Me Before You
Page 8
‘So you have come via the Job Centre advertisement, is that right? Do sit down.’
While she flicked through her folder of papers, I gazed surreptitiously around the room. I had thought the house might be a bit like a care home, all hoists and wipe-clean surfaces. But this was like one of those scarily expensive hotels, steeped in old money, with well-loved things that looked valuable in their own right. There were silver-framed photographs on a sideboard, but they were too far away for me to make out the faces. As she scanned her pages, I shifted in my seat, to try to get a better look.
And it was then that I heard it – the unmistakable sound of stitches ripping. I glanced down to see the two pieces of material that joined at the side of my right leg had torn apart, sending frayed pieces of silk thread shooting upwards in an ungainly fringe. I felt my face flood with colour.
‘So … Miss Clark … do you have any experience with quadriplegia?’
I turned to face Mrs Traynor, wriggling so that my jacket covered as much of the skirt as possible.
‘No.’
‘Have you been a carer for long?’
‘Um … I’ve never actually done it,’ I said, adding, as if I could hear Syed’s voice in my ear, ‘but I’m sure I could learn.’
‘Do you know what a quadriplegic is?’
I faltered. ‘When … you’re stuck in a wheelchair?’
‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. There are varying degrees, but in this case we are talking about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use of the hands and arms. Would that bother you?’
‘Well, not as much as it would bother him, obviously.’ I raised a smile, but Mrs Traynor’s face was expressionless. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean –’
‘Can you drive, Miss Clark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clean licence?’
I nodded.
Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list.
The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl.
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Traynor was gazing at me.
‘I’m just a little warm. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ Before she could say anything, I wrenched the jacket off in one fluid motion and tied it around my waist, obscuring the split in the skirt. ‘So hot,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘coming in from outside. You know.’
There was the faintest pause, and then Mrs Traynor looked back at her folder. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘And you were in your previous job for six years.’
‘Yes. You should have a copy of my reference.’
‘Mm … ’ Mrs Traynor held it up and squinted. ‘Your previous employer says you are a “warm, chatty and life-enhancing presence”.’
‘Yes, I paid him.’
That poker face again.
Oh hell, I thought.
It was as if I were being studied. Not necessarily in a good way. My mother’s shirt felt suddenly cheap, the synthetic threads shining in the thin light. I should just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit.
‘So why are you leaving this job, where you are clearly so well regarded?’
‘Frank – the owner – sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘I would have been happy to stay.’
Mrs Traynor nodded, either because she didn’t feel the need to say anything further about it, or because she too would have been happy for me to stay there.
‘And what exactly do you want to do with your life?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Do you have aspirations for a career? Would this be a stepping stone to something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue?’
I looked at her blankly.
Was this some kind of trick question?
‘I … I haven’t really thought that far. Since I lost my job. I just –’ I swallowed. ‘I just want to work again.’
It sounded feeble. What kind of person came to an interview without even knowing what she wanted to do? Mrs Traynor’s expression suggested she thought the same thing.
She put down her pen. ‘So, Miss Clark, why should I employ you instead of, say, the previous candidate, who has several years’ experience with quadriplegics?’
I looked at her. ‘Um … honestly? I don’t know.’ This met with silence, so I added, ‘I guess that would be your call.’
‘You can’t give me a single reason why I should employ you?’
My mother’s face suddenly swam into view. The thought of going home with a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. And this job paid more than £9 an hour.
I sat up a bit. ‘Well … I’m a fast learner, I’m never ill, I only live on the other side of the castle, and I’m stronger than I look … probably strong enough to help move your husband around –’
‘My husband? It’s not my husband you’d be working with. It’s my son.’
‘Your son?’ I blinked. ‘Um … I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m good at dealing with all sorts of people and … and I make a mean cup of tea.’ I began to blather into the silence. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. ‘I mean, my dad seems to think that’s not the greatest reference. But in my experience there’s not much that can’t be fixed by a decent cup of tea … ’
While she flicked through her folder of papers, I gazed surreptitiously around the room. I had thought the house might be a bit like a care home, all hoists and wipe-clean surfaces. But this was like one of those scarily expensive hotels, steeped in old money, with well-loved things that looked valuable in their own right. There were silver-framed photographs on a sideboard, but they were too far away for me to make out the faces. As she scanned her pages, I shifted in my seat, to try to get a better look.
And it was then that I heard it – the unmistakable sound of stitches ripping. I glanced down to see the two pieces of material that joined at the side of my right leg had torn apart, sending frayed pieces of silk thread shooting upwards in an ungainly fringe. I felt my face flood with colour.
‘So … Miss Clark … do you have any experience with quadriplegia?’
I turned to face Mrs Traynor, wriggling so that my jacket covered as much of the skirt as possible.
‘No.’
‘Have you been a carer for long?’
‘Um … I’ve never actually done it,