She placed the paper back on the table and manufactured another smile. ‘Okay Miles, so perhaps you could start by telling me what kind of work you’re looking for today?’
Really, that was such a ridiculous question; all of that had been covered in the email he’d sent to arrange the meeting. He shifted forward in his seat, placed the heels of his hands onto the table and tried to ignore the pain shooting up from shoulder to neck. ‘I wish to resume my career in the examinations sector. As you can see from my curriculum vitae, I’ve had many years’ experience as an invigilator for universities, schools and various test centres around the country.’
She turned to the second page and ran her finger down to the bottom. ‘Do you have some up-to-date references?’
‘When you say “up-to-date” you mean…?’
‘Within the last year. Within the last six months would be ideal.’
‘Well, that could be problematic.’
‘In what way?’
In the way that he had been fired immediately after a physics exam in January, when he had refused to allow a student to get up fifteen minutes before the end time to use the toilet – as clearly stated in the printed examination rules – and the simpering snowflake went and pissed all over the gymnasium floor, causing great disruption to the examination. When questioned by the supervisor, Miles maintained that candidates were not allowed to leave their seats so close to the end of an exam, but the boy had officially complained about Miles’s “threatening tone” while being forced to mop up urine with his own sweatshirt.
‘My previous employer has moved abroad. I have no contact details. Unfortunately.’
‘And the one prior to your last job?’
Most of his previous invigilation jobs had been given to him by his wife, and he’d be damned if he was going to allow this impertinent woman to venture down that particular line of enquiry.
‘The annoying thing is all my contacts were stored on a phone which was recently stolen by one of those bloody moped gangs. The police were completely uninterested, of course. It would be quite a difficult task to track down old supervisors without my phone.’
‘Right. The reason I’m asking is because our client is a very prestigious university and they have experienced some issues with unreliable invigilators in the past, so we’ve been asked to properly vet any new starters before employing them.’
‘I see.’
‘I might be able to get you a trial day.’
‘No, that won’t do. I need guaranteed work for at least a month. I have over eleven years’ experience of invigilation. As you can see, it’s all there in black and white.’ Miles jabbed a finger at the CV on the table.
‘In that case, I’m sure you’ve worked for many employers who could write you a quick reference.’
‘You don’t make things easy, do you?’
‘Excuse me?’ Her voice rose an octave on the last syllable.
‘My résumé should speak for itself. After all, the job isn’t rocket science, is it? Handing out question papers and spare pens, walking down the aisles, maintaining order. A monkey could do it.’
‘It’s more a question of your reliability, punctuality, things like that.’
‘So what exactly do you suggest then?’ He leant forward and fixed her with his eyes.
The woman shifted back in her chair, pulling a face that made her appear confused, which she wasn’t. ‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Your job, I believe, is finding me suitable work in line with my experience.’
‘Well, yes. Our agency supplies professional temporary workers–’
‘If I am to get around this obstacle, what do you suggest I write in my reference? Punctual, reliable, anything else?’ Miles’s patience with the cretin was wearing thin.
‘I’m not following you…’ She cleared her throat, sat up straight and placed one hand over the other on the table. ‘Obviously you can’t write your own reference.’
He stared at her unblinkingly. ‘Of course not. That would be absurd.’
The woman was frowning now; the tension ran across her forehead and along her clenched, over-sized jaw. Miles was sorely out of practice when it came to job interviews. Talking about himself and answering imbecilic questions always put him on edge. It was so much easier being Elliot.
The agent glanced at him, then quickly looked down, trying to hide the fear in her eyes. He was accustomed to that kind of look. She backed her chair away from the table and then pretended to check the time on her tiny Gucci wristwatch.
‘Unfortunately I have another meeting scheduled now. Umm… why don’t you update your CV with that information and then email it back to us. Once we have that, we can see what work is available and, er… yes. Okay then?’ She rose a little too suddenly, moved over to the door and opened it.
Miles scrutinised her piss-poor performance. Meryl Streep wouldn’t be losing any sleep. He inhaled slowly through his nostrils and exhaled noisily through his pursed lips, then straightened his tie. He stood up abruptly, the back of his calves catching the chair and tipping it over. It thumped onto the carpeted floor. The woman was watching him from the corner of her eye. Miles took his sweet time picking up the chair and positioning it underneath the table. He hoped she’d say something else, but she kept quiet.
He walked over to the door, stood in front of her and offered his hand. Eyes blinking rapidly, she limply extended her own. He shook it. Her palm was moist.
‘Thank you for your time. You’ll be hearing from me soon,’ he said before releasing her hand.
‘Mister Brampton, thank you for coming in. Goodbye.’ She wouldn’t meet his eye.
Miles stepped into the corridor, strolled back towards the reception area and out through the main doors. It was time for a career change anyway, he thought. But until he found something suitable, cash flow was still the top priority. He’d had no luck guessing the passwords for Elliot’s online bank accounts. With the benefit of hindsight, he really should have stopped to ask for them before he killed him.
18
The saliva globule landed below Sinead’s left eye and slid down her cheek. For two or three seconds she didn’t react; immobilised by shock, her brain took some time to catch up. Then, as it dripped down her face, heading for her lips, she wiped away the stranger’s spit with the back of her hand. The man hadn’t even broken his stride. She could easily have caught up, shouted in his face, and shoved him, but Sinead didn’t even look to see where he went. Two passers-by had witnessed the assault, but just reacted with astonished expressions and then walked on.
She’d asked a short, middle-aged bald man if he could spare five minutes to talk about child poverty, but before she’d got to the end of the question, he’d given her his definitive answer. Sinead was on autopilot and hadn’t properly assessed the man as he was approaching. She’d been speaking to every third person, regardless of her chances, just playing the odds. Experience should have told her to avoid this one: the jagged tempo of his walk, the tension in his neck and shoulders, the don’t fuck with me look in his eye. She had in fact noticed these signs and yet still she’d stepped in front of him. Was it a rookie mistake or a deliberate act of self-sabotage? Sinead was no rookie.
She walked fifty metres down Streatham High Road and into KFC, went past the lunchtime queues and headed for the customer toilet. She locked the door, ran a tap and splashed water repeatedly on her face. Grabbing a paper towel from the wall dispenser, she patted her cheeks and mouth, and then scrunched it up and threw it in the bin. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Yesterday’s humiliation at the hands of Joel had left her numb. If she didn’t think about it, maybe she could pretend it hadn’t actually happened. Their torrid and humiliating encounter was so awful, so wrong on every level, that she had not begun to process it. She may have put it to one side for now, like an unpacked moving box, but it would stay right where she could see it. Waiting to be opened up.