A/N: The first step of the rest of her life … Hope you enjoy it and I would be really grateful if you could please review for me … Chapter two will be up-loaded tomorrow when much to her horror Molly starts to suspect that someone from her past is about to put in an appearance…..
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The World Has Lost Its Glory
7th April 2016 – Head Office
"And don't sleep with this one, okay?"
"I never, I mean, it never 'APPENED, I keep on telling you, shit, why don't anyone listen to me?"
"The wife, whatsername, Cindi Whatsits, said you did, so what am I supposed to do, hmm?"
He still wasn't meeting her eyes and it wasn't as if she wasn't well used to it, she was so used to it she could almost call herself a leading world expert on being bollocked, it was just that she'd thought it was all in the past now and that it would be different, that she'd finally found something she was really good at. But, no, trouble followed her around like a bad smell and this was no exception apparently.
Once again she'd found herself standing in front of someone who'd looked her up and down and pointed out her shortcomings, judged her and found her wanting. When she'd been bollocked in the past she'd had to accept most of what was said to her, because she knew that the things people said were true, she was definitely guilty of having an 'inappropriate' sense of humour, or of finding things bloody funny, and of sometimes saying too much, of letting her gob run away with her without making sure her brain was engaged first, but there weren't a word of truth in it this time and that really got to her, this criticism stung so badly because it was so unfair.
Her boss, Simon, very smooth, beautifully suited and booted and very pleased with himself, with his posh hairdo and bossy wife who was his P.A., was flipping through some of the tabloid press cuttings with his manicured finger nails and an exaggerated expression of deep distaste on his face. One of his minions, probably his bossy wife, had very thoughtfully cut them out of the papers and put them in a folder on his desk to make it easier for him to remind himself of what was in them, as Molly stood in front of him and hated him, smug bastard. She hadn't laid a finger on the bloke whose face was staring up at her from the front page of the shit-sheet which people 'read' on tube trains and at breakfast tables, or even sitting on the bog, if they could read that is, or just looked at the pictures if they couldn't, but people always believed what was printed in them, didn't they? If it was in the paper it had to be true didn't it? Her Nan always believed it for one and up to a few days ago she wouldn't have dreamed of starting her day without her dose of the Daily Mail, she thought it was like the bible and that every word they printed was the plain god's honest truth. It had taken Molly what felt like forever to persuade her that it was not like that, that it had never happened, that they'd got it all wrong, so that Nan now kept on writing them shitty letters, which surprise, surprise they completely ignored.
Despite what the wife had said, Molly had had nothing to do with him, not like that anyway, she'd just been doing her job but no-one seemed to want to believe her. They preferred to believe some publicity hungry ex-soap actress who hadn't been in the headlines for a long time and who'd walked in when her brain addled wanker of an old man had decided that the temporary nanny was fair game for a bit of a grope.
It should have been the other way round, she should have been the one telling the press about being sexually harassed by some old bloke who used to be a household name a hundred years before and Simon should have been asking him what the actual fuck he'd thought he was doing, and supporting her instead of throwing a fit. But no, and now the wanker was enjoying an upsurge of fame, or whatever, since his wife had called the press accusing her of having the hots for him, in fact accusing her of having a bit of a dabble, at the same time as making sure that anyone and everyone who'd listen were told how she was the heartbroken grieving victim of some scheming little trollop who'd wanted to break up the happy home, to steal away her loving husband and loving father of their two kids.
"School holiday cover, just a couple, no, three weeks, one kid, boy, seven or eight I think" Simon shuffled some papers on his desk "I'll find it in a second, not sure that this is going to be a goer so no promises here, just go along and try and look like a bloody Nanny if you can and not some teenage slapper …. " Molly looked down at her jeans and sweat shirt which she'd thought were pretty standard knowing that anyone going out on the pull wouldn't be seen dead in them "They'll probably blow you out but you've got nothing to lose, we haven't got anything else at the moment, and it wouldn't be easy if we had, not with all this shit" He waved a languid hand at the press cuttings "Perhaps in a few months when the papers have moved onto some other poor sod …" He paused for effect and to let his words sink in, to let her know how grateful she should be "We all know people have got short memories, Molls, so just keep a dignified silence and don't say anything to anyone that'd drag the Agency into your crap again, KEEP AWAY FROM THE FUCKING VULTURES and wait for it all to die down, mind you it's going to be tricky" He pulled a sceptical face as though not even he believed what he was saying "Some people have a bit of a problem with live-in help …."
"I keep on telling you, Simon, I never did nothing and it weren't me that talked to the papers, was it?" She swallowed hard "I did as you said, I kept me gob shut, not that it made any bleeding difference …"
Simon waved his hand dismissively, he had no interest in hearing it all again as Molly burned with the injustice, her life was once again totally fucked and really she'd had no idea that he'd been about to pounce on her the way he had. She'd believed all the cobblers that had been printed in magazines and Sunday supplements about the devoted family man with his actress wife who was still 'resting' two years after the birth of their second kid and about him cutting down on his commitments because of wanting to spend more time at home with the family. She'd been thrilled to get the job, even though it was only temporary, being Nanny to a couple of celebrities had seemed like all her dreams come true even if the money was fairly crap, she'd thought her East End accent would count against her, that she didn't sound posh enough for the celebrity jobs, but it hadn't taken her long to see that the house was more of a bloody war zone than a cosy family nest. Doors were constantly being slammed so bloody hard that the whole place shook, as 'call me Cindi' screamed abuse at him, at Eddie, at the top of her voice, all about his drinking and how fucking useless he was and how she couldn't bear the sight of him, and him then calling her an ARSEFUCK at the top of his voice, while their two children seemed oblivious to it.
