Chocolate & The City

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Outside the window, caressed by thousands of raindrops, stands the City, the economic and financial heart of London. The place is infused with a dynamic energy that also takes hold of me. Thinking about it, even though it’s the height of summer, this grey sky isn’t so bad. It’s as if London is wearing the right outfit for its role, with its earnest yet charming aura.

The pavements are crammed with business men and women marching briskly towards their offices, a newspaper under one arm and a paper cup of coffee in hand. The famous red double-decker buses whiz through the streets alongside dozens and dozens of taxis and, above all, bicycles. I never imagined people would find it convenient to get around such a big city by bike. In the skyscrapers and buildings opposite, I can make out hundreds of lights, desks drowning in files, people busy turning on their computers, and crowded meeting rooms where it seems like the fate of the world is being decided.

Among all these people, there must be somebody who needs me. Somebody who’s looking for someone just like me. Just like in movies, when the manager stands up during the interview, shakes the applicant’s hand and says with a look of contentment and satisfaction: ‘You’re just the person we were looking for. The job is yours.’

Speaking of which, I’m sitting in the elegant and modern waiting room of Diva & Louf, one of the most famous and prestigious law firms in the world. The firm takes its name from its founding partners, who are almost certainly off enjoying themselves on some yacht in the Tropics with the money they’ve earned in the last few decades. I’m waiting to go into a job interview. The fourth since I moved here, to be precise. So far they haven’t gone well, or maybe they’ve gone too well, since in a couple of cases I was rejected because I was overqualified for the role. Which should be flattering, but to me it actually sounds like a piss-take, a bit like ‘I’m leaving you because I love you too much.’

I hope today goes better, although I doubt it, since I’m more agitated than usual. For me, it would be a real dream come true to work here: Diva & Louf is the jewel in the crown of the legal world. A quick glance around the place confirms it: there are trophies on display, plaques, awards and newspaper articles framed and triumphantly hung on the walls. And – last but not least – it seems they pay crazy money. Even trainees earn a lot: upwards of forty thousand pounds a year. And to think that during my legal traineeship I got nothing, not even a meagre expenses reimbursement or a token meal voucher. Not that it went much better once I became a lawyer: I did the work of two people and earned a pittance. A shameful and unacceptable situation. I don’t know how anyone can have the nerve to expect a person to work fourteen hours a day for pocket change. That’s it – I won’t compromise any longer! I’m thirty years old now (okay, thirty-three) and I want what I deserve: I want to be rewarded. I want success!

Knock, knock.

Right, this is it. Go get ‘em!

Ah, no. False alarm. It’s the secretary pushing along a trolley with water, coffee, tea, milk, dried fruit, biscuits and sandwiches.

‘Good morning, darling. How are you?’ she greets me.

‘Good morning. Fine, thanks. And you?’

She says something in reply, the only part of which I understand is ‘lovely!’, and leaves. How incredibly kind, though! Everyone is so polite at these law firms.

While I’m waiting, I nibble a buttery biscuit and sip my coffee, or rather the brown dishwater they call coffee over here. Maybe it’s better to drink it with milk… no, maybe it’s better not to drink it at all.

I’m a bit nervous, mainly because I’m worried I won’t understand the interviewer. I already know English quite well, in truth: for years, I worked in English in Italy, I endured painfully dull hours of weekly conversation with a painfully dull native speaker and, above all, I watched and re-watched all the episodes of s*x & the City in the original English version. Yet since I moved here, I’ve been having some difficulties. English people speak very fast, often with an incredibly closed-off accent, so I can end up missing a few words. For example, the other day at an interview, I politely asked the girl in charge of the selection process to speak more slowly, since it was almost impossible to understand what she was saying. I don’t think she liked that, though, because she started to pick up the pace even more after that. She seemed to have got a taste for it.

I take it back: everyone is polite, except her.

Knock, knock.

A man and a woman enter the room. The woman is quite young, with a very serious expression and the typical look of a career woman: she has her hair in a bun and is wearing a very elegant beige suit and beautiful, black-rimmed glasses. The man, meanwhile, is a middle-aged gentleman, very tall, rather flabby and with reddish hair. He’s very well-dressed and… slightly sweaty.

‘Sara, sorry to have kept you waiting. My name’s Albert Bennet, I’m a partner and head of the International Corporate Law department,’ he informs me, looking visibly self-satisfied. ‘This is Cindy Hunt, a senior lawyer who’s been with us for five years,’ he continues, pointing to the colleague sitting next to him.

‘Good,’ I exclaim, smiling, just to say something.

He pulls a file out of his folder – my CV, in his words, making the Latin authors of yesteryear turn in their graves. I notice some pencil marks on it, as if it had been studied very carefully.

‘As you know, we’re looking for a lawyer with experience in international corporate law. We found your profile really interesting and in line with the kind of person we’d like to add to our team,’ he specifies, his tone very expectant. ‘I see that you’ve just moved here from Italy. Would you like to tell us a bit about yourself?’

Luckily his accent is quite clear and I can understand him without too much effort. They should all articulate their words as well as he does when they talk to foreigners. It’s just a matter of respect and good manners.

