‘Don’t worry, it takes time,’ she answers kindly. ‘I’m Fee, by the way.’ She points at her name badge on her blue polo shirt which actually reads Fiadh. ‘Ignore this,’ she says, glancing down. ‘No one can ever pronounce it anyway.’
‘Fiadah,’ I reply with the correct pronunciation. Fee-ah. I also know it means wild, though she looks anything but wild. Her fair hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, her complexion peaches and cream. Besides, no one who wears a polo shirt could ever be wild.
‘An Irish American?’ she asks, her eyes sparkling.
‘Róisín.’ I hold out my hand along with the introduction. Róisín, said Row-sheen, means little rose in Gaelic, so I’m told. I have an equally interesting middle name because I’m what you might call a bit of a mixed bag. Poor Irish Lebanese Kentuckian born little girl. ‘Guilty as charged.’ Second generation Irish, third Lebanese. Culturally confused AF.
‘What are the odds!’
‘Very slim,’ I reply, chuckling, her delight almost infectious.
‘I can tell we’re going to be firm friends.’
‘United by our parents’ love of unpronounceable names?’
‘Oh, God, never say that in front of my mother. She may have lived in London for thirty years but cut her and her blood will probably run green. Did you grow up hating that no one could ever say your name?’
‘Yup,’ I agree emphatically. ‘There are only so many times you can be called raisin without losing it a little. By the time I turned twelve, I refused to answer to anything but Rose.’
‘Raisin? That’s hilarious.’
‘For at least a hundred times.’
‘And after that, it’s just annoying, right?’ I nod. ‘I used to get called Fido a lot myself. Or some bloody awful variation. Fi-dada, Fi-yar-dar. So I put my foot down. Only my parents are allowed to call me anything other than Fee.’
My mother died when I was a teen, so few people know my real name is Róisín at all. But I don’t mention any of this. Mentioning you’re an orphan, even as an adult, only makes for awkward conversations. Also, my Irish roots aren’t so fierce. Not with a middle name like Samira.
‘What do you do at Industries du Loup? Am I saying that right? Du Loup,’ I repeat, trying to inject my voice with a little YouTube taught French flair.
‘You don’t speak French?’
‘No.’ But by her expression, I’m beginning to think that maybe I should.
‘Oh. Okay.’
You know what kind of “okay” that sounds like? The kind of okay that isn’t okay at all.
‘Do you think so?’ I ask, swallowing a little bubble of panic. What if there was a mistake? Maybe they didn’t see my ridiculous video interview at all. ‘I mean, the agent seemed to think so.’ Though I’m pretty sure she’d have sold my soul to the devil to get her hands on the commission. ‘It’s not like I lied on my resumé or anything.’ At least, not about speaking French. ‘Do you speak French?’ I can’t help but hear the note of panic in that.
‘Well, yes.’ Fee shrugs as though worried the admission might make me uncomfortable. We both fall silent, and I begin to notice how the conversations going on around me all sound like they’re being conducted in French.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you. In fact, I’m sure whatever position you’ve been hired for doesn’t need you to know the language.’
‘Do you need to know the language for your job?’ Does everyone?
‘Well, I work in the health club at Hôtel du Loup, part of Industries de Loup.’ Her accent sounds flawless, as far as I can tell. And I can also tell I butchered my earlier pronunciation. Un-dust-tree de-loo, I recount to myself.
‘The exercise classes I hold are all conducted in French.’
‘You’re a fitness instructor?’ That explains the running pants I’d noticed she was wearing as she got on the bus, along with the kind of ass you could probably bounce coins off.
‘Try not to look so worried. You’ve been interviewed and hired, you’ve met the HR team and gotten your work permit. You don’t need to speak the language for whatever it is you’re doing. What is it you’ll be doing anyway, your job, I mean? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’
You know what? I have no idea. The job title mentioned on the contract was so vague.
‘Customer relations associate,’ I recount. Despite my unease, I deliver my title confidently. ‘I’ve got to report to the guest relations department in l’agence centrale.’ I fight off the feelings of inadequacy trying not to compare Fee’s accent to my own. ‘That’s just the head office, right?’
On Friday, the head office was referred to as the head office, yet the email I received yesterday said l’agence centrale. Thank God for Google Translate because one of these things is not said like the other, even if they’re essentially the same department.