Chapter 18
Ottawa early July
"Mz Grogan, it seems you really are
fluent
in four languages. You would be surprised how many interviewees say they are fluent, but only have a working knowledge. All our interviewers were impressed. Congratulations."
"Thank you, Mr Desmodine."
They were sitting in his office in Ottawa, the headquarters of ITI, an international company specialising in expert translators and interpreters for governments, multi-national companies and publishers.
Sam was at last committed to find a job for which she was qualified and would enjoy. It had taken the combined efforts of both her parents and her brother Patrick to assure her she was free to go and follow wherever it took her. She had undergone a full week of stringent testing with four different examiners, and felt a rush of hope and excitement at Desmodine's statement. Not for long.
"However," he paused and looked apologetic, "all the positions for which we advertised within Canada have already been filled. You were very late with your application, you know."
"Oh." Samantha was downcast. She was annoyed with herself that she had vacillated so long before applying. She wondered why in that case she had been called for interview at all.
He seemed to read her thoughts. "You are wondering why in that case we called you. Your CV was arresting - almost too good to be true, but it wasn't. As a result I am authorised to put you on our waiting list."
Her spirits dropped. How long would she have to wait until she reached the top of the waiting list?
He paused, then added, "Of course, if you were prepared to travel further afield..." He cocked an eyebrow.
"I don't understand," she said, trying to keep up. "Travel where?"
"At present we are short of staff of your calibre and expertise in Europe: Frankfurt, Brussels, Milan and London. You could take your pick, I mean that. We would sort out accommodation, transport, visas of course, and a company car."
Samantha took a deep breath. She had thought of moving across Canada, but across the world? So far from home? She would have to ask her parents, perhaps they would think it was a step too far.
"May I have some time to decide? Consult my family? This has come as a surprise."
"That's understandable," he said with a smile. "How soon could you let us know?"
"Tomorrow."
He laughed heartily and nodded. "I think we can be patient that long!" His smile was engaging.
That afternoon she called her parents. She might have known what their response would be, but she needed to hear not only what they said, but the tone and way they said it.
"Are you sure, Mom?"
"Yes, honey. We are absolutely sure."
"Both of us," echoed her father in the distance.
"It's a very long way."
"Follow your star, Sam," shouted her father.
"Will you visit me? I'll pay - you've no idea how much they want to pay me!"
"We'd love to," her mother replied. "It'll be an adventure for us, and you can visit that nice man in Europe who saved you last summer."
"Perhaps Mom, perhaps. I don't think he'd want me to visit."
"He will, honey."
The next day, she again seated herself in Mr. Desmodine's office.
"Yes please," she said, with an eager smile. "I'd like to go to London."
"Good choice, Mz Grogan. Good choice. Mug up on finance: most of our business in London is with the City companies, you know, the financial sector, with some occasional interpreting for the government. They usually have their own interpreters."
In view of the amount of time it had taken her to get a visitor's visa, she was surprised when the company informed her that she could take up her post in the London office a month later. After she returned home there was a flurry of activity as she packed for a prolonged stay in London. Then, with tears shed as she took her leave of her parents and family on the First of August, she was on her way.
The company had placed her in one of its service flats, giving her three months to find a place of her own. She settled into the office, found her way round the underground labyrinth that was the Tube, got used to the high prices of everything in the capital, and took delivery of her company car with its steering wheel on the 'wrong' side. She would rise very early on Sunday mornings and drive it round her area until she felt confident driving on the left.
It took a while before she got the hang of the property market, finding the rents for the most modest furnished flats numbingly high, and realising why she was being paid so much. She found herself a studio flat at the top of a nondescript 1960s rectangular block, a direct bus ride from the office. It was small - a living room with kitchen off, small bathroom with only a shower, basin and toilet, and a bedroom just big enough for a double bed and one wardrobe. There were drawers in the living room, in which to keep her underwear and such.
So, in late August, she was standing looking round her at her new home, and wondering what she could get to eat and where the nearest supermarket was - there was nothing in the fridge - when there was a knock on her door. She opened it to find a small woman standing there.
She was about five feet five inches 'tall', if that's the word, and very slim. Her arms were quite thin, and if she had not been wearing jeans, Sam would have seen her legs were the same. Having said that, everything about her was in proportion. She had an hour glass figure, small breasts and a neat, tight, bubble behind. Her face was elfin-like, with a turned up nose and generous mouth. Her hair was very dark rich brown, and her eyes were a startling grey. Sam noticed her hands were delicate with long slender fingers, almost fragile.
The two women gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, each admiring the other, until the visitor seemed to shake herself and spoke.
"Hi, I'm Megan Smith, I live across the hall." She gestured to the open door directly opposite. "I saw you moving in. Welcome to the building, and I'd like to invite you over for drinks later." Her head cocked to one side inviting a response.
"Why, thank you, I'd love to."
"Oh, you're American!"
"Canadian."
"Nice! Where from?"
