Chapter 29
It’s the day of The Interview. I can’t stop shaking and I feel glacial even though it’s like a sauna in Phil and Damilola’s flat. As soon as I’m dressed I message Max:
I’m so nervous I’m as cold as ice. I might freeze to death on my way there. I won’t make it.
He replies:
Ah, classic hyperventilation reducing efficiency of blood flow
We’ve not been messaging much more than usual since the night he came over, but I wanted to give him space, after everything with Fran. He said things went OK when she came to get her things, although didn’t give loads of details. I hope she wasn’t too upset.
I go downstairs to eat but I barely touch my breakfast. Phil is babbling about something and I’ve not been listening.
“She’s not listening to you,” Dami points out.
I tune in three seconds later. “Oh, er, I am . . . ,” I try to recover.
“She’s nervous,” Dami explains. “Stop talking about lollipop men. Say something encouraging.”
“Sure.” Phil thinks for a second, then says, “See the thing is, Becky, you probably won’t get it.”
“Phil!” Dami hisses. “That is not encouraging! Of course you’ll get it, Becky.” She pats me on the arm.
“How is that encouraging?!” Phil booms. “That’s applying unnecessary pressure. My way she’ll be way less angsty and less likely to fuck it up.”
“She’s not going to fuck it up.” Dami’s voice is practically a whisper.
“Not if she thinks she’s not going to get it. Reverse psychology, innit.” Phil taps the side of his head.
Jesus Christ.
“Er, thank you both for your heartening words of inspiration, but I’m fine, thanks,” I say.
“Of course you are,” says Dami. She means it sincerely but it sounds like she’s talking to a four-year-old.
When Phil starts reeling off all his mates’ worst interview horror stories, so mine “won’t feel so bad,” I leave and walk around the block for half an hour.
God, I really am nervous. What if they find out I accidentally wore my pajamas into the office once?
And had to keep my coat on all day to try to hide it?
What if they can sense I took Ted’s lip balm from his top drawer because it was funny to watch him anxiously licking his unmoistened lips during meetings?
I realize I haven’t taken a breath in thirty seconds and remember to inhale. They probably won’t be able to tell any of these things just from looking at me. Probably.
I finally get on the train. The journey to Barbican has never felt so short.
I’m clinging to every tube stop like a baby roo to its mama.
I’m safe on the tube. I can’t say anything stupid on the tube.
The interview hasn’t happened yet and therefore I could, theoretically, still get the job.
Once I go in there and screw it up there will be no other outcome except failure.
I arrive and dither around outside because I’m early. My jerky movements scare some woman so much she nearly spills coffee all over herself. I’m definitively lurking. This is what a lurker looks like. Lurkers don’t get cool jobs in film and TV. Come on, Becky.
I go inside and register at reception. I get a little visitor tag and sit on one of the sofas in the reception area.
Oh God. Sitting is worse than lurking. I have so much nervous energy that’s not burning off, it’s just coursing through me .
. . Oh God. I can’t tell if I need to do a shit or not.
And now my face is twitching. Great. Just great.
“Becky?” A woman in a shirt and black sweater with plaid trousers and chunky black boots comes out to greet me.
I suddenly feel very drab in my suit. Of course they wear proper human clothes here .
. . What was I thinking?! I may as well have worn one of Margaret’s ensembles.
Even that would have been more interesting.
I quickly take my hair out of its bun so she can see my pink tips.
“Monique?” I ask. Twitch, twitch.
“Yes, hi.” She beams. Her hair is so sleek. Angie would approve. “Come on through.”
I follow her through the ground floor, which must be some sort of publisher.
There are a lot of bookshelves and books piled up high around people’s chairs, on desks .
. . some just in the middle of the floor.
We weave our way through to the stairs. Towering heaps nearly fall on top of me several times.
Upstairs it’s a little less cluttered but still casual and vibrant. Framed movie posters decorate the walls and there’s the odd plant dotted around.
“Welcome.” Monique holds her arm out. She sits down on a bright orange sofa in the middle of the room and gestures for me to sit.
It’s stupid but . . . I already feel at home here.
My face is still twitching though.
“So, Becky, long journey?” Monique smiles. She seems very at ease in herself. But not in an arrogant way. Just in a down-to-earth way, like she’s not plagued with embarrassing flashbacks of things that happened to her ten years ago when she’s on the loo.
“Er, no,” I say. “Not really. I’m based in London.”
