Getting There

Getting there.

A weekend off-grid, away from the city’s clamour and commotion – What better way to get psyched up for my interview? Meditation, Tai-chi, birdsong, forest bathing, and perhaps a bit of sketching, all on my own with no distractions, to get into the ideal head-space: Zen and the Art of Getting Hired. I would radiate composure, calmness and confidence, and convince them I’m the perfect guy for the job.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the difficulty of getting into London on a Monday morning. Okay, I knew it would be busy. That’s why I left it until after the rush hour; I have until ten-thirty to get into the city. I even researched a little-known car park five minutes’ walk from their offices. Whatever the reason, today’s rush hour has extended. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in time to Road to Nowhere by Talking Heads, loving the song but not appreciating the irony of the coincidence that it’s playing on the radio while I’m in this predicament.

Gridlock.

I allowed plenty of time, but not for everything to come to a standstill. Jill was right, suggesting I should come home Sunday night to avoid any problems. I countered that I would lose whatever state of mind I achieved over the weekend. In the flat below us, Mr Barlow’s tuba practice puts me on edge. We can’t ask him to stop. Right now he needs to rehearse for his orchestra’s concert next week – and believe me he needs to rehearse – plus he puts up with Jill’s violin, which is saying something. Our neighbours, the Hammonds, argue all the time, and the road outside our building serves as a main thoroughfare for emergency services, whose sirens are so loud they could shatter windows. If I get this job, the increase in salary means we can move to Camden Town; we have first option on Jill’s cousin’s cottage, up for re-rental in a quiet back street.

I can’t be late. I want this so much. Graphic designer for Art Think International is my dream job, and I think I’m in with a chance. My insides jiggle like a box of grasshoppers. I squirm in my seat, looking for a side street to turn off and bypass this congestion. The car in front, a royal blue Audi, edges forward a few feet. I follow.

I see it now: a supermarket car park. I’ll nip in there and head for the nearest tube station; that is if I’m far enough into the city. Otherwise, I’ll have to get a mainline train and change. I wish I had my phone with me so I could look it up. Jill told me to take it for emergencies. I knew it would be too tempting; it’s like putting a bowl of raw meat in front of a starving dog – I wouldn’t have been able to resist. I’m wedded to my phone (but not Jill, yet). The first few hours without it almost drove me crazy, but I survived.

The Audi inches ahead. A few more feet and I’ll be able to get past. He takes his jacket off, and I realise I’m hot too. It’s unseasonably warm for autumn. I open my window; I’d rather have the fumes than the heat. The car in front of the Audi moves a little more. Mr Audi is searching his pockets and doesn’t notice. There’s a good six feet between him and the next car. If he closes the gap I’ll be able to get past. Why doesn’t he budge? Frustration threatens to eradicate the calm I worked so hard to achieve. I’ll indicate, he’ll see it in his wing mirror and move forward so I can turn off.

No. He doesn’t think it’s necessary to check behind him in a snarl-up. I’ll have to beep my horn. Audi drivers have a bit of a reputation though. I don’t want to instigate a road rage incident. He might get out of his car to rant at me in a frenzy of indignation. I can do without that. How do I get him out of my way? I’ll just give the horn a little toot...

Audi Man looks in his rear-view mirror, turns to glare at me. I point left and gesture for him to move ahead, hoping he’ll understand by sign language. He frowns. Oh no, he’s going to come and shout at me. I put my hands together imploring him to consent to my plea.

He does. Thank you, Mr Audi!

I zip into the car park, screech into the first empty space, grab my portfolio and lock up, heedless of the two-hour limit. I accost the nearest shopper, a harassed-looking woman with freshly strapped in and grizzling twin toddlers, who is loading her groceries into the back of her car.

‘Excuse me,’ I blurt, ‘where’s the nearest tube station?’

The woman looks from her shopping to her children to me, sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. ‘Gants Hill.’ She points. ‘Five-minute walk. Just the other side of the roundabout.’

‘Thanks.’ I consult my watch. Nine thirty. I’ve got an hour till my interview. I might just make it. Portfolio gripped firmly under my arm, I hurry off. I rush along the street, sidestepping pedestrians. A knot of people at a bus stop blocks my way. They’ll have a long wait, I think, eyeing the traffic. Oblivious to my haste, they remain a tight cluster.

‘Excuse me please.’ I wriggle through the crowd, trying not to shoulder anyone aside in my oh-so-British politeness. I fail of course.

