The crux of a matter

Natasha was running down Shaftesbury Avenue in Theatreland to her job interview at a civil service secret location. She would have loved to have her sister’s artistic talent but the lure of real power – to be a government adviser, was her dream job. In the education department.

Tash, as her friends called her, had labored away for years as an assistant headteacher – the youngest in her borough at twenty-eight, so young she was profiled in the local paper- the borough she worked in, rather than the picturesque Surrey where there was nothing to do in the evenings but stroke her cat Twizzle.

That was the life she chose after being married for 2 years to her dream man Jake. A Franco-American who was a high flyer- an analyst at a multinational company. He was her biggest mistake in life. In all actuality she should have seen it coming.

Why would a Franco New Yorker want to dedicate his whole life to a mousy bleach blond weave wearer with two Caribbean parents? The two regions were always in perpetual war, a passive aggressive and out right aggressive when it got to the streets. He had grown up hearing people saying the French didn’t thank God for the war and she mistook his schoolboy faith for a lived one and it simply wasn’t the case. She thought her cousin made an obvious mistake, marrying a touring musician who swore he wasn’t addicted to pot but that wasn’t true. Tash had thrown her divorce across her shoulder like rich European women used to wear furs and pretended to be confident all the time. This was the advice her cousin had given. No one likes a weak -willed divorcée. Give your career all that you got. I got mine taken from me with my baby, live whatever you have left.

Tash decided that if she got the job she would do away with “Tash” and keep it to professional pronunciation of her first name. Natasha. She couldn’t have any confusion that she no desire to be seen as colloquial at all. Natasha O’ Brian was preparing herself not to be reckoned with.

She always seemed to have the patience for things at the wrong moment. In the interview she was confronted with a burly red-haired man in a tweed jacket. Hello you must be Miss Natasha O’ Brian?  Yup. She instantly regretted her reply, she was so used to having bawdy students to level off with so she was slightly taken off guard by his warmth. Would you like a tea or a coffee? Tea please. She didn’t want the jitters.  Dale, the interviewer did not divulge his job title, just that he was in a senior position and no, this was not a job working for the MI5 it is just that the education department has territories elsewhere. Not a military secret, just a matter of politesse. Otherwise every senior government adviser would be stalked. As she made her way up the stairs to the interview she felt the pain going through her legs, heels that she should not have worn. As she tried to match Dale’s pace her legs gave way and splat. Her face hit the stairs, blood and puss oozing out of her cheeks and her legs battered the concrete.  Dale went red, skipped down the stairs and carried her to the landing opposite the interview room.

There, there pet, he said with giving way to his northern accent. It’s going to be A and E (emergency room) for you then girly girl. Because she was in so much pain she didn’t react to this microaggression. She was that out desperate for the job which looked out of reach at this point. We could always reschedule.

Now that was a miracle. God came through. Phew, Natasha thought. She started to fantasize about her future self, a TED talk where she talked about her achievements, was this the positive failing up moment? Maybe it was the blow to the head that did it. I’ll call the ambulance then, it looks like you’re concussed, you were zoning out when I was speaking to you. Natasha blushed. Her honey skin tone was light enough to give away her true thoughts. I’m sorry, she said. Ok, Dale said. Her stomach rumbled and Dale was close enough to hear. How about I get you lunch after they stitch you up? Great, Natasha replied. She hoped he wasn’t flirting. Natasha had accepted a favor from a man several times before and been disappointed, embarrassed, even, when the favor had been meant as a romantic aside. The wait for the ambulance was a long drawn out period of awkwardness which was only filled by Dale’s Englishmen, Irishmen and a Scotsman jokes that made her wince with pain after she surprised herself and found herself laughing. He nipped away to talk to his superiors, but his superiors being superiors never saw her. She just wanted to go home.

Was an advisory role the life she really wanted, facing angry teachers unions and parents? Was she combat ready enough? Maybe it was the pain talking, her face and her back throbbing. Don’t give up now, you’ve got another chance, she heard a voice say. It was the receptionist in the foyer who she had forgot about. Did she say that out loud? Natasha queried. Is it that obvious? She asked the receptionist a Nigerian man who she mistook for a security guard. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Yes, there are sharks out there but people out here aren’t here to get at you. Your reputation goes before itself. Thanks, said Natasha I didn’t know I was the talk of the office. No worries, said the receptionist. Dale came back out with a large packet of tissues and the ambulance arrived and she fumbled into the back of the van.

The paramedics made her lie down with Dale sitting in the concerned passenger seat. Sirens made the way through Theatreland for Natasha and Dale to University College Hospital in Westminster. She felt special sitting there with the paramedics daubing antibacterial lotion over her bruised areas. Dale held her hand in support. All the way there.