Chapter 43 #2
It was still early enough to help myself to the buffet table at the back of the hall, and ignoring the warning in my head, I poured myself a cup of coffee, and grabbed a mini muffin, before finding myself a seat along the wall where I could watch the room and eat my breakfast in peace.
Just as my nerves had begun to settle, the door along the far wall opened, and a woman in a business suit strode over to the temporary staging platform.
The clack of her heels on the wooden boards seemed to get most people’s attention, and the hum of voices in the room dimmed, until everyone was turned to face her.
She waited patiently until she was satisfied everyone was listening, and in accented English, she announced that the group was ready to begin, and numbers would be called shortly, at which point the interviewer with the corresponding number was to present themselves at the door she’d from and hand over their credentials so that they could be announced to the group.
I swallowed, and the sudden lump in my throat had nothing to do with the mini muffin.
This was it. I was really doing this.
My past and my professional present were about to collide.
My palms began to sweat, and I was suddenly so glad I was wearing black trousers so it wouldn’t be noticeable how many times I had wiped my hands on them.
I put my cup on the table beside me, unfolded my legs, and discreetly tried to put my head between my knees.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I repeated the words over and over in my mind until they began to lose coherence.
I could do this. I just didn’t know what outcome I wanted or expected.
Would it be better or worse if he showed no reaction at all?
I needed to calm down.
I pushed to my feet and, pretending an air of nonchalance I very much did not feel, I took a stroll around the room.
Jesus, would it kill them to open a window in here? I shook my hands, trying to make it look like I was stretching out a cramp, or something, while trying to take deep, discrete breaths.
In through the nose, out through the mouth…
It was a sizeable room, but even so it didn’t take long to traverse it a couple of times.
What it did allow me to do, however, was observe my fellow journalists. Most of whom appeared bored.
I tried to emulate them. This was just another interview.
I would do this.
And hell, maybe it would be good for me.
Walking hadn’t necessarily shifted me into a feeling of calm, but it had helped to shift my perception, and I went back to my seat to wait.
I watched people being called to the door. No one seemed alarmed. It was… perfunctory.
As my breathing settled into a steady, if still somewhat fast rhythm, I ran over my notes and questions.
I’d used similar ones with other artists. There was nothing here that the group wouldn’t have heard before, and while unoriginal, there was some safety in the expected, because we’d both know what their audience wanted to hear from them.
Time passed, and I settled into a sort of calm.
I had convinced myself of this so well, that when my number was called, I looked towards the door with mild surprise, imaging my outward appearance to be almost nonchalant, and I congratulated myself.
I approached the door on autopilot, pasting a smile onto numb lips.
“Frequency?” The older woman asked politely. I nodded, and she held out her hand for my credentials.
“Follow me, please.” She spun on her heel without waiting for a reply, and obediently I did. We walked down a short corridor and approached a nondescript door behind which I could hear the low murmur of voices.
My skin instantly chilled and my palms grew clammy again. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to throw up, or…
I’d never know the ‘or’ option, as the woman knocked on the door and pushed it open. I paused in the corridor, frozen. Fight or flight, without the option of either.
“Frequency magazine,” I heard her say, “Kaiya Thompson reporting.”
Silence.
There was a blanket of quiet beyond the door, and in the corridor, it pressed down on me like snow.
The woman looked back at me and frowned, a slight break in her composure. She moved further into the room, holding her arm out to indicate I should enter.
Move.
MOVE.
I forced my feet to take the steps needed, looking down at the ground so I didn’t trip. And to put off the moment I feared the most.
The room was warm. Stage lights had been placed beside the plush armchair clearly intended for me, and behind the large sofa I couldn’t look at.
In the quick glances I’d allowed myself, I could see a camera rig set up midway, so the operator could switch between my location and the group. I’d already signed the waiver that’d informed me this interview would be filmed.
Youngsoo was standing behind the camera, arms folded, mouth agape as he realised who I was.
I moved towards the armchair on autopilot, standing straight, shoulders back. Eyes still on the ground.
I sat.
I took a breath. her
And looked up.
“Hi. I’m Kaiya Thompson. I’ll be interviewing you for Frequency magazine.”