Career Girl

This is the introduction to my novel in progress, 'Career Girl'. Any thoughts or comments would be much appreciated!

Introduction: Visions and Ambitions

When you’re a professional, you’re not supposed to be a human. You’re supposed to be a friendly, intelligent, beautiful machine; but never a human.

Don’t wet yourself. Please don’t wet yourself and it will all be fine.

When you’re a professional, you have no bodily urges. Sleep, hunger, whim - they are all gone.

‘Excuse me, it’s a bit of an emergency out here. Could you please hurry up?’

Doomed.

Oh god, no...will anyone notice? I can always say someone spilt their coffee on me.

Sacrificed to the great God of Professionalism.

A man emerged from the bathroom sheepishly and gave me a look up and down. Yes, I was wearing a pair of plus-fours, golfing socks and a plastic visor on my sweating forehead like some kind of Kubrick villain. But no, I wasn’t insane. I needed the loo and I had decided that squatting with my legs together was the most sustainable position on account of the gradual numbing in that area.

This moment was probably my lowlight of the all agency bonding trip; the day I had spent weeks organizing and had hoped might advance my career. Meanwhile the rest of my colleagues were cruising towards the crazy-golf park which I had carefully researched and reserved. Only half an hour before, our bus had been immobile mid-traffic jam. With a ticklish bladder to contend with, I decided to jump ship in search of a toilet with the intention of hopping back on again in no time at all.

I had torn down the streets for some time, becoming increasingly slow until my bladder permitted me only a gummy-bear waddle. If it weren’t for Mr I’ve-Got-All-Day I just might have made it back onto that stupid bus.

I stuck my thumb up miserably in my balloon-sized goalie gloves - they’re almost the same as golfing gloves. A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up, the thudding bass practically lifting me off the pavement.

‘Where are you heading?’ An elderly woman enquired as she rolled down the window. An upside down version of myself stared back forlornly from her dark, designer sunglasses.

‘About a mile down the road.’

‘Hop in.’

‘Thank you so much!’ I gushed, giddy with the success of my first ever hitched hike.

‘That’s alright. You looked pretty pitiable out there.’

‘I don’t have any money on me but you can have-’ I started rifling through my pockets.

‘I’ll take the gloves.’

‘The gloves? Fantastic.’

‘I’ve always wanted driving gloves!’

‘And now you have some!’ I played along. Why spoil things?

You would never believe it, but at that point in time I wanted nothing more than to be a young professional. I was still, however, just Harriet Snoddy. I had the Account Executive job title at the most prestigious advertising agency in Europe, but none of its attending qualities. I wanted to be a hard-nosed, helmet-haired career woman. I wanted to say insightful and complex things which frightened people. I had assumed that once I joined the ranks at Force, this would all just happen naturally.

However, the fact is, I am a moderate girl who likes nothing better than a bubble bath and an early night. A girl who is more adventurous in the kitchen than the bedroom. I have the wants and temperament of a seventy year old man from Yorkshire. I like my pots and pans scrubbed and neatly stacked. I sew my name into all my clothing and I still cling to the shameful comfort of my favourite teddy bear. These are not the attributes of an ambitious Bond girl who crushes men's balls between her toes and wears statement jewellery and they are certainly not the attributes of a professional woman in her early twenties, enjoying London life and lapping up the wonders of youth.

I take comfort in the thought that we can be whoever we want to be. Advertising itself acknowledges this; it is the business of selling people a vision of themselves. We can, purchase by purchase, slowly turn into our imaginary selves. And once this alternate version of us has struggled to the surface and been allowed to live a while, who are we if not ourselves? In the alchemy of consumer culture, what we want is who we are.

I for one was determined to shape myself into a successful woman. I knew who I wanted to be, but I had absolutely no idea how to become her.