Читать книгу In Case You Missed It - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 9

Ten o’clock the following morning, I sat, patiently waiting in the waiting room, wearing a pair of trousers left over from the turn of the millennium that the internet assured me were due to come back into fashion any second now and my mother’s second-best shirt. There had been no time to shop for a better interview outfit and since Dad had destroyed all my nicest things, I was forced to be a trendsetter.

PodPad, according to the research I’d done on my way into town, was no longer the tiny startup I’d rejected three years ago but a terribly cool company that made terribly cool podcasts about terribly cool things, like paleo diets and radical politics and serial killers. People loved podcasts about serial killers. Probably a societal red flag, I thought, reading through the list on their website: Murderville, The Killer Nextdoor. Murdered to Death. Probably something we ought to be more worried about, as if we didn’t have enough to be worried about already.

A tall, gangly, red-haired man, who looked like he’d shaved for the very first time that morning, stuck his head out the door. He glanced at me once, frowned and desperately searched the otherwise empty room for someone who was not me.

‘Ros?’ he asked, eventually giving up his pointless quest.

‘Hi.’ I stood and held out my hand. He took in my trousers, shiny shoes and freshly ironed shirt before taking my hand, shaking it and turning away with an audible sigh.

Off to a brilliant start.

‘This way,’ he said, leading me out of the waiting room and into a very different environment. I looked back through the door and blinked; it was like walking into hipster Narnia. Gone were the bare walls and hard plastic chairs, and in their place was a farm full of happy-looking people clicking away at computers, sitting on bold, colourful sofas, lounging next to gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows that let in all the light. They even had the requisite ping pong table that seemed to be a contractual obligation in modern media offices. It meant this was a Cool Company and I had always wanted to work for a Cool Company. They probably had a fridge full of beers that you could have whenever you fancied and someone who came in on Tuesdays to make tacos.

‘Danielle says hi,’ the man said, his hands gripping his upper arms, squeezing an assortment of colourful but seemingly unconnected tattoos. I saw Mickey Mouse in his Sorcerer’s Apprentice outfit; a Pepsi logo; an Indian-looking symbol I was sure I recognized from a yoga class; and a face that was perhaps supposed to be Kurt Cobain’s but, under the tension of the man’s grip, looked more like Postman Pat’s. ‘She’s in the New York office for the next couple of months so I’m looking after content while she’s away. She said you’ve just come back from the States, yeah?’

‘Yes,’ I confirmed, desperate not to sound as nervous as I felt. ‘Just got ba—’

‘And you were working for APR, yeah?’ he interrupted. ‘Cool, cool. My favourite radio station. Not that I really listen to radio.’

‘Thanks, it was a really good pla—’

‘You were a producer? That’s choice.’

Apparently he was going to interview himself on my behalf.

‘Dream job, right there,’ he said, stopping suddenly and perching his very tiny arse on the edge of a desk. ‘Why did you leave?’

I looked around the office, with its bright colours and happy, busy people, and I wanted to be part of it so badly.

‘It was time for a change,’ I said. No need to go into specifics unless specifics were asked for. ‘I learned a lot there but I’m ready for the next challenge.’

He considered my answer as I squeezed the strap of my handbag tighter and tighter and tighter. Was he really going to interview me in the middle of the office, in front of everyone? I cast my eyes around the room and saw everyone pretending they weren’t watching.

‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ the man said, staring hard into my eyes. My hand rose to swipe at any stray mascara that might have migrated where it was not wanted. ‘We need a producer ASAP. Someone who can think fast and work hard. Danielle says that’s you. Is that you, Ros?’

‘I think so?’ I said hesitantly, taken aback by his sudden intensity.

‘We don’t do “I think so” here,’ he said, eyes burning directly into mine. ‘We do passion.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, coughing to cover an awkward attack of the lols that threatened to burble up and out of my mouth. ‘I just realized I didn’t catch your name.’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you my name,’ he replied, re-crossing his arms over his T-shirt and covering up a slogan that was either very funny or very rude, depending on how you felt about vegans. ‘What’s your deal? Who is Ros? What does she want?’

I’d been working in radio for ten years and no one had ever asked me what my deal was. They’d asked me about my experience, they’d discussed my qualifications and, once, a breakfast presenter had asked for my bra size but you really couldn’t get away with things like that any more, thank god.

‘You want to know about my deal?’ I repeated, hoping I hadn’t heard him properly.

‘What’s your deal?’ he said again, karate-chopping his own hand to emphasize each word. ‘Why do you want to work at PodPad?’

‘Because I’m truly passionate about sharing the truth with people and I believe radi— I mean, podcasting, is the greatest medium we have to communicate the stories that matter to the people who need to hear them,’ I said carefully. It was a never-fail interview line but he just carried on staring at me, not speaking or moving.

‘Why do you want to work at PodPad?’ I asked, starting to get annoyed. ‘And seriously, what is your name?’

‘We’ll get to names if I decide to offer you a position,’ he said, completely ignoring my first question with the hint of a smirk on his face.

For the first time in my life, I longed for an awkward, stilted interview across an MDF desk conducted in an HR dungeon by someone called Brenda. I had taken my Brendas for granted and I was regretting it. You always knew where you were with a Brenda. Was I wasting my time? Why would a company like PodPad want to hire me anyway?

‘I’m here because I need a job,’ I said plainly. It was cards on the table time. ‘I’m thirty-two, I’m living in a shed in my parents’ back garden, no one is hiring in radio between here and the Outer Hebrides and, if I don’t get a job soon, I’m going to have to retrain as either an optician or an international assassin.’

The redhead’s smirk grew into a fully fledged grin.

‘Why an optician?’

‘Seems like a good job,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Decent hours, good money. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting in little dark rooms so that seems like transferrable skill. Oh, and some opticians work in Boots and I love Boots.’

‘And international assassin?’

I chewed on the inside of my cheek.

‘I like to travel?’

‘But you’d have to kill people.’

‘Every job’s got its downside,’ I reasoned.

We stood face to face in the bright, busy office for slightly too long a moment and stared at each other in silence until the redhead stuck out his fist. For a split second, I thought it was going to punch me and instinctively shirked away. And then I realized he wanted me to fist-bump him and I died inside.

‘I’m Ted,’ he said as I reluctantly tapped my knuckles against his. ‘Welcome to the team.’