Something Blue - Emily Giffin [86]
"I'm Darcy Rhone," I said, shaking his hand.
"Bernard Dobbs," he said. "How may I help you?"
"The question is, Mr. Dobbs, how can I help you? You see, I have come today to find a position at this fine institution," I said, redecorating the shabby, poorly lit lobby in my mind.
"What sort of experience do you have?" he asked.
"I have a background in public relations," I said, handing him my resume. "Which is a very interactive, people-driven business." Then I paraphrased my cover letter, concluding with, "Most importantly, I just want to help spread cheer to the elderly folk in your fine country."
Mr. Dobbs looked at me skeptically and asked if I had a work permit.
"Um… no," I said. "But I'm sure 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' we could deal with that problem, couldn't we?"
He gave me a blank stare and then asked if I had ever worked in a nursing home. I considered lying. After all, I seriously doubted that he would place an international call to check my references. But I made a split-second determination that lying was not in keeping with the new Darcy, and that deceit wasn't necessary to get a job. So I told him no, I hadn't, and then added, "But believe me, Mr. Dobbs, I can handle anything here. My job in Manhattan was quite challenging. I worked long hours and was very successful."
"Hmm. Well. I'm so sorry, Dicey," he said, without sounding the slightest bit apologetic.
"It's Darcy," I said.
"Yes. Well. I'm sorry, Darcy. We can't have just anyone working with our residents. You must be qualified." He handed me back my resume.
Just anyone? Was he for real? I pictured my future sister-in-law wiping up old-person drool as she hummed "Oh, Susanna." Her job hardly required much skill.
"I understand where you're coming from, Mr. Dobbs… but what experience do you really need to relate well to others? I mean, you either have that or you don't. And I have that in spades," I gushed, noticing a woman with a horrifying case of osteoporosis, inching her way down the hallway toward us. She craned her neck sideways and looked at me. I smiled at her and uttered a high, cheery "Good morning" just to prove my point.
As I waited for her to smile back at me, I imagined that her name was Gert and that she and I would forge a beautiful friendship, like the one in Tuesdays with Morrie, one of Dexter's favorite books, one of many that I had never found time to read. Gert would confide in me, tell me all about her childhood, her wartime remembrances, her husband, whom she had sadly outlived by several decades. Then, one night, she would pass quietly in the night, while I held her hand. Later, I would learn that she had bequeathed to me all of her worldly possessions, including her favorite emerald brooch worth tens of thousands of pounds. At her funeral, I would wear the pin over my heart and eulogize her to a small but intimate gathering. Gertrude was a special woman. I first met her one wintery day…
I smiled at Gert once more as she approached us. She muttered something back, her ill-fitting dentures wobbling slightly.
"Come again?" I asked her, to show Mr. Dobbs that not only was I kind and friendly, but that I also had a never-ending supply of patience.
"Go away and don't come back," she grumbled more clearly.
I smiled brightly, pretending not to understand her. Then