Eventually she worked out how to bring up a new file.

‘You ready?' called Charlene.

‘Yes,' squeaked Dora.

Charlene clicked her stopwatch. 'OK, go for it.’

Dora went slowly for accuracy and tried to concentrate but kept getting distracted by the abysmal English of the letter she was typing. She yearned to cut out the tautologies and bad punctuation but thought she'd better not. She had taken over all the letter-writing where she used to work about a week after she started. Grammar andpunctuation were among her few skills, which, she realised, were not abilities likely to set the world on fire.

Charlene clicked her stopwatch again and once Dora had printed out her test and handed it to her, she cast a perfectly made-up eye over the sheet.

‘Right,' she said, tossing the test on to a pile of papers and not bothering to tell Dora how she had done. 'So what sort of work are you looking for?’

Dora was tempted to say, 'In a small estate agent's office where I'll know what I'm doing,' but thought the blonde would look down her ski-jump nose at her if she did. 'As you will have seen from my CV my experience is all with estate agents-'

‘One estate agent, in fact.'

‘Yes, so that would be my first choice, but I'm open to suggestion.' She smiled, hoping Charlene would smile back.

Maybe a recent Botox injection made this impossible because Charlene just drummed her talons on the desk while she stared at Dora. Dora wondered if she'd applied correction fluid to her nails while she was bored but realised that it was more likely she'd spent a lot of money making them look so square, the ends flaring out like white-tipped spades. 'Well, we've got nothing like that on our books at the moment. The trouble is, your experience is very limited, isn't it? You stuck in the first job you were offered. You didn't even have a Saturday- job anywhere.’

Dora wanted to say that it wasn't her fault she wasn't allowed a Saturday job because 'her school work was too important', and also that it wasn't the first job she was offered at all, that people all over town had been begging for her to join them but it wasn't true. 'I liked my job. I was good at it.'

‘So why did you leave?’

No way was she going to unburden herself to this woman. 'I said. I wanted something in London, a bit more – challenging. After all, you can't stay in the same job all your life, can you?’

Charlene couldn't disagree with this. 'I have to warn you that you've shown a lack of ambition by staying at the same place for so long. London businesses don't work in the same way as sleepy little village offices do.'

‘Don't they? I would have thought-'

‘So we may not be able to offer you anything on the same level.'

‘Well, naturally, I would expect to work my-'

‘We do have a lot of vacancies in retail,' Charlene cut her off. 'Would you consider shop work at all?’

Dora pondered this. She and Karen had loved playing shops but she suspected that she wouldn't be put behind the counter of a friendly deli, or somewhere fun to work, but instead she would be made to sell vastly expensive underwear, which no one really wanted and certainly didn't need. 'No,' she said firmly.

‘Fair enough. Bar work?'

‘No, not unless it was very near where I live.'

‘Where is it you live again? Ah yes, hmm… that's quite far out. You're going to have to travel quite a way in each morning. Used to commuting, are you?'

‘Not really, but I'm prepared to give it a go.'

‘Fine. There's just one thing, most of our clients like their staff to dress smartly. You're not very well turned out, are you?'

‘Aren't I? I mean, I just called in for an initial interview. If I was going for a job I'd wear a suit, or something.'

‘And proper shoes. Not sandals for an interview. And you could do with a manicure. I won't arrange anyinterviews at too short notice, to give you time to give yourself a bit of a make-over. First impressions are so important.’

Dora felt smaller and smaller as her marketability faded further and further into the distance. 'Yes,' she said meekly.

‘Have you thought about temping, at all? It would be a good way of getting more general experience.'

‘No,' said Dora. 'Not at all. I don't think I'd like it.' She got up, admitting defeat. 'Is that all?'

‘Yes. We'll be in touch if we get anything suitable.’

Dora didn't so much 'swing by' the next agency, she more tottered in and sank on the offered chair, sure she was about to go down with a chill. This girl was much more friendly, gave Dora a glass of water and then a cup of tea. She did tut over the conciseness of Dora's CV, but acknowledged it meant she must have been good at her job if she'd stayed with the same firm and been promoted several times. However, the end result was the same, 'We haven't got much on our books at the moment unless you're prepared to travel over Canary Wharf way. It would be quite a trek, looking at your current address.’

Dora sipped and nodded.

‘I will get in touch if anything remotely suitable comes up.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You wouldn't consider temping, would you? It's an excellent way of getting a broader span of experience.'

‘I'll definitely give it some thought if nothing permanent turns up, but I really don't want to spend my Monday mornings travelling round London looking for random addresses.'

‘You've got a point. On the other hand, it's a good way of learning your way round London.’

Dora sighed and put her mug down on the coaster. 'I'll bear that in mind too. One day, when I've got used to not working in my home town, I'll be a temp, but I don't think I'm quite ready for that now.'

‘Well, you did an almost perfect typing test so we'll definitely consider you for any permanent vacancies that come up.’

Dora got to her feet and decided not to bother with the third agency. She felt she'd done enough and honour was satisfied. She'd just have to hope the job at the boatyard was still available and suitable.

While Dora was being tortured for not having changed jobs often enough, or not going to university, or not dressing appropriately, Jo was enjoying herself looking for shops selling artists' materials. Miranda had been fairly vague about where in this elegant part of London the shop she thought existed might be, but eventually, having resisted the temptation to go into the British Museum, or any of the many emporia selling prints and antiquarian books, she found a little shop that seemed to be what she wanted. The moment she went through the door, her eye was caught by the rows of products that rose from floor to ceiling – works of art in their own right. It even smelt promising.

Jo liked to consider herself a feminist, an independent woman who could look after herself, but really, she acknowledged, she got what she wanted (most of the time) by being nice. Now, she went up to the counter and smiled. The middle-aged man behind the counter smiled back reassuringly.

‘Good morning. I wonder if you can help me? I have a small cherub I need to repair.'

‘What sort of cherub?' To Jo's relief, the man wasn't at all fazed by this statement.

‘It's on a mirror frame, so it's very small. His foot's come off.'

‘And what's the frame made of?'

‘Wood, I think. It's gold.'

‘Ah, an old carved mirror frame. And you're trying to repair it?'

‘Mm. I've never done anything like this before.’

‘Why start now?’

She regarded the man and saw that he was taking her perfectly seriously. 'I'm taking a bit of a gamble -fortunately not with my own money, or at least, not really. I want a career change, something I can do at home, that's creative, and, well – satisfying.'

‘And you've got this old mirror?'