‘Of course!’ I exclaim confidently.

I was anticipating this exact question, and I’ve repeated the answer in front of the mirror at least a million times: ‘I’ve just moved to London. In Italy I spent almost five years at a law firm that specialises precisely in international corporate law.’

Hurray, I’m doing great! Nailed it first time.

‘Interesting!’ he comments. ‘And how come you decided to come here to London? Were you not getting on well in Italy?’

Okay, I know how to answer that too.

‘At a certain point in my career, I felt the need to enrich my personal and professional skills with a new position. I felt that London was the best place to challenge myself and grow by coming into contact with professionals from all over the world,’ I reply with the naturalness of someone who truly believes in the lies she’s spouting. In reality, I wish I could confess that it was a fully-fledged escape: from an underpaid job, from a suffocating routine, and above all from my ex, the bastard.

No, best not go into detail.

‘Interesting!’ he comments again. ‘You know, I don’t know how it works back in Italy, but to be honest, I have to tell you that we work a lot here. There are no specific working hours. You come in at eight, but you don’t know when you’ll leave. We stay here as long as is necessary. Even at the weekend, if required. But then the rewards come. Right, Cindy?’ he turns to his colleague, who gives a cold and decisive nod.

‘Of course!’ I cut in. ‘I imagine that in a major firm like this the work is very…’ Oh God, I can’t think of the word. ‘Erm, very… very…’

There we go, I look like an i***t. And by the way they’re looking at me, I already know that I’ve lost the job.

‘What was the last deal you handled?’

Intense, damn it, I should have said intense. Or maybe not, I think they say intensive… Oh God, he asked me something.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I was saying I’d like to know about the last project you took care of,’ he reiterates, sounding annoyed, as if to underline that he has no time to waste.

‘Well, I recently oversaw the acquisition of a well-known Dutch company by a leading telecommunications group in Italy. I took care of the entire operation, from the due diligence to the drafting of the acquisition contract. The negotiations lasted several months, but in the end I was satisfied; the deal was also featured in the main Italian business magazines.’

‘Fantastic!’ he emphasises.

Yes! Brilliant recovery.

‘Where do you see yourself in ten years?’

Another predictable question.

‘In ten years I see myself seamlessly integrated into this law firm, with a background of solid professional experience and with a role that fits the significant contribution I know I can make to the company’s growth.’

I’ve already parroted this comprehensive little speech in all my interviews. It seems cheeky to say ‘In ten years I see myself as a partner.’

Then he asks me other classic questions, including the one about my strengths and weaknesses, which I was anxiously awaiting, having never understood its usefulness. In reality, the strength to brag about is chosen at random from the following: precise, reliable, punctual, friendly, well-prepared, creative, enthusiastic, honest, determined. The weakness, on the other hand, requires more cunning. After all, who would really confess their weakness in a job interview? Can you see an applicant admitting: ‘I hate everyone, I’m a neurotic madman and that’s why you can’t talk to me on Mondays until eight in the evening, I’m a chronic liar, sometimes I steal, and I tend to be a time-wasting, lazy sod’? Unlikely, right? In fact, everyone does the same thing: they blindly pick out a strength, but talk about it as if they were despondent. Exactly what I do now: ‘Maybe I’m a bit too precise and expect too much of myself…’.

Great! I’m surprised, though, that he doesn’t want to know if I’m married, if I have children, if I would like to have any and, if so, how many: I’ve always been asked this in the past, and I’ve always thought it was inappropriate and unfair. Definitely a point in his favour.

After the interrogation, Albert continues with a lengthy monologue on the renown and reputation of the firm, reiterating about thirty times that it is a growing organisation and that the project for the opening of another five offices around the world is ready to go.

After a quarter of an hour I’m finding it hard to follow him, and I have the distinct feeling that even his colleague Cindy is no longer listening, focused as she is on scrutinising me with her inquiring and suspicious gaze. I believe she’s studying my body language; no doubt she’s looking for a flaw in my non-verbal communication. But I’m no novice. Just yesterday I read an article on the secrets of a winning interview, written by an experienced London recruiter. Among other things, he suggested ‘the posture that’ll get you hired’: natural but no crossed legs, so as not to give the impression of being too relaxed and therefore presumptuous; no crossed arms – never, God forbid – to prevent those opposite you from thinking that you’re on the defensive; you also need to avoid any type of involuntary movement that could annoy the interviewer, such as drumming your fingers on the table, touching your face with your hands, or fiddling with pens, earrings, rings, and so on. You can’t catch me out, my little detective.

‘What salary are you looking for?’ asks Albert, who, without waiting for me to answer, continues: ‘You know, we have very precise pay grades here. Eighty thousand a year is standard for your position, but that’s just the beginning. There are great bonuses and fantastic opportunities for growth. We reward commitment and dedication here.’

‘Ah, good,’ I mumble, faking British self-restraint so as not to explode with joy, when in reality I’m already fantasising about the house I’m going to buy.

