Free Marshmallows for Breakfast by Dorothy Koomson Page A

degree better than anyone had anticipated.
    My parents, lecturers and anyone else who cared were overjoyed with my results, not realizing what it had taken. And, after that, I was spent. Couldn't do any more than I had done. I took up temping to pay my bills, and—I told myparents—so I could go on to do a master's degree. And, because it was easier than working out what career I wanted to begin, I applied for courses in media and ended up getting on one in south London. I didn't make any real friends there—people tried, but I wasn't interested because I was just there to keep my folks off my back. And once I finished, I ended up as a recruitment consultant because I met Gabrielle Traveno.

    I was fresh out of college for the second time and wanted temp work to tide me over while I looked for a job. I'd decided to try an office on Oxford Street in central London that I'd walked past a few times. It was behind a glass door and under a square purple sign that read Office Wonders. I pushed open the door, climbed the narrow staircase and opened the door at the top of the stairs.
    It was a large, open-plan room with desks and computers and filing cabinets at the end where the window looked out onto Oxford Street. At the other end of the room was the waiting area with comfy purple chairs for temps and other employment candidates pushed back against three of the pale purple walls. Almost all the chairs were taken up by smartly dressed young women. Each of them in a dark skirt suit with a white blouse or shirt underneath. And each of them carried some variation on a bag that looked like a shiny black briefcase. I was the only one in a burgundy trouser suit and I had my scuffed black slouch bag slung across my body. When I saw them, my confidence in getting a job wavered. Is this how temps are dressing nowadays? I asked myself as I unhooked my bag and stood up straight, wishing I'd thought to wear makeup.
    At the business end of the office only one woman was running things. She had a young woman sitting in front of her, whom she'd probably been in the process of interviewing but she was on the phone with someone, trying to be professional and polite, while a look of harassment tugged at her eyes.
    Her blue-black hair was cut into a sharp side bob that ended at her chin. She was statuesque, her frame curvy, dressed in a navy-blue suit. As soon as she put down the phone, it rang again and irritation flickered across her face before she picked it up. Another phone on another desk started to ring. And then a third. Instead of joining the row of women who'd obviously come for an interview, something in me knew that if I didn't answer the phone I'd snap. It'd been a long day, even though it was only noon and I knew there'd be a “Temp Murders Seven over Unanswered Phone” type headline splashed across the papers in the morning if I didn't answer it. Without really thinking I went to the desk, picked up the phone, answered the call, took a message. I'd worked a similar phone system before, so once I'd taken the message, I hit **8 and picked up another call. And another one. And another until I'd answered about seven calls and the harassed woman had finished her phone conversation.
    Ignoring the woman in front of her, she came striding over to me. She was tall, quite imposing.
    “You must be my new trainee recruitment consultant,” she said.
    “Erm, no, I'm just here about getting some long-term temping work,” I replied, suddenly aware that the other people in the office were all staring daggers into my back.
    “You misunderstand me, you MUST be my new trainee recruitment consultant,” she said. I noticed how smooth and glowy, creamy white her skin was, on her face, on her neck, across her chest. Up close she was beautiful; the kind of woman you would always look at twice. Striking.
    “I just want to temp,” I repeated. I didn't want a full-time job with commitment and responsibility and having to think about it after I left