2 Questions Every Girl is Asking Herself

Chapter 79

Our CEO Rich asks Lydia and me to meet him in the boardroom.

When I hear this, I immediately start hoping I'll have something smart to say in the meeting. Since starting this job three weeks ago, I haven't been invited to any meetings. My main duties include: buying office supplies, making tea and coffee, and asking clients to fill out surveys. Still, I'm so excited about my job. I show clients around town, and check out event venues such as the film museum by the London Eye, the BBC building, the coolest bars and cocktail lounges. I don't mind that my new job isn't as prestigious as my old gig in management consulting. In fact, I'm glad it's easy and I get off at 6 o'clock sharp with enough juice left to go to my writer's meetups, where I begin my "real" work.

Because of the new job, I've moved out of Becky's place and into a flat of my own, near Baker Street, to be closer to work but also to be neighbors with my most favorite Brit, Sherlock Holmes. I'm thrilled by this newly found independence in a new city, in a new career. In between cupcake runs, I even get to write a blog post or two at work. How awesome is that?! I'm a real career girl making it in the big city. At last!

The fact I'm being invited to a meeting now, is a clear indication that I'm important enough to have an opinion. I love having an opinion, because then I can make a real contribution.

"How is the survey going?" Rich asks Lydia as soon as we sit down.

The survey is a 15 minute phone interview our PR firm does with 60 or so retailers, to find out how they feel about their web hosting providers. I suppose in PR where everything is about spinning old info, the idea of new data, like a survey, catapults the firm's value-add to the threshold of real credibility, especially if it's a small shop like ours. I don't conduct the surveys. I just call to set up the appointments. Rich wants at least 25 responses and he wants to know why we've only done six.

"It... just doesn't work." Lydia mutters under her breath. She's usually very keen and outspoken. In fact, she even looks punk, what with her solemn brow and all-black ensembles. I don't understand why she's getting all soft here. Generally, 10% survey response rate is as good as it gets. But Rich is demanding 30%.

Averting Rich's steely gaze, Lydia adds softly, "I can try to ask for a bigger list."

But from the sound of their discussion that followed, even a bigger list is impossible.

"We really need to get a move on it, the survey is just hanging around like smelly meat," Rich says, only this time, he's pointing his eyes at me.

"We haven't forgotten about the survey," I explain, "I spend two hours every day calling every person on that list. But they don't answer their phones."

"We need to get a move on this," Rich repeats.

I'm not sure why Rich thinks repeating the request changes anything. I could stay silent and nod along. I could just keep calling those numbers for two hours a day and get nowhere. Since that's what they expect from a lowly intern anyway. But I don't want him to remain blind to the fact that we're spinning our wheels.

"These people don't answer their phones. What do you want me to do?" I say in frustration.

Rich draws back in surprise. I am not sure if he really heard what I said. I thought my honesty would prompt them to seek an expanded list, or other ways to add value, or scrap the survey altogether. But they didn't do any of that. A week later, Rich pulls me into the boardroom again, and fires me.

"You have skills, but just not right for PR," he says.

I do my best to contain my shock and tell him I understand as gracefully as I know how. I pack my stuff, and walk down three flights stairs and onto the sunlit sidewalk. I wait to start crying, or worrying, since that would be the normal thing to do after getting fired. But I actually feel OK. I feel fine. I search my body for signs of pain. Yet, all I feel is relief.

I pick up the phone and report the astonishing news to Henry, I say, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got fired!" (Is that glee I hear in my own voice?) Henry laughs when he learns Rich's reason for firing me. "You weren't even doing PR, dear, you were making tea and coffee," he says. The truth is, I wasn't trying to be a PR. I just wanted a job that would allow me to write. If Rich had said, "We're sacking you because your blog sucked," that would have stabbed me right in the heart.

Perhaps Rich saw that my heart wasn't in PR, and that's why he fired me. I wonder about the other girls in the firm. Are their hearts in tech PR? Or are they just better at faking it? What do we expect out of a job anyway? To pay the bills? To grow in a direction that interests us? To have a sense of purpose? To have all three? A job like that would certainly be nice, but what are the odds of finding one? In the meantime, I better get better at faking it.

Louie comes over to have dinner with me and also to cheer me up. After dinner, we go on a walk along the Thames. As Louie tells me an uplifting story about an Indian boy defying all odds to get into medical school, the autumn air sends a chill down my spine. It suddenly occurs to me that it is now end of September, and my visa is supposed to expire in February. Finding another job will take at least another month or two, but by then, I'll have only three months left before I must leave the country.

Who's going to hire me then?

---------

Please remember to vote or comment! Thanks loves!