‘Brilliant! We’ve asked you what we wanted to know. The selection process will continue for the whole rest of the week. We’re looking for someone rather urgently, so we’ll be in touch shortly. If Cindy has no more questions, I’d say we can leave it at that.’ He quickly places his hands down on the big glass table, as if to lever himself up out of his chair.

‘Are you willing to give this job priority over everything else?’ Cindy unexpectedly cuts in, her voice firm and decisive.

‘Yes,’ I reply enthusiastically and with an equally determined tone, ‘without a doubt!’

And that’s another one done. I’m not sure how I’d rate my performance. I don’t think it went great, but it wasn’t terrible either.

I have a while to wait until my next interview today, so I head to the café opposite the exit to the building; like any true Italian, I’m now in need of a real coffee.

As I walk in, I’m struck not only by the long queue of people waiting to be served – quite unusual for a café – but also by the number of people sitting comfortably with their laptops hooked up to the specially provided plug sockets, just as if they were at the office. I see Chinese youngsters studying medical textbooks (exclusively in digital format), a young woman busy reviewing her CV, and a man typing a document on his computer while talking animatedly on the phone in a language I can’t identify. I love this atmosphere. It’s so… international! You really get the feeling that the whole world passes through here, and it’s amazing how things are evolving. Nowadays all you need is a laptop, a wifi connection, and that’s it: you can work wherever you want. Naturally, that would be a dream for me too and, right now, if I had the choice, I would like to work in a bright room surrounded by huge windows overlooking the greenery of Hyde Park.

‘Hiya!’

My daydreams are interrupted by the barista with light blue hair and an indefinable quantity of earrings and piercings. I presume that “hiya” is another way of saying hello.

‘Hiya,’ I say in reply.

‘Alright, mate!?’

I don’t understand.

‘I would like a coffee.’

‘Cool! How do you want your coffee?’ he asks me in very constricted English, gesturing behind him to a blackboard the size of a football pitch, where about forty different types of coffee with complicated names are written in white chalk.

‘Oh, right,’ and in the meantime I try to figure out what to order. Not an americano, otherwise they’ll palm me off with brown swill again. Flat white? Mocha? Let’s see… Is there no normal coffee? I have to order something. There are at least ten people waiting, credit card in hand, already looking angry.

‘An espresso!’ I cry, excited to have spotted a word I recognise among all the names.

‘Great! How do you want it? Single or double?’

‘Single,’ I say, casting a knowing look at the lady behind me, but she doesn’t seem to want to reciprocate.

‘To xgxgelftidjdcdbkh?’ the barista murmurs, as if he’s enjoying torturing me.

There’s more? What does he want now?

‘What?’

‘To drink here or to take away?’ he articulates, without overly exerting himself.

Oh, of course! I understand.

‘Here. I’ll drink it here.’

‘Okay. You’ll drink it here. Your name, please?’ he continues to press me.

What a pain! I don’t want the coffee anymore. ‘My name is Sara.’

‘Sara?’ he repeats questioningly, ready to write it on a paper cup in black marker.

‘Yes! Ess ay ar ay,’ I reply, spelling it out. It’s official: I hate him.

‘That’s two pounds.’

Two pounds for a coffee?! What…

‘Here you go,’ I say, immediately handing him a five-pound note to avoid wasting another second digging out the coins and being lynched by the impatient crowd.

‘You can wait there at the end of the counter. July will serve you your coffee,’ he concludes, pointing to a young girl busy preparing a couple of cappuccinos at the same glacial pace as someone retouching the Sistine Chapel.

‘Take care!’

Yeah yeah, okay.

‘Bye,’ I say in parting, relieved. That was a torture!

While I wait for my hard-earned espresso to be prepared, my gaze falls on a display tray packed with sweets and treats; they look good. I’d like to get a chocolate one, but just the thought of having to talk to the guy at the counter makes me change my mind.

‘Sara?’ calls the barista, reading my name from the paper cup.

I prepare myself psychologically for another interrogation.

‘That’s me.’

‘Do you want sugar in your coffee?’

‘Yes, thank you, one spoonful.’

Ah, good. This time it was painless.

All that effort for nothing: I’m drinking the most horrible concoction I’ve ever tasted in my life. I’d give anything for a good coffee right now, or better still, the amazing-smelling coffee that my mother makes for me when I drop in on her at home for a chat. On that note, I think now would be a good time to give her an update.

‘Hello, Mum?’

Like practically all the mums I know, mine still tends to get anxious when I’m out of range of her controlling influence, so just imagine now that I’ve moved abroad. We’re very close and I know she misses me a lot. For that matter, I’m starting to miss her too.

‘Sweetheart, what have you been doing? I never hear from you! You get us worried,’ she scolds me, her tone irritated yet tender at the same time.

‘I know, Mum. I’m sorry. Time seems to fly here.’

And so it is that, while I tell her about my experience in minute detail, temporarily leaving out the stench of the sewer in the hostel where I’m living, and I reassure her that yes, I’m eating – strange things, but I’m eating – I realise that almost an hour has gone by already and that I don’t have the faintest idea where my second interview today is taking place.

‘Mum, I really have to go now. I have another meeting and I don’t want to be late. I’ll call you again tonight.’