The Interview

      (1721 Words)                                        THE INTERVIEW

Well, they must have liked me, I thought breathing in, trying to reassure myself, and failing. “You have been shortlisted for a second interview.” The letter began, all stiff formality embossed and dripping with hope. I had never attended a job interview at a restaurant before and had hastily conducted a straw poll regarding my recommended behaviour on the fateful occasion, “arrive nice and early and order- that will show initiative, you never know, it might be a test” was tempered with the rather bohemian advice to “arrive fashionably late, show them you’re not desperate, remember you are interviewing them too.”

I remembered the first interview. A small office, barely enough for a desk and a seat each at three sides. Broken window blinds and a receptionist who should have been running the company, if she didn’t already. In turn, a friendly gentleman and friendly lady met me in reception. The gentleman, a little older than the lady began by telling me the story of the company and the importance they give to their extensive programme of customer satisfaction surveys. Whether this meant he was the higher paid of the two I couldn’t tell. The more he spoke the less he said. He was tall and as I smiled, I remembered my grandmother’s sage advice not to confuse height with stature. I listened with a sense of bored amusement, silently shushing myself when I considered how his suit was a good fit, once.  Above all, or perhaps below all, was the sinking feeling that a new idea would set the alarms off. I recalled how I got a laugh from both in attendance on one side of the desk from my thrilling anecdote about my mistrust and dislike of customer satisfaction surveys, regaling them with the story, honed by retelling, that once, when confronted by a hotel survey which began with the words “Did the food meet your expectations?” I acidly replied, “Yes, I thought it would be awful, and it was.”

I arrived fifteen minutes or so before the time so crisply printed on my letter, now folded and redundant in my suit inner pocket. The train into the City had been unfashionably on time. The underground was clunkily and noisily effective, a masterclass in belligerence, seething resentment and the resolute avoidance of eye contact. The only hiccup to befall my journey was an unintended detour in the taxi. The reason for this I was reliably informed by the taxi driver was the appearance of a “jumper”. Some poor soul was precariously standing atop a building, making the most difficult decision as to whether to end their life or continue it. An enterprising florist had added to the debate by composing the word “JUMP” in four feet letters, comprised of flowers the depth of the pavement. I thought what sort of turmoil and still sadness drives someone to even consider such an action.

I was met at the door of the restaurant by a waitress waving me to a small two seated table with the extravagant grace and expansive vagueness of an air steward showing passengers the doors in the event of an evacuation. Nothing as drastic as a conversation. After scanning the tables I thanked the waitress, sat down and re scanned the entrance for the next person to complete the scene to arrive at the restaurant. Questions regarding the protocol of the evening began to plague my mind, is alcohol permitted, should I offer to pay? Go Dutch? Wine? Order something less expensive in order to show my frugal, austere credentials to reflect the make do and mend atmosphere of the earlier interview? Or order to reflect my, and perhaps the company’s excursive, aspirational outlook? I didn’t dare call over the no longer flailing waitress to place my order, instead, I settled in my mind pulled pork croquettes, steak, then cheesecake when the time came. I reminded myself not to point at the menu when the time came for ordering, a trait borne from heady condescension and previous difficulty in making my voice heard in a busy restaurant. I was also reminded of my bias and condescending attitude when some drivers walked in – I thought to myself how ironic that these men were articulated lorry drivers, then silently chastised myself. Must keep it together.

Time passes and it occurs to me how odd I must look to both the staff in the restaurant and to those customers arriving. I was clearly looking for my meal companion and appeared restless. At once, seated alone but waiting for someone else to dine with.

It starts to rain. More people enter the restaurant and I am quickly out flanked as a young couple sit to the table on my right, whilst a noisy family take all four seats at the table on my left. Safely cocooned, I look out of the window for my, now late, companion. People are beginning to run now, now that the rain has moved from its promise of light refreshment into a fully-fledged downpour.

