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I check my watch. Five minutes early, which I think is about perfect. I’m still riddled with doubts about making a fool of myself, but I give myself a mental shake and press the buzzer.
‘Atkinson Construction, how may I help?’ The disembodied voice comes from a small speaker above the button.
‘Ella Mackenzie, I’m here for an interview at half past eleven,’ I reply, hoping there isn’t a hidden button I have to press to make myself heard, like on the walkie-talkies Ava and I used to play with when we were little.
‘Of course, I’ll just open the gate. Come to the front door and I’ll let you in,’ the voice replies. Completely silently, one of the wrought-iron gates begins to swing open, and I step through as soon as the gap is big enough. I silently curse my decision to wear stilettos, as my heels are sinking into the deep gravel, so the confident stride I was aiming for is more of an inelegant totter. I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the safe ground of the steps up to the front door, which is being held open by a woman I guess must be in her early twenties.
‘Come on in,’ she says, stepping aside to let me enter. If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside is amazing. I’m in a large hallway with a polished wooden parquet floor. I can just see an opulent sitting room through a set of double doors on the right, and there are muted voices coming from behind a closed door on the left.
‘I’m Abby, Mr Atkinson’s daughter,’ the woman explains. ‘I think they’re on a conference call or something. Are you happy to wait in the sitting room? As soon as they open the door, I’ll let them know you’re here. Would you like a drink of anything?’
‘A glass of water would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’ The combination of my interview nerves and feeling like a fish out of water in these luxurious surroundings has made my mouth dry out completely.
She leads me through the double doors and indicates an enormous, leather sofa. ‘If you want to settle yourself there, I’ll bring it to you.’
OK, this is awkward. I’ve lowered myself into the sofa, but it’s one of those really squishy ones that are brilliant if you want to stretch out and watch a film, but a total disaster if you’re trying to sit up straight and look like a professional. I wriggle forwards so I’m sort of perched on the edge, but I can feel myself slowly sliding back into its leathery embrace.
‘Here you go.’ Abby returns with a crystal glass and I instantly regret asking for a drink. The glass looks like it’s probably some ultra-exclusive make that costs a fortune. It would be just my luck for it to slip out of my sweaty hands and smash on the floor, although I’ve lost my battle with the sofa, so it would probably just fall on my lap, and the carpet on the floor is so thick, it would cushion the impact anyway. But, oh God, the sofa and carpet are probably allergic to water and would stain horribly. I hold the glass tightly in both hands, fully aware that it makes me look like a child. Abby settles herself on the sofa opposite and I get the impression she’s about to start a conversation with me, but we never get that far.
‘Sorry to keep you, Ella. Would you like to come through?’ I can tell from the voice that the dark-haired woman who has just walked in is Deborah Smythe. She must be fifty if she’s a day, but she’s hiding it fairly well with beautiful clothes and just a little too much make-up. What’s more interesting is that, for the briefest moment, Abby’s face transforms into a mask of pure loathing. There’s obviously some history there.
‘Thank you,’ I say to Deborah as I try to extricate myself from the sofa without spilling any water. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ I say to Abby as I start to follow Deborah towards the hallway.
The room Deborah leads me into is set up as an office, with two large desks and a seating area where a man that I’m guessing is Christopher Atkinson is waiting for us. He stands and holds out his hand as we enter, and I try to surreptitiously wipe mine on my skirt before offering it to him. He looks mid-fifties but, apart from a little thinning of the hair, he’s in good shape. His eyes twinkle and he has a kind face, which helps to alleviate my nerves a little.
‘Christopher Atkinson,’ he says by way of introduction. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ella. Is it OK if I call you Ella?’
‘Yes, please do,’ I reply.
‘Excellent. Please call me Christopher. Deborah you’ve already met, of course. Have a seat.’ He indicates a chair which is, thankfully, much more upright than the sofa in the sitting room. He and Deborah take their places in the chairs facing me. There’s a small table between us, on which I carefully place the glass of water.
‘Before we start, it would probably be helpful if we told you a bit more about us and the opportunity,’ Christopher begins. ‘My late wife and I founded the company a little over twenty years ago, starting out with house renovations before moving into new builds. Deborah joined us three years ago, just before my wife passed away. Our philosophy is simple: we find plots that are too small for the big developers to be interested in and build on them, usually between fifteen and thirty houses on each plot. We currently have six plots in various stages of development, and the one we’re recruiting for is in the south of England, in Kent. Do you know that part of the world at all?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’ That’s a blow. I know I was spreading my search, but I don’t want to go that far. That settles it. I won’t be taking the job even if they offer it to me, which is unlikely. Shame really because Christopher seems nice and he sounds like he’d be a good boss. Still, it takes the pressure off, and I can feel my nerves settling down.
‘The role can work in one of two ways,’ Christopher is saying. ‘If you’re flexible and happy to move around the country, it can be a permanent position. We have a couple of project managers who have been with us for a number of years. However, that doesn’t suit everyone, and the PM on our site in Oxfordshire is a case in point. He lives nearby and is only working for us as a contractor for that one development. We will be offering the role on a contract basis initially, to become permanent at the end of the project if both parties are happy. Do you have any questions?’
‘Not at this stage,’ I reply.
‘Great. So, looking at your CV, your background is in computer software. What makes you think you would be suitable for this position?’
By the time they’ve finished grilling me, nearly an hour has passed, but I reckon I’ve acquitted myself pretty well. There was a stumbling point when they asked whether I had a CSCS card, and I had to admit I didn’t know what one of those was (apparently, it’s a certification that most companies require for people working on building sites), but it seems I can get a temporary card by passing a test, and that will tide me over until I qualify for the proper card. I’ve put Ben’s teaching to good use and I think they were impressed by my level of knowledge. Deborah has been encouraging, with lots of smiles and open questions, but I’m not so sure about Christopher. He’s been perfectly friendly, but I don’t think I’ve done quite enough to win him over. We’ve discussed my availability, which is unsurprisingly very good, and we’re now at the crunchy part where we talk about the pay. I’m pretty chilled; I just want to see how hard I can negotiate for this job that I’m sure they have as little intention of offering as I do of accepting.
‘In terms of salary,’ Deborah is saying, ‘we would have to take into account your lack of experience, so we’d probably make an offer in the region of £30,000 per annum.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I smile at her. ‘But I couldn’t accept that. I was earning £45,000 in my previous position, so I’m looking for something close to that.’
‘I understand,’ she replies. ‘Don’t forget, however, that there are significant perks in this role that need to be taken into account. We include your accommodation, so you’ll be saving on rent, plus there are bonuses for hitting relevant milestones on schedule.’
‘Even still, I’d need thirty-eight as an absolute minimum, I’m afraid.’
‘We won’t be able to get that high. Thirty-five would be the most we could possibly offer, if we make an offer at all.’
Although it’s a lot less than my salary at Orchestra, she’s right that not having to pay out in rent, plus the bonuses, would leave me significantly better off, even at £35,000. I’ve squeezed an extra five grand out of her too, which I’m pretty pleased with. It gives me confidence that I’ll be able to negotiate a decent rate when I’m doing this for real.
The interview wraps up fairly swiftly after that and, after running the gauntlet of the gravel driveway, I head for the bus stop. On the way home, I send a quick message to Ava.
Interview went OK. I don’t think they’ll offer it to me as I don’t have experience or a CSCS card (who knew?), and it’s in Kent so I can’t take it even if they did, but say thanks to Ben anyway.