Several tuts and an ‘Oi. Watch it mate!’ follow me. The reprimands ring in my ears like an echo from the time I got thumped on the nose for accidentally treading on someone’s toe. I mumble an apology without looking back, burst out the other side of the mob like a cork from a bottle and run like a hare.

Now I’m sweating, overdressed in this cumbersome suit, not designed for sprinting on a warm day. Why are we required to wear a suit to a job interview when once you’ve secured the position you can dress how you like?

Everywhere is so busy. I take a quick peek at my watch: nine forty – it should have eased off by now. Maybe there’s a big event planned that I’m unaware of.

I reach the Tube station and pause briefly to consult the map on the wall. The graphic is like a spaghetti circuit board, never easy to plot the fastest route. I decide on Central Line to Bank, Northern Line to Chalk Farm, and a two-minute walk to Art Think’s offices. Thankful they’ve got an up and a down side, I hurtle down the steps. Luckily, most of the people are coming up. Too many. Shouldn’t they all be at work by now? This obscure suburb isn’t somewhere shoppers or tourists tend to come.

I’m tempted to jump the barrier but remember the Brazilian guy who got shot six times by twitchy-fingered cops. I pull out my Oyster card and tap it on the pad, delayed by three seconds. Down the escalator two steps at a time. No one blocking the way. This is going well. I think I’m going to make it.

I lurch to a halt on the platform, lungs heaving like bellows. I lean my portfolio against the wall and bend, hands on knees, trying to get my breath back. It’s even hotter down here and stuffy, with a smell of metal and static in the air. It takes me a moment to notice the absence of sound. That’s weird. Usually, a rushing wind and the clattering of rails echo through the tunnels.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

The voice startles me. I jerk upright and face a stern-looking London Transport worker. Her Hi-Viz jacket hurts my eyes as they throb in time with my rapid heartbeat.

‘Didn’t you see the notice at the top of the escalator?’ she asks with an air of uniformed self-importance.

‘What? No,’ I manage between breaths. ‘I’m in a hurry.’

‘Well, you’ve wasted your time coming down here.’ She crosses her arms. ‘Signal fault. You’ll have to walk to Redbridge.’

‘How far’s that?’

She sniggers. ‘A little over half a mile I’d say.’

‘Shit. I’m going to be late.’ I dash for the exit.

If I’m lucky and explain why I’m not on time, they might still give me an interview. It’s worth a try. I hurry back to the escalator. I’m glad Jill persuaded me to take up jogging a couple of months ago, otherwise I’d be finished. Nevertheless, the climb up to street level kills me. Why don’t they have escalators all the way? I thought the lift would be too slow, though now I’m plodding like a sumo wrestler I’m not so sure. Each breath strains my lungs; my heart is beating like a djembe and threatening to burst out of my chest. I reach the top, struggling for air, a little dizzy, oxygen starved. I stagger out onto the pavement and try to get my bearings. Okay, Redbridge, here I come.

Once on the tube, thighs aching, I hazard a look at my watch, knowing it will be bad news. Ten o’clock. I bounce my leg like an anxious teenager, count off the stations from the overhead banner. Why does it have to stop so often? By the time we reach Bank it’s twenty past ten, I’ve regained my breath and I’m first out the doors. I scoot through the tunnels to the Northern Line as fast as I can without bumping into other passengers. On the platform, a crackly voice echoes from the speakers. “Customer announcement. Minor delays due to a shortage of trains. We apologise for any inconvenience.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s like I’m doomed never to get to this interview. But I can’t give up. Even if I’m late, I have to try.

Ten minutes chewing my lip and a train clatters into the station. The doors slide open and disgorge an annoying quantity of passengers. I hop from foot to foot waiting to board the carriage. This time I don’t sit down, just hang on to the rail by the doors until we reach Chalk Farm.

Ten-fifty.

Twenty minutes late is disastrous. I plough on regardless.

I shoot out into the open air and squint in the bright sunlight. The road is cordoned off with crowd control barriers. Police everywhere. What’s going on?

People throng the pavements, meandering like a giant disjointed caterpillar. Others stand at the railings, waiting to see whatever is about to happen. I worm my way through the crowd, heading up the street towards Art Think’s HQ. My superpower now is people dodging – I’ve got it down to a fine art, a dance even; anticipating movements, interpreting body language. I’m in the zone, weaving to avoid collisions, flowing like a river, smooth and sinuous like a snake in the grass. Not that it will do me much good now.

