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“That’s no problem at all, I quite understand. This sort of thing happens all the time, don’t worry. Let me check the calendars,” she tells me, and I start breathing again. I hadn’t even noticed that I was holding my breath.
“We have another candidate coming in on Thursday afternoon, but we could see you on Friday morning, if you’re able to get here for eight thirty. Is that any good?”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her, hoping I don’t sound as relieved as I feel. “Thank you so much.”
“Excellent. I’ll look forward to meeting you at eight thirty on Friday morning.”
As soon as the call is over, I heave a huge sigh of relief and berate myself for being so paranoid. Of course they must have to move interviews around; she probably didn’t think my request unusual at all. After texting first to make sure it’s a good time, I ring Charley to fill her in. She’s delighted when I tell her.
“It was a close-run thing, though,” I tell her, when her shrieks of joy have died down. “The first slot was the same time as my photo shoot with Toby.”
“Are you two speaking again then? That’s even better news. What did he say? Are you two an item now?”
“Umm, no. Not exactly.” I fill her in on the details of me pretending to be Kristina Olgatov, the burner phone, and even give a demonstration of my appalling Eastern European accent. She guffaws with laughter.
“That is the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages,” she tells me. “I’ve literally got tears running down my cheeks from laughing so much. I told you you were resourceful, didn’t I?”
“You did, and I am quite pleased with myself. It just took me a while to figure out how to get hold of him without him realising it was me. It’s all going to unravel the moment he claps eyes on me, but I think I have a plan for that.”
“Which is?”
“I’ve paid a deposit and he’s accepted it. That’s a contract. He has to let me in.”
“Well, technically Kristina paid the deposit. He could simply return it on the basis that you aren’t who you said you were on the phone.”
“I’ve just got to hope he doesn’t do that, haven’t I? Anyway, I’ve bought new lingerie and everything.”
“Are you actually going to do the photo shoot then? I’d be too embarrassed.”
“I haven’t decided. I’m going to play it by ear.”
After I hang up, I realise Charley has a point. There’s nothing to stop Toby simply returning the hundred pounds and telling me to get lost. I need him not to know it’s me until I’m actually inside the studio. I need a disguise. Some big sunglasses and a wig ought to do it.
It doesn’t take much internet research for me to work out that a wig is not going to work. My hair is long, and I’ll confess to being a bit vain about it. In order to get it to sit under a wig, I’d have to braid it and wrap it around my head; it would need professional attention to hang properly after that kind of abuse. A search on facial disguises proves to be equally useless, unless I want to pitch up in a Marx Brothers moustache with comedy eyebrows and glasses. This is hopeless.
Eventually I decide that some big sunglasses and a hoodie will probably work, as long as I keep my head down until I’m actually inside the studio. I still have a couple of days to fill, so I pencil in another shopping trip; I need an interview outfit, and I need a hoodie that Toby hasn’t seen, as well as the sunglasses.
My debit card takes a pounding the next day, and I find myself begging any deity that will listen to help me get this job. I’m going to have to raid my savings to pay myself back for the fortune I’ve spent in the two shopping trips I’ve embarked on in the last few days. My haul today includes a charcoal grey suit with subtle pinstripes for the interview. It was much more than I planned to spend, but the jacket fits beautifully, nipping in to emphasise my waist, and the matching pencil skirt flattens my stomach and flatters my thighs before ending just above the knee. It’s corporate, but also feminine, and I fell in love with it. I bought myself some black patent leather court shoes with low heels to go with it, some new tights, and another set of ‘lucky’ Rigby & Peller underwear. I know the underwear will make no difference to the interviewers, but I will know I’m wearing it and it will boost my confidence. Of course, that’s complete nonsense, but it’s as good an excuse as any other to justify another set of hideously expensive lingerie.
For the meeting with Toby, I buy myself a pair of mirrored pilot’s sunglasses that are so big they obscure most of my face, and a new hoodie in SuperDry that will cover my hair. I also brave the electronics department in John Lewis, coming away with a memory card that I know will fit Toby’s camera.
I’m up early on Friday morning. I had set my alarm for half past six, but I’m wide awake an hour before that. I’ve planned the day with military precision. I’m going to arrive at the Voyages Luxes offices at eight twenty, which is early enough to indicate that I’m serious, without being so early that I come across as desperate. The interview should be finished by ten thirty, although I’ve allowed half an hour of contingency time, just in case. That still gives me plenty of time to come back home, shower again, and change into Kristina’s outfit of tracksuit bottoms and the hoodie, complete with the second set of underwear underneath. I’ve decided to arrive fifteen minutes late for my appointment with Toby. Not only does this seem the sort of thing that ‘Kristina’ would do, it also ensures I won’t accidentally overlap with whatever he’s doing before me.
As I shower, I focus on the interview and the questions they might ask me. I need not to think about Toby for this part of the day. Once the interview is over I can focus fully on him but, for now, I need to nail this and secure my future. I’m a little bit early and have to walk around the block a few times before presenting myself at reception at eight twenty precisely. I only have to wait a few moments before Deborah appears to meet me.
“Madison,” she holds out her hand, “I’m Deborah Reynolds, nice to meet you. The editorial exercise is all set up. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee before we begin?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
She leads me into one of the meeting rooms, where a computer is waiting for me.
“The article for you to edit is on the screen in front of you. When you make changes, you’ll see that there is a red line to the left. Don’t worry about that, it’s purely so that we can see what you have altered so we can get a flavour of your editing style. You have an hour to complete the exercise, so take your time.”
She loads up the article, notes the time, and leaves. I turn my attention to the screen and my heart sinks. I’ve read this article before. It’s one of Peter Smallbone’s, and it’s so turgid I have little chance of turning it into anything useful unless I throw it away and rewrite it from scratch. I sit and stare at it for a few moments before I realise what they’ve done. Despite all the warm words in the email, this is a trap. If I rewrite it, I prove that I’m not an editor but a writer. If I merely edit it, it will never bring the place alive in the way that I would want an article to do. I allow a few profanities to seep out under my breath.
At the end of the hour I’m not happy, but I’ve done as much as I can for Peter’s article without losing what he wrote originally. It’s not fit to be published, and I’m hoping that I’m right that the brief was to make the most of what I was presented with, rather than turn it into an article that I’d be happy to put my name to.
The interview itself appears to go well. Mark and Deborah read what I’ve done, ask a few questions that I don’t find hard to answer, and then fill me in on the practicalities of the job. The salary isn’t huge, but I’ll be able to live on it fairly comfortably. More importantly, I’ll get perks that I’d never have dreamed of as a freelance journalist; I’ll have four weeks of paid holiday per year rising to five, private medical insurance, and they will contribute to my pension. There’s even a bonus scheme. I’m starting to see why my father had such a problem with me being self-employed.
“You’re the last of the candidates we selected for interview,” Deborah tells me as she shows me out. “You should hear from us soon. Thank you for coming in.”
As I drive home, I replay the interview in my head. I’m relieved to find that I can’t think of any questions that I wish I had answered differently, so I allow myself to focus fully on the shoot this afternoon. I have to prepare for the performance of my life.
