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Dolche Vida by ariellem
Chapter 1 : Job interviews
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 20


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Perfect CI by ledgerlover @ TDA!!!

 

Job interviews are easy, job interviews can even be fun! It’s not like I’m at the end of my rope, hoping—praying even— that I get this job. It’s not like I just spent my half of what was supposed to be this month’s rent on a shopping trip.

But seriously, when one finds that kind of shirt, and at that price, one must have it. Also one should have a new pair of jeans, some shoes, and another top to go with it.

Let me tell you something though, just because a saleslady –who not only seems really nice and also has great taste in shoes— tells you that you look like a veela in a shirt, does not mean that it’s true!

If one can’t shop without being conned what can one do?

You see when I put on my outfit for the interview; I was wearing my new top. Turns out it wasn’t as good looking as the salesperson told me.

“Alright Parvarti how’s this?” I had asked Parvarti, my supposed loyal best friend. Of course the loyal part is forgotten whenever a cute guy shows interest, then she runs toward him like he’s a container of ice cream.

“The jeans are nice, but what possessed you to buy that top?” asked Parvarti, she paused in mid-scoop of her cereal to stare at me in disbelief.

“What?” I asked looking down at my top. “I thought I looked good.”

“It’s awful, what color is that Pepto Bismol?” asked Parvarti, she scrunched up her nose.

What’s Pepto Bismol? It sounds nice, like some kind of bath soap.

“The salesperson said it looked nice,” I said looking down at my top. “She said it was form flattering and that I looked like a Veela.”

“Lavender, they’re paid to say that,” said Parvarti, giving me an exasperated look. “That doesn’t mean that they actually mean it, have you ever heard the saying ‘there’s a sucker born every minute’?”

 “Yeah?”

“That’s you, Lav.”

I rolled my eyes and didn’t respond.

“By the way, where’s your half of the rent?” Parvarti asked. I feigned deafness.

“I have gone temporarily deaf and haven’t heard a word you just said,” I told her.

Parvarti has been my best friend since the first week of Hogwarts when she hung up a poster of a hot guy in front of a blue box with a blond girl, she told me that he was The Doctor and even though I don’t like sci-fi I like this medical man.

Her sister’s is really cool too, she owns her own bookstore and has a cat named Mr. Fish.

Parvarti and I look nothing alike which destroyed the fantasy that we might be long-lost sisters. She’s Indian, has long raven black hair, is tall and skinny and has blue eyes. I have blonde hair, brown eyes, and really pale skin from staying inside all the time to paint, I’m also kind of short and a little…well…chunky.

My name is Lavender, Lavender Brown. What my parents were think when they named me after a color when my last name was already one I have no clue. My name is sort of ironic, considering I’m allergic to lavender. If my parents wanted to name me after a color that I love they should have named me Hot Pink Brown.

“I’m out,” I said, picking up my new purse and walking out the door, I didn’t bother changing my top, unlike several tacky people I’ve never believed in fashionably late.

“Come back with rent,” Parvarti called after me.

Parvarti and I used to live in my parents’ basement, until we decided to get an apartment together and spilt the rent and bills; this was very generous of her considering my eating habits.

I was bitten by a werewolf during the war and now I get really huge cravings for meat, I eat other stuff, but meat’s the main staple. I’m grateful that I don’t transform, but I still have most of the side effects, like hairiness (waxing is incredibly painful) for example, and this craving towards meat. 

Anyway Parvarti’s a half-blood and took muggle-studies so she was able to find a job immediately with a muggle law office typing up letters.

I on the other hand am limited to wizarding jobs, waitressing, and simple stuff like that. My parents are paying for me to go to a wizarding arts school, which is a load off my shoulders, but it’s been really tough finding a job since no one in the wizarding world is hiring, and every job I’ve applied to I’ve been turned down.

1st job: I’m sorry, but you’re not qualified.

Me: But it’s a waitressing job.

2nd job: Are you kidding me? You’re hopeless.

Me: Without speech.

3rd job: Your boobs aren’t big enough.

Me: I ought to kick your arse.

It turns out that the third job had a uniform; the girls had to walk around as mermaids with nothing but coconut shells covering the top area. I didn’t tell Parvarti about that place because I knew she’d pitch a fit, hunt the owner down, and give him a piece of her mind.

And believe me that piece would be a VERY BIG one.

Anyway the third job I applied for was by chance, it was a family owned bakery in the middle of London (apparently it was both wizarding and muggle) called Finnigan’s Pastries and it was my last chance.

I’m not very strong in my cooking abilities, however Parvarti said that my cupcakes were really good so I’m putting all my bets on those.

Parvarti and I don’t live in the wizarding area, no one does, unless they’re like Harry Potter and can afford it. Instead we live in a muggle area, with a lot of muggle collage kids who throw loud parties. I love watching those parties from my window with my binoculars; there are normally a lot of cute boys.