I reach the point opposite my destination. The pedestrian crossing is blocked. I look at my watch: twenty-five minutes late. Will I even get an interview now? I’ve got this far, I might as well try to get in the building, even though my hope is evaporating, unlike my perspiration. Perhaps they’ll be willing to hear my excuses. I’m highly qualified and experienced, and I come with great references. On the other hand, I know there will be a lot of applicants and something like tardiness could easily tip the balance in someone else’s favour.

‘Excuse me,’ I call to the nearest police officer who is remarkably tall and has sergeant’s stripes on his uniform. ‘Can I get across the road? I’ve got a job interview with Art Think.’ I point at the office front over the road.

He looks me up and down. I feel judged, appraised as if my appearance gives him a clue to my law-abiding status. Why do I get so paranoid facing the constabulary?

‘Looks like you’re in a hurry,’ he says.

‘Yes, I’m late for my interview.’

A frown creases his brow; he puckers his lips. ‘I’m not really supposed to ... or you know, everyone will want to do it, which will lead to chaos. And we don’t want that do we?’

‘Can’t you make an exception? I really want this job.’ I grasp my hands in front of my chest. ‘Please.’

‘Sorry.’ He doesn’t look it. ‘More than my job’s worth, mate.’

I sag and hang my head, which seems ten pounds heavier. After all I’ve been through to get here. I thought if I just had a chance to speak to them...

‘Nah, just winding you up.’ With a chuckle, he lifts the barrier aside. ‘I’ll see you over the road so my colleagues don’t Taser you.’

I close my eyes and shake my head, in no mood for a joke, but thankful nonetheless. ‘What’s going on here anyway?’

‘Protest march.’ The sergeant strides ahead. ‘Countryside Alliance.’

Legs now weak as a new-born doe, I try to keep up. ‘On a Monday?’

‘Yep.’

‘What about the new laws they brought in last year?’

‘Toffs excluded. Seems the rules don’t apply to everyone equally.’ A mirthless laugh. ‘Don’t worry though, we’ll be watching for any hint of an arrestable offence. Not that it’ll make much difference, what with them having mates in the government.’

On the other side of the road, I thank him and face the entrance. Here at last. I’m boiling. My shirt is soaked. I’ll have to put up with it; if I take my jacket off it will show the sweat stains. A final glance at my watch: eleven o’clock. Oh well. Here goes nothing.

A revolving door admits me to the foyer. I push it hard, overestimating the friction, and the door section behind whacks the back of my heel. I yelp, hop on the other foot to rub my heel and topple artlessly to the floor.

‘Are you okay?’ The receptionist stands up, concern on his face.

Cheeks flushed, I ease myself up. ‘Fine thanks. Sorry.’

‘How can I help?’

I give my name and time of appointment.

‘Gosh, you’re early.’ He eyes me up and down. ‘And sweaty.’

‘What? No, I’m late. I had to rush like a maniac. I got stuck in traffic, then abandoned the car to get the tube, then there was a line closed and ... well it’s been one thing after another, just trying to get here.’

He checks his screen again. ‘No, you’re definitely early.’

‘I don’t understand.’ I look at my watch. ‘Are you sure?’

After a moment in thought, realisation brightens his face. ‘I know what’s happened. You forgot to put your watch back yesterday. It’s GMT now. British Summer Time is over, though you wouldn’t think so in today’s heat.’

I lean on his desk to steady myself. I can’t help smiling. Jill told me to remember the clocks going back. I feel stupid but immensely relieved. All that rushing and panic for nothing.

‘Felicity will like that you’re early,’ the receptionist says. ‘Punctuality is her thing.’

‘Felicity?’

‘Felicity Bellford – CEO and chief editor. She’ll be interviewing you. You’ve even got time for a coffee.’ He points to an area of soft seating upholstered in scarlet leather, where a jug of coffee sits on a hotplate giving off a wisp of steam. I can smell it now.

‘I just made a fresh pot. Help yourself.’

‘Great, thanks.’ I turn and head across the foyer with a much lighter step. His voice stops me again.

‘Did you bring your portfolio with you?’

‘Yes, I—’ Icy dread fills my stomach. No I didn’t! I left it leaning against the wall at Gants Hill tube station, fifty feet underground.