Chapter Twenty-Nine

My next interview is much closer than T C Fire Protection and I can catch a bus that’ll drop me off practically on its doorstep. I’m wearing my new shoes and the pointy-shouldered blazer again, but this time I’ve chosen a pencil skirt, a silky cream blouse and black tights. I look like my old maths teacher, but I’m sure this is a Good Thing because I’ve applied for the role of credit controller, which is number-orientated, right?

The bus was due six minutes ago, but it’s okay because my interview isn’t for another half an hour and the journey is fifteen minutes, max. As long as the bus arrives in the next five minutes – ten, even – everything will be fine.

Seven and a half minutes later, I’m still waiting at the bus stop. But it’s okay, because I still have a couple of ‘buffer’ minutes, and I’m sure the bus is going to appear around the bend any second now… Any second… I’m sure of it… See? There it is! No, wait, that’s a coach. Where is the bloody bus?

My stomach feels leaden, and my armpits are prickling as I stare ahead, willing the bus to appear at the top of the road. The number one rule of attending interviews is DO NOT BE LATE, but I’m in real danger of shattering that rule – and it isn’t even my fault. I was at the bus stop in plenty of time – I made sure of it – but the bus actually turning up is out of my control. As, it seems, is my breathing, which is coming in rapid, panicked little puffs as I check the time again.

The bus eventually trundles into view, making its way to the stop at a painstaking crawl. I have the money for the fare ready in my clammy hand, but I’m in such a flustered state I almost forget to take the ticket that’s spewed from the machine. The bus is rammed, with every seat taken apart from half an aisle seat towards the back. The woman sitting in the window seat has a gazillion shopping bags spilling into the neighbouring seat and although she attempts to shift them over, I’m still only left with a few inches to park myself onto, with my legs swinging out into the aisle. Still, I sink down, grateful to take the weight off my feet in my new shoes after standing at the bus stop for so long.

The bus stops to cram more people on at every single stop , eating into my precious time and causing a hot, claustrophobic atmosphere as people squeeze into every millimetre of floor space, jostling past my legs and tutting when I can’t move them out of the way. I’m a frazzled mess by the time we approach my stop, three minutes late for my interview. I need to pass my driving test – and fast – so I don’t have to put myself through this on a daily basis.

Pressing the bell, I lever myself out of my seat but there’s an odd pulling sensation on the back of my tights. When I look down, I see a string of chewing gum trailing from my tights to the blob stuck to the side of the seat. My stop is quickly approaching (the bus has been crawling for the entire journey, but now the driver decides to channel Lewis Hamilton) but I’m tethered to the seat by the gross, chewed-by-someone-else gum. I have no choice but to touch it, my face scrunched up with disgust as my finger and thumb clamp on to the sticky thread. I pull, but it simply stretches. I pull again, and again, but the gum seems to have magical, ever-increasing properties.

‘Wait!’ The bus has reached my stop, but the doors are now swishing shut again. ‘I need this stop!’ Grabbing a clump of my tights with one hand, I yank at the gum with the other, finally managing to dislodge the yucky mass. Unfortunately, the force on my delicate tights is too much and I’m left with a small hole at the top of my calf.

Still, I don’t have time to worry about that right now as the bus has started to pull away.

‘Hey! Wait!’ Shaking the string of gum from my fingers, I edge my way through the tightly packed throng of standing passengers and make my way towards the front of the bus. I’m panting by the time I reach the driver. ‘That was my stop. I need to get off.’

‘Sorry, love.’ The driver shrugs. ‘I can’t stop again until I get to the next stop. Health and safety.’

‘But you drove off from the stop before I could get off.’ We’ve just passed the building I needed to be in three minutes ago and I can’t see another bus stop ahead.

‘There was nobody at the doors. I can’t hang around all day, love. People have places they need to be.’

People like me . ‘I rang the bell. I was trying to get to the front but I had chewing gum stuck to my leg and there are too many people to get through. Please can you let me get off? I’ve got an interview and I’m already late.’

We’ve stopped at a set of traffic lights. There still isn’t a bus stop in sight, even though we stopped at one approximately every twenty seconds until now. The driver sighs as he looks me up and down through the clear plastic barrier.

‘I’ll do it just this once.’ The doors hiss open and I make a bid for freedom. The doors close again and the bus sets off as I start to scurry my way back along the pavement as fast as I can while my movement is restricted by my pencil skirt and new shoes. I’m clammy and out of breath by the time I make it to the office block, and I’m sure my make-up has melted and pooled on my chin but I don’t have time to nip into the loos to check. I’m already several minutes late and I’m ushered straight into a small, windowless room next to the reception area.

‘Cleo Parker.’ The receptionist announces my arrival to the man sitting behind a small desk, and when I turn to smile my thanks, I find she’s giving me an odd look, focused on the lower half of my body. I follow her gaze and find the source of her scrutiny. The small hole I created when I yanked at the chewing gum has grown into a larger hole, with a huge ladder snaking down my calf and bleeding over my ankle before it disappears into my shoe.

