be held here next Monday.’
‘Great.’
‘But I’ll get Julie to sort all that out and give you a time,’ he says, waving his hand around flippantly at the detail.
‘Julie?’
‘Well, you don’t want to be dealing with the enemy,’ he scoffs. ‘I’ve asked Julie to deal with setting up interviews for potential candidates.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, wondering how much I could persuade Julie to stuff up all the timings so that no one turns up, or to only pick really crap applicants for me to go up against.
‘Like I said, nothing to worry about,’ he winks. ‘In fact, as a goodwill gesture, why don’t you take the rest of your interview day off. On us.’
‘But won’t you need me to – ’
‘I’m sure Julie will manage,’ he says firmly.
‘If you’re sure,’ I reply, feeling weird about the idea. To my knowledge there hasn’t been a single arrangement in Jonathan’s life that I haven’t had some part in organizing since I started at Red Brick eight years ago. However, if I’m about to move up the office ranks, I’ll have to get used
to leaving Jonathan’s affairs up to someone else to organize and worry about.
‘Very sure,’ Jonathan says with a final wink before walking around me and opening his office door – letting me know he’s finished with me and that I can leave.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, leaving the room feeling confused, excited and extremely nervous.
Julie greets me with a manic grin and a celebratory dance of the arms.
‘So exciting,’ she mouths.
10
I’m in a dingy hotel reception, waiting for the concierge to get off the phone so that he can hand me my room key. While standing there, I look around the small lobby. It feels more like a doctor’s waiting room than part of a guesthouse – chaotic from the toddlers and children running around, but with the thick lull that accompanies the sick, as strangers flick through out-of-date magazines, mindlessly hoping to be seen quickly.
There are several babies crying – full-on crying like they’re mid-meltdown. I look at their mothers but they aren’t doing anything, instead they sit with their eyes closed and arms folded, blocking out the relentless squawking coming from their young offspring.
‘Here you go, darling,’ says the concierge, pulling my focus back around to him. Although now the hotel staff member has been replaced with TV chef Jamie Oliver, who’s dressed in a lime green vest top, pink tutu, cream tights and brown cowboy boots with a Christmas hat on his head. He cheerily holds out a piece of celery for me to take. ‘I think this is what you’re after.’
‘Oh …’ I say, inspecting the celery stick with confusion.
‘Room 456,’ he nods with his famous cheeky grin as he flicks the white bobble of his red hat over his shoulder. ‘One of our best. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.’
Now, I don’t want to offend Jamie (it’s Jamie Oliver, no one would want to upset that lovely man), so I take the celery stick from his hand and start walking towards the lift, dubious that this stringy vegetable
is going to help me get into my room, but willing to give it a try.
When the lift door opens there’s a black buggy inside, but no adult around to push or look after its occupant. I look back, but everyone has frozen into a tableau of what was there before: children mid-run, toys mid-movement, Jamie Oliver mid-making a cheese and truffle omelette. So I turn back to the buggy in the lift and get in with it, pressing the button to my floor.
At first I do my best to ignore the abandoned buggy – after all, if I don’t look then it’s not my responsibility – however, seeing as I’m in the slowest elevator ever, curiosity takes hold of me and I find myself side stepping over to it. It looks like a nice buggy – one of those posh designer types that all the mums use around the park while they jog or lunge along. Although this buggy hasn’t been anywhere – the wheels, bars, foot muff and
‘Great.’
‘But I’ll get Julie to sort all that out and give you a time,’ he says, waving his hand around flippantly at the detail.
‘Julie?’
‘Well, you don’t want to be dealing with the enemy,’ he scoffs. ‘I’ve asked Julie to deal with setting up interviews for potential candidates.’
‘Oh, right,’ I say, wondering how much I could persuade Julie to stuff up all the timings so that no one turns up, or to only pick really crap applicants for me to go up against.
‘Like I said, nothing to worry about,’ he winks. ‘In fact, as a goodwill gesture, why don’t you take the rest of your interview day off. On us.’
‘But won’t you need me to – ’
‘I’m sure Julie will manage,’ he says firmly.
‘If you’re sure,’ I reply, feeling weird about the idea. To my knowledge there hasn’t been a single arrangement in Jonathan’s life that I haven’t had some part in organizing since I started at Red Brick eight years ago. However, if I’m about to move up the office ranks, I’ll have to get used
to leaving Jonathan’s affairs up to someone else to organize and worry about.
‘Very sure,’ Jonathan says with a final wink before walking around me and opening his office door – letting me know he’s finished with me and that I can leave.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, leaving the room feeling confused, excited and extremely nervous.
Julie greets me with a manic grin and a celebratory dance of the arms.
‘So exciting,’ she mouths.
10
I’m in a dingy hotel reception, waiting for the concierge to get off the phone so that he can hand me my room key. While standing there, I look around the small lobby. It feels more like a doctor’s waiting room than part of a guesthouse – chaotic from the toddlers and children running around, but with the thick lull that accompanies the sick, as strangers flick through out-of-date magazines, mindlessly hoping to be seen quickly.
There are several babies crying – full-on crying like they’re mid-meltdown. I look at their mothers but they aren’t doing anything, instead they sit with their eyes closed and arms folded, blocking out the relentless squawking coming from their young offspring.
‘Here you go, darling,’ says the concierge, pulling my focus back around to him. Although now the hotel staff member has been replaced with TV chef Jamie Oliver, who’s dressed in a lime green vest top, pink tutu, cream tights and brown cowboy boots with a Christmas hat on his head. He cheerily holds out a piece of celery for me to take. ‘I think this is what you’re after.’
‘Oh …’ I say, inspecting the celery stick with confusion.
‘Room 456,’ he nods with his famous cheeky grin as he flicks the white bobble of his red hat over his shoulder. ‘One of our best. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant.’
Now, I don’t want to offend Jamie (it’s Jamie Oliver, no one would want to upset that lovely man), so I take the celery stick from his hand and start walking towards the lift, dubious that this stringy vegetable
is going to help me get into my room, but willing to give it a try.
When the lift door opens there’s a black buggy inside, but no adult around to push or look after its occupant. I look back, but everyone has frozen into a tableau of what was there before: children mid-run, toys mid-movement, Jamie Oliver mid-making a cheese and truffle omelette. So I turn back to the buggy in the lift and get in with it, pressing the button to my floor.
At first I do my best to ignore the abandoned buggy – after all, if I don’t look then it’s not my responsibility – however, seeing as I’m in the slowest elevator ever, curiosity takes hold of me and I find myself side stepping over to it. It looks like a nice buggy – one of those posh designer types that all the mums use around the park while they jog or lunge along. Although this buggy hasn’t been anywhere – the wheels, bars, foot muff and
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