But we don’t live far from Diagon Alley, where Finnigan’s Bakery was, I quickly waved to Hannah has I entered the Leaky Cauldron. She was too busy flirting with Neville who was currently working there, Neville was completely oblivious, but even I stopped to check him out.

Puberty was clearly in love with that boy.

I walked on, tapped my wand against the brick wall, and entered Diagon Alley. Normally I would have been tempted to enter Madam Milkan’s for her shoes, or the Pet Emporium for the kittens. But I was a girl on a mission.

A mission to get a job and pay the rent.

When I found and entered Finnigan’s bakery, I was in awe. It looked —and smelled!—lovely, I could see why this place was so popular, the aroma of baked goods was almost overwhelming and there were little tables all over the place. It wasn’t as hard-core as Madam Puddifoots but it sort of gave off the air of a romantic place. Besides the baked goods that were in the display cases there was milk, coffee, butterbeer, and other drinks for people.

I loved it already.

Some people call me a romantic, one person called me hard-core clingy (which I am not). I guess that I am a romantic, which is why I already wanted to work here.

“You like?” I jolted out of my daydream and saw a woman standing before me. She was tall, older-ish, with a long brown braid. She had a heavy Irish accent, and kind of reminded me of someone. I just couldn’t remember who.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Everything looks great, I’m Lavender by the way,” I said, holding my hand out. “I’m here for the job interview.”

“Ah yes, you owled me,” said the woman as she shook my hand, her grip was quite firm. “Well I’m Andrea Finnigan. Do you have experience in the baking field?”

I nodded my head. “I’ve cooked cupcakes before.”

Once.

“And I was told they were great.”

Actually the words used were ‘pretty good’ but that’s not too big of an exaggeration.

“I’m sure I can learn whatever you need me to quickly.”

How hard can it be?

“I’ll introduce you to my mother-in-law,” said Mrs. Finnigan. “Come with me,” I followed her into the back of the bakery.

The back was almost as impressive as the front, it was basically one huge kitchen, I counted about three ovens, and two stovetops. In the middle of the room was a long table, where several half-finished bake goods stood, including a wedding cake that was probably taller then I was.

Besides the table an elderly woman glared at a bowl of batter, I noticed she was sitting in a wheelchair, but that didn’t stop her from wheeling over to where I was quick as a flash.

“Who’s this Andrea?” she asked, sounding rather cranky. I was a little tacked aback by her tone.

“Lavender, this is my mother-in-law, we own the bakery together,” said Mrs. Finnigan calmly.

“Yep, we have three orders I thought I’d get on them,” said Mrs. Finnigan (senior), she turned to me. “What quidditch team do you support?”

“Well I like the Harpies,” I said shrugging, truth is I really didn’t pay attention to Quidditch.

Mrs. Finnigan and Mrs. Finnigan exchanged looks.

“But Ireland’s good too!” I added hastily. “One of the best in fact, I remember hearing about their win at the World Cup and thinking ‘wow what a team’!”

“Brown noser,” said Mrs. Finnigan, she then began to wheel away. “I’ll leave this to you Andrea.”

I was crushed, I didn’t know what else to do. There was no way I was getting this job now.

“Let’s go and sit down,” said Mrs. Finnigan, leading me out of the kitchen, and back into the bakery.

I took a seat next to her and prayed that there was someone out there, maybe aliens that would help me get this job.

Oh being (or beings) out there if you help me get this job I will buy a loaf of bread and give it to those stray cats that are always waking me up in the middle of the night, and if you’re an alien I shall take you to my leader…well I’ll take you to Parvarti actually. She’s smarter than any political person, and probably bossier.

“So besides making cupcakes what are some of your hobbies?” Mrs. Finnigan asked, putting on a pair of glasses and studying me.

Spying on this guy across from my apartment that likes to walk around naked (and he’s REALLY cute), shopping, stalking cute guys in the mall, cuddling Mr. Fish who hates me for some reason, spying on the cute collage boys who throw loud parties, eating pastrami sandwiches, reading romantic novels that have at least three make outs scenes, watching Dr. Who with the mute button on so all I see is Mr. Hottie, reading Magic magazine so I can see what kind of trouble Charlie Shaun got into next and the top ten hottest guys, and designing book covers (I plan on being an illustrator).

“Reading, playing with a friend’s cat, and painting,” I said. “I’m quite a social person.”

“You paint?” Mrs. Finnigan inquired, suddenly more interested.

“Yeah I go to the Wizarding School of art and design,” I said. “I plan on illustrating books.”

“Alright then,” said Mrs. Finnigan. “Well you are the only one to apply, and you have baking experience. So be here tomorrow at seven.”

“Really?” I asked, almost stammering. “I got the job?”

Mrs. Finnigan nodded, and I thanked her and left.

It took a lot of self-control to not happy dance until I got outside.


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