Read Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
Tucked under one arm is my portfolio, which includes various new chocolate designs and flavours I’ve come up with, along with the receipts from the shop – right up until just before the crunch came along and ruined everything.
I am
determined
to get this job. I am a modern, powerful, creative woman who will not be denied!
Sadly, I’m also feeling a wee bit queasy as I board the 8.15 to
The journey by train is spent revising, and trying to ignore the two chavs at the back of the carriage. Both are clearly already drunk and one is probably mentally challenged to boot. He has that irritating song ‘Perfect’ by Pink playing at full volume from his mobile phone and keeps singing along with the chorus, making a particular effort to scream the line ‘You are perfect,
FUCKING
perfect to meee!’ at the top of his lungs.
The annoyance thankfully disappears when a muscular train guard, who looks in no mood for hijinks of this sort, stalks past my seat and neatly ejects both of the little sods at
Once in
good
and early, ready to dazzle and wow my prospective employers to the point of needing sunglasses.
First comes the obligatory half an hour wait in front of the receptionist.
This seems to be a compulsory part of job interviewing these days. There must be some sort of manual for employers about interviewing that suggests a good way to soften them up is to have them sit directly across from your receptionist in uncomfortable silence for thirty minutes.
This one is about twenty two and wearing more make-up than the bloody Joker. I’m hoping for a loud noise off to one side, just to see if the slap she’s wearing falls off her face if her head moves too quickly.
The phone on her desk rings and the clown prince of crime picks it up. ‘They’re ready for you now, Mrs Newman,’ she tells me through her four layers of foundation.
‘Thanks,’ I reply, getting up and worrying at my skirt, which has inexplicably developed several large creases, despite the fact I’ve been sat still for half an hour.
My heart is hammering in my chest like a caffeine injected blacksmith as I pick up the portfolio beside me.
I wobble past Heath Ledger towards an expensive mahogany door.
It’s opened by a shiny young man in a dapper grey suit. He offers me the kind of smile I’ve only seen before on the face of a used car salesman.
‘Good morning Mrs Newman,’ he says. ‘Please take a seat.’ He gestures to a chair in front of an expensive mahogany desk. There must be a mahogany salesman in the city somewhere with a gold plated toilet.
‘God morning,’ I reply.
God
morning? What the hell does
God morning
mean?
I meant to say good morning of course, but my nerves got the better of me.
He’s going to think I’m some kind of weirdo, God-bothering religious fruitcake now!
‘Good morning,’ I repeat. He smiles at me again in a slightly confused fashion and walks round to join his two colleagues behind the desk.
One of these is a thin, pleasant looking black man in a crisp blue suit, the other is Christopher Biggins.
I blink a couple of times.
How is this possible?
Since when did Biggins – portly comedian and star of many a bawdy television romp in the 1980s – change careers and become an executive for a chocolate company?
I blink again.
It’s not him, thank God.
He just looks uncannily
like
Christopher Biggins.
Relief washes over me. I don’t do well in the presence of celebrities - even minor ones. I once saw
…hang on a minute.
Isn’t Christopher Biggins dead anyway? I’m sure I read that somewhere.
Oh God. How long have I been stood here thinking about Christopher Biggins?
‘Please sit down,’ not Christopher Biggins tells me. He’s got a look on his face that suggests I was stood stock still trying to remember if Christopher Biggins is dead or not for an uncomfortably long period of time.
Stop thinking about Christopher Biggins, you mad bitch!
I sit down, grateful that the desk hides the cavernous creases in my skirt.
The nausea from earlier has returned stronger than ever, but I put it down to a combination of nerves and the Saturday hangover - and do my best to ignore it.
‘My name is Charles Lipman,’ says the nice black man. ‘These are my colleagues David Presley.’ He indicates the slick car salesman. ‘And Roger McDougal.’ He points at not-Biggins.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you all,’ I say, lying through my teeth.
‘As are we, Mrs Newman,’ Lipman continues. ‘From reading your C.V, it appears you may well have the qualities we’re after for the position of southern area manager.’ He pulls out a copy. ‘Tell us all about your previous experience.’
And with that, the interview is underway.
I put thoughts of camp television stars (who may or may not be dead, the jury is still out at this point), wrinkled skirts and Batman villains out of my head, and begin the job of dazzling these three men with my suitability for this fabulous job.