I tell her where I’m living and successfully manage to skirt around the fact I’m staying in my friend’s spare room. After a few minutes of small talk, another guy joins us whose name is Will. He’s wearing human clothes too. FFS.
He’s very pale and super tall and skinny with clear-frame glasses. He looks kind of geeky, but in a cool way. They talk for a bit and make some film-related in-jokes I pretend to understand.
WHY ARE BOTH OF THESE PEOPLE SO EDGY?! I don’t belong here .
. . I belong with creepy Ted! And basic Jess!
All this time I thought I deserved to fit in somewhere cooler, I was mistaken.
I’m a dolt, a Mary, a dullard! I can never be fashionable or confident or have proper, well-formulated opinions .
. . I live to mock others and slither under the rocks of functional society like a little, malignant worm, peering up at people like Monique and Will from the shadows of self-loathing.
We chat casually for a bit longer. I’m on edge waiting for the torrent of painful, banal interview questions to hit me.
But they never do. It seems like they just want to get to know me.
They do ask about my last job and why I wanted to leave We Work, You Win, and why I want to move into this area.
They ask why this company specifically. But they’re all fairly easy questions to answer .
. . It doesn’t feel like they’re trying to test me or catch me out.
It’s going well, and I feel myself starting to relax, until Will asks, “What’s your favorite film? ”
Oh God.
Mind . . . stopped.
Blank. Gaping. Void.
Think of a film. ANY film.
Have I ever seen a film???
What is film?
Eventually, after fumbling madly in the dark recesses of my mind, I come out with “The Hobbit.”
. . . The Hobbit?
THE HOBBIT?
I think I see Monique crack a smile. Will shuffles in his seat and his eyes slide to one side as if he’s thinking my choice over.
“Interesting,” he says.
Immediately I think of a million other films I could have said.
Recent, old, classic, funny, scary, arty, Hollywood, independent, just plain brilliant.
Taxi Driver. Moonlight. The Terminator. Get Out.
The Graduate. Silence of the Lambs. Jennifer’s Body.
Boyhood. American Fiction. When Harry Met Sally.
Fish Tank. Clueless. Parasite. Psycho. The Substance. Spirited Away.
Urgh. I can’t take it back now. Will has already moved on.
We chat about other things and thankfully I seem to rediscover my brain. Before I know it an hour has passed and Will and Monique are briefly parading me around the office to wave at the rest of the team, before seeing me out.
“Thanks so much for coming in,” Will says.
“Yeah, thanks, Becky, it was great to meet you,” Monique adds.
I shake hands with each of them in turn. They both smile warmly. I’ve slipped in at least ten other great films by this point just to demonstrate I do have a knowledge of cinema and it feels like The Hobbit moment is safely behind us.
The journey home feels long as I analyze every second of the interview.
At times I feel elated . . . I think, maybe, I didn’t totally fuck that up?
I mean, I was a bit nervous and I stumbled over my words a couple of times, but who doesn’t do that in an interview, right?
I feel like we got on. There was a vibe.
I keep running through every single thing I said trying to work out if it was stupid or not.
Apart from The Hobbit, I can’t come up with anything.
But then I get the flattening doubt. Did I take too long to get one of Will’s puns?
Was Monique offended when I took the last bourbon biscuit?
Was it OK to eat the biscuits at all, or were they just offering to be polite but really you’re not supposed to eat crumbly chocolatey snacks in an interview setting?
Did I have a crumb in my teeth? Did they see how many times I was running my tongue across my teeth to check for said potentially rogue crumb?
When I get back, I take off my shoes and breathe in the comforting scent of whatever it is Phil is cooking tonight. It smells like some kind of curry. I hear Dami speaking. She’s back earlier than usual today. Then I hear an unexpected bark of controlled yet manic laughter.
Angie. She’s here.
My heart starts thudding wildly. I thought the interview had rinsed all my adrenaline but apparently I have some left.
I take a breath and walk through to the living room.
Angie is curled up on the sofa gracefully clasping a glass of wine.
She looks flawless as usual. She’s wearing her standard green silk blouse and black leather skirt and her makeup is perfect.
You wouldn’t think she’d just broken up with her long-term partner.
When I come in she gives me a tight smile. It’s not fake, just uncertain.
“Hi, Angie.” I clear my throat.
“Hi.” She swirls her wine and holds eye contact. I never knew the word “hi” could say so much but her greeting is loaded.