‘Good… morning?’ The man behind the desk lifts his wrist, angling his arm so he can check the time on his watch. ‘Yes, it is still morning. Just about.’ The corners of his lips flick upwards but the rest of his face remains stony as he indicates the chair opposite his desk.

‘Sorry about being late.’ I fling myself into the chair, hoping he hasn’t clocked the state of my tights. I don’t want to add a sloppy appearance as well as arriving late to my charge sheet. ‘The bus didn’t turn up for ages.’

‘Hmm.’ He isn’t really paying attention to my excuse as he’s too busy running his eyes over the copy of my CV on the desk in front of him. ‘Tell me about yourself, Cleo.’

God, I hate this question. I mean, it’s such a vague request, isn’t it? Can’t he be more specific? What exactly does he want to know about me? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want to know about my unhealthy love of coffee, or how obsessed I am with daytime soaps. His interests surely lie in my employment history, which is noted right in front of him (and it won’t take him long to read through it, seeing as I’ve only ever worked at The Fish & Chip Shop Around The Corner).

Fortunately – or unfortunately, actually, given the circumstances – I’m prevented from answering the question by a loud and obnoxious ringtone. Which is coming from my handbag. In all the drama of getting to the interview, I’ve forgotten to switch my phone off.

This interview has plummeted from bad to worse. Really, is there any point continuing the misery?

The phone call, it turns out, was from Claire. I phone her back when I’m on the bus home (which turned up right on time, naturally). She’s in such a buoyant mood after securing a date with the school-gate dad for tomorrow night that I don’t tell her about the interview she inadvertently interrupted. She sounds so joyful and carefree (the exact opposite of how I’m feeling) and I don’t want to bring her down.

‘He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow night. And not somewhere local. He says he wants to take me somewhere more upmarket.’ Claire sighs, long and softly, and I can picture her twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she daydreams about the date to come. ‘Nobody has ever taken me anywhere upmarket. I don’t think I’m that kind of girl. Oh, God.’ The buoyancy has dropped from her voice. ‘What am I going to wear?’

I chat through Claire’s wardrobe choices until my stop approaches (I don’t want to miss another) but instead of going straight back to the flat I make a detour to one of the coffee shops on the seafront. I deserve a calorific caffeine hit after the morning I’ve had, and a mug of instant isn’t going to cut it.

‘Hey, you.’ James is on his way out of the shop as I push the door open, a takeaway cup and a paper bag in hand. ‘You’re looking smart.’ His eyes drop to my decimated tights. ‘Ish.’

I twist to the side, to try to shield the tatty-looking tights. ‘I had a fight with a blob of chewing gum and lost.’

‘Ah.’ James shoots me a look of sympathy. ‘Grim.’

‘It hasn’t been the best day, to be honest.’ I move out of the way of the door to let someone else in behind me. ‘Which is why I’m here. I need cheering up. I’m thinking a caramel cortado might be up for the job.’

‘What’s happened?’

I cringe. I’m not sure I want to relive the horror of the interview from hell quite so soon. Because it only got worse after the phone-ringing incident when I accidentally called the interviewer Richard (his name was Nigel, so not even close) and got myself into such a tizzy, I couldn’t even remember what year I left school or the name of the company I was interviewing for – or what they did. I don’t think I’ll be on the receiving end of a job offer for this one.

‘Bad interview.’

‘Bad’ doesn’t even come close to describing the car-crash interview, but I can’t bear to acknowledge the details out loud.

‘Oh.’ James’ shoulders drop, but then he brightens, his arms spreading wide. ‘But hey, you can learn from this, right? Take it as a positive.’

‘Believe me, there’s nothing positive to be taken from this interview.’

‘I bet there’s something.’

I shake my head. Today’s interview was completely void of positivity, unless you count the fact that it’s over and I’ll never have to come face to face with Nigel whatshisface ever again.

‘To be honest, I just want to forget it ever happened.’

‘Then I’ll shut up about it.’ James mimes zipping up his lips, the paper bag in his hand crinkling. My stomach rumbles as I imagine what’s in there. Perhaps I’ll need more than a coffee to cheer me up. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work. I’ve got a ton of emails to reply to and I can’t put them off any longer.’ James’ shoulders have slumped so much, they’re practically down to his knees, and I think it’ll take more than the coffee and whatever’s in the bag to wipe the glum look off his face.

I feel a little bit sad for James as he leaves the shop, but also for myself. Because what if that’s me in a few weeks, sloping off to do a job I dislike while being begrudgingly grateful it’s paying the bills? I’ve been fortunate to do a job I love over the past eight years, but from the interviews I’ve attended so far, I think my luck’s about to run out.

‘Oh. Cleo.’ James has stopped a few paces away, and he turns to face me again. ‘I’ll see you this evening?’

He will?

James must clock my bemused face. ‘Dog-walking the fearsome foursome?’

Oh, God. The dog-walking wasn’t a one-off. Gran has somehow manipulated us into making it a regular thing, every other day , at least until her wrist has healed. My luck has definitely run out.