So here she was, jobless and homeless with a reputation that was so far down the toilet that her boss seemed to think she was an unemployable slapper so that she was expecting to get the boot from the Agency at any second, something she could see was definitely going to happen sooner rather than later.
She was kicking herself for not seeing any sign that things around her weren't as they should have been in that house in Highgate, but even now she couldn't pinpoint anything that would have led him to believe that she would welcome him suddenly grabbing hold the way he had and kissing her, his tongue halfway down her throat before she could stop him. His breath had smelt of stale fags and booze so that she'd wanted to gag, he was old enough to be her father and he had all the personal hygiene habits of her dad, armpits 'n all, and then Cindi had come busting in and started using language worthy of some drunk on their way home from a West Ham match. Neither of them had seemed to mind, or even notice, that their two little girls were sitting on the floor watching tele with their mouths hanging open, something that Molly had wanted to talk to them about, although obviously right then and there wasn't a good time.
Nan had snorted her derision when she'd found out that they were called Velvet and Silk, asking Molly caustically whether they were intending to call the next one Polyester or maybe even Nylon.
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After the hour of humiliation that had pretended it was going to be a strategy meeting with her boss, she was back on the bus looking out at the familiar streets that she thought she'd left behind. She was nearly twenty three and unless she came up with a plan like yesterday it was looking more and more likely that she'd soon be back at home permanently, living with Mum and Dad and all her brothers and sisters and a Nan who, even though she had her own place, might as well be living with them the amount of time she spent there. Not that Molly minded, she loved her Nan to bits and sometimes thought that she was the only one she could talk to because she was the only other one that wasn't a bleeding nut job. The bus turned the corner into the back streets behind Battersea Power Station and trundled along past the tattoo parlours and bookies and the sex shop with the blacked out windows, and then past the dodgy looking kebab place that used to be Carlo's, a place where she'd spent a hell of lot of very happy hours being the worst waitress in the world. She was suddenly swamped with nostalgia for all those evenings and weekends that she'd spent in that grotty little back street dive, it all seemed like a lifetime ago and looking back now she'd been happy then, even if she hadn't known it at the time.
It hadn't been exactly her first choice of career but she'd been lucky to get it and at the time her mum couldn't possibly have managed without the money it brought in, what with all the other little bleeders to feed and clothe, even if everything did come from the market. Her Nan had been a big help seeing as how she was an expert at bloody pilfering, but even so there were six of them and her mum had really struggled what with her dad being a total dickhead waste of space so that Belinda had kept on saying that he might as well be number seven.
She weren't a bad kid, not as such, not really, she didn't join a gang or go out on the rob or mug anyone or anything, but she'd wasted all the opportunities she'd had because she liked playing the clown at school, well when she was there she did, which to be honest wasn't a whole lot of the time, she couldn't always be arsed. Even when she was there she liked being, what did they call it? Disruptive. She'd worked out very early on that entertaining the rest made you popular, and being popular was something that was really important to her, much more important than anything else. She'd wanted to be one of the 'cool' kids, so she didn't bother about learning anything or passing exams or any stupid stuff like that, that was all just boring, as was paying attention to what anyone told her, so she'd bleached her hair a horrible brassy blonde and spent her days answering back, swearing 'n nipping off for a fag behind the gym block. She'd spent her lunchtimes swigging from a bottle of cider so that she was even more gobby in the afternoons, well, when she bothered to stay for the afternoon that was, more often than not she'd just bunk off. The teachers hadn't even pretended they were sorry when she left, they'd all waved goodbye with grins on their faces, just glad to see the back of her.
It didn't take long for her to wake up and see she was unemployable, she wanted to work with kids, maybe with kids who were a bit like her, but although she knew she couldn't do that straight off, it was still a bit of a shock to find that no-one in their right mind was going to give her a chance to do anything like that and that it was all her own fault. Doors didn't open for people like her, they slammed shut, she had nothing to offer, no skills, no qualifications, no references, well, except for the one from school that said about her attitude, no experience in anything useful and even though she was dead sorry, it was too bloody late and she couldn't go back and change it. She was sixteen, just out of school with nothing to do all day but hang about doing nothing with no money, no audience to egg her on and nothing to make her feel big and clever, nothing to look forward to except for being on benefits in some grotty flat, probably with too many kids on some sink estate somewhere.
This woman at the Job Centre had cared enough to save her life for her, had persuaded her to go to College to do all the stuff she should have done at school, and had shown her what to do and how to get on. Then, after two years of playing catch-up, she'd helped her get on a Childcare Course which had been hard bleeding work, but she'd stuck at it, she'd got her NVQ, and now everything she'd worked her arse off for had all gone to shit one morning in North London.
All those hours of study when her mates had been off getting pissed and having a good time, all that work experience when she'd learned how to deal with tantrums and how not to shudder at heads that were alive with lice, how to change shitty bums and wet knickers without turning a hair and mopping up puddles and cleaning up puke, all for some wanker to decide that she was fair game. Everything now rested on whether or not someone else, who didn't know her and who might or might not have read a shit sheet about her, was going to judge her based on what they'd read and how she was dressed, and how bloody unfair was that?
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