The mother of the family softly says “Oh, dear what a shame.” to no one and her husband in general. “Please sit properly” the father wearily beseeches the eldest of the two boys seated, then refocusing, “what was that….?” The mother, taciturn, “That poor man who jumped from the building just now” then looking at her menu “Oh dear, what a shame. Well dressed man in his sixties I heard. Dead now of course, all the roads in the area closed now, loads of delays.”

My companion must have been delayed in the melee and I begin to wonder when my return train ticket expires and if this meeting is ever going to take place. The couple on my right are still staring at their menus. I notice the theatre tickets on the table, still early evening so they must just be killing time, and each other, with boredom.  Soporific blank looks at busily lit screens on their mobiles take the place of any engagement between the two.

Eventually, my companion arrives. “You’ve heard then?” she enquires gravely. “Indeed, I have” I quietly reply. She is wearing the same outfit she wore at the first interview. Crisply detached and professional, she takes a seat and complains about the rain. I confirm I haven’t ordered anything and ask mundanely how her day has been. Mundane of course apart from the murder she had just committed. She looks at the menu and dramatically, solipsistic, needlessly lowers her voice. “Yes, it all went according to plan.” She begins, like someone explaining their latest visit to the supermarket, warming to her task, she continues “Well, getting him to the roof was no problem. He always thought I fancied him, and this was just confirmation to him of his irresistible attractiveness.” We laughed; how easy it is to slander the dead. 

The waitress tentatively begins taking the order of the family and we stop talking, not out of any respect for the dead but out of culinary curiosity. There is real tension in wondering what customers in a restaurant are about to order.

“The rest was easy.” she continues in the same easy way a businessperson might reflect on an acquisition, “When he realised it wasn’t a romantic tryst and that almost incredibly, I could resist him, we talked for quite a while about how the view makes decisions easier, how the sense of height gives a sense of perspective. He confirmed he was going to leave the company to his wife in his will. Shortly after that of course, he fell from the building. Of course, I stayed out of view. All anyone would have seen was someone looking out from the top of the building then saving on using the lift, ha ha ha” The hollow laugh of the victor. She spoke like one confiding a family secret to a dear friend, solemn yet enjoying frivolity of gossip. Something you like about someone you don’t.

“How is his wife?” I enquired, remembering how professional she was at reception. “None the wiser, bless her,” she sniffed. Not realising our deception, she had readily agreed that the company was under performing had been languishing for far too long and had readily agreed to my companion’s inventive suggestion regarding succession planning. My companion explains “He liked meeting you at the interview, as did his wife.” To complete the scene and justify her cruelty, she rose to a crescendo of self-righteous sanctimony, “He was very cruel to her, you know.” They both enjoyed meeting you. I enjoyed meeting her too, I thought silently.

The waitress, having conveyed the starters to the family, moves on to our table. Allowing my companion to order first, I remember not to point at the menu and to refrain from that false bonhomie that seems to infect some restaurant customers.

The starter arrives. My companion nears the end of her story. “So, we wait for the dust to settle. The company goes into his wife’s name – we bide our time and look after the company until the wife gives us our share.”

“And you have her word?” I enquire, “Oh yes, she is very good like that, always keeps her word.

The rest of the meal passed by efficiently and without incident. The waitress was attentive and smiled whenever my eating companion spoke to her in her usual clipped, brusque, business like way.

I wave to the waitress and mime a pen writing in the air, that universally understood code for requesting the bill. In the circumstances, I can push the boat out.

My eating companion leaves for a few minutes ostensibly to visit “the little girl’s room” – standing whilst the lady leaves, I smilingly wonder where the big girls go.

No time to lose. The waitress brings over the card reader “I cannot believe she didn’t recognise me” she began, incredulous that my companion could describe the murder of her husband in her hearing without recognising the person she had worked with for several years. I spoke quickly, with the economy and brevity that comes with the fear of being discovered.

“So, you have the tickets? Heathrow midday tomorrow as agreed?” “Yes” she replied “all as agreed. I’ve told the Manager that this is my last shift. At least here I wasn’t invisible”