It all goes swimmingly.
For about twenty minutes.
They nod their heads appreciatively as I tell them about their business. They smile approvingly as I suggest ways to increase productivity and profit margins. They even chuckle at my carefully honed jokes about running my own business in a recession hit economy. Jamie had fed me these last night during a last minute flurry of revision. I wasn’t sure about using them, but he said they’d go a long way to proving I had a sparkling personality.
I’m in the middle of explaining the marketing strategy I’d like to employ for next Easter, when the nausea I’ve been keeping at bay all morning breaks through my carefully constructed mental dam and washes over me like a sickly tidal wave.
‘Are you alright Mrs Newman?’ not-Biggins asks, seeing I’ve suddenly gone a whiter shade of pale.
‘Yes,’ I squeak. I take a couple of deep breaths and continue. ‘As I was saying, the campaign needs to focus on parents, so I’ve devised a few strap lines I believe would - ’
My mouth is full of sick.
One minute it’s empty, the next it’s full. I’ve never known anything like it.
In previous experience, I’ve usually had more warning signs: the rolling of the stomach, that horrible coppery taste, the feeling of your throat muscles constricting…
This time though, it’s like a magic trick.
…and not a good one, like the kind Paul Daniels used to perform with the lovely Debbie McGee - and guest star Christopher Biggins.
The vomit simply appears in my mouth in a split second.
I shut my lips tight trying to prevent its exit into the world. My cheeks puff out and I begin to resemble Pob, that stupid kids TV character from the nineties.
‘My word. Are you feeling sick?’ Charles Lipman asks.
Pob can’t reply.
If Pob tries to say anything, a stream of warm vomit will be the only answer provided.
Then, horrifyingly, more sick jostles its way into my already over capacity mouth - like a fat commuter on an underground train during rush hour.
My hand flies up to cover my lips, but the inevitable is already happening. My gob can’t take anymore. The barrier is breeched. The Walls of Jericho have well and truly fallen.
From between my fingers, a fountain of vomit bursts forth, happy to be free of its enforced imprisonment.
All three of my interviewers back away in horror.
Charles Lipman and David Presley are up out of their chairs in an instant, but poor old portly not-Biggins is less limber, and instead of jumping out of his chair to avoid my up-chuck, he simply falls backward in a slapstick tumble his famous doppelganger would have been proud to execute in any matinee performance of Jack and the Beanstalk.
I’m up out of my seat as well, one hand still clasped to my face.
With the other I try to indicate that I need the nearest toilet. I waggle my finger around feverishly while skipping backwards out of range.
It looks like I’ve invented a new dance.
Some kind of finger waggling, puffy cheeked update on the
Thankfully, Charles Lipman divines the import of my interpretive dance. ‘There’s a bathroom through that door!’ he screeches, pointing maniacally at another expensive mahogany door to my right.
I rush towards it and bang the door open.
Inside is one of those executive washrooms that I have no doubt no-one has thrown up in previously.
I happily christen the facilities in the toilet stall at one end.
Most of the sick has already made its way up from my stomach, so I’m spared the hideous dry heaves. After only a couple of minutes I’m able to move away from the toilet bowl to clean myself up. There are some flecks of vomit on my jacket, but on the whole things could be worse.
I look like a heroin addled prostitute face-wise, but my clothes are in a fairly respectable state of repair considering what’s just happened.
Of course I can never leave this bathroom again.
This is my home now. They will have to send in food, drink and other supplies.
I’m glad my mobile phone is in my pocket so I can still communicate with loved ones. They’ll miss me no doubt, but perhaps the people at Hotel Chocolat can arrange visiting hours. I’ll have to bed down in the toilet stall and I’ll need some books to while away the coming decades, but on the whole staying in here is far better than opening the door and facing the three men I’ve just been sick in front of.
‘Er… Mrs Newman?’
It’s fucking Biggins. He wants me out. He wants to bask in my shame, to delight in my embarrassment.
I
hate
you not-Christopher Biggins and everything you stand for.
‘Are you alright, Mrs Newman?’ Presley also pipes up.
Of course I’m not alright you colossal pillock. I’ve just completely ruined my chances of getting a job with your company.
‘Yes, I’m fine!’ I shout through the door a little too loudly. ‘I’m going to come out now.’