything we’ve overlooked!” he said cheerfully.

    “Yes,” said Veronica, getting up numbly. “So should I go and see him now?”

    “I would! We have to sign contracts, you see! No, well, he’ll email the docs but they like a physical copy of the signed one, naturally.” He held out his hand, smiling. “We pay them and they pay you, got that?”

    “Yes, I asked them how they manage wages, it sounds as if their system’s very interesting,” replied Veronica seriously, shaking hands. “Thank you, Mr Tomkins.”

    As the door closed behind her Mr Tomkins said to himself, scratching his chin. “Wildly overqualified, but at least she can input figures at a rate of knots, Bernie’ll like her.” He picked up the phone. “Oy, Bernie! I’ve got one for you! Starts on Monday! I told you RightSmart’d be the go! –Nah, that place you recommended sent four hopeless ones yesterday, showed ’em the door. –Yeah, she input that bloody list of yours before I could hardly blink! –Of course it came out right, whaddaya think I am? –No, I never told her what to do with any of your bloody minuses, in fact I didn’t even know they were minuses, she figured it all out for herself! I’m telling you, RightSmart wouldn’t send us a lemon! And tell ruddy young Shane to lay off ’er. Well, she’d be ten years older than him, but when did that stop ’im? –You’re joking! That blonde of his was a bloody disaster! –Technically a mate of his sister’s? Technically to you, too! –Yeah, hah, hah,” he said heavily, hanging up.

    He shook his head, but dialled again. “Gidday, Drew, it’s Brad from Emco’s. We’ll take your Veronica Johnson for the Accounts job. Data input rates, mind. –Aw, yeah, and if Jase has got any warehouse staff available we’ll be needing some next week. See ya!”

    Glumly Iain signed contracts with Jase, the client wanting barcoders being not only willing to take anyone RightSmart recommended, but begging for ’em. Who were they, again? Emco’s. Right. Not their downtown offices, no, the warehouses. Halfway to Outer Woop-Woop, that’d be right. Six ack-emma start. Just his luck.

Next chapter:

https://temps-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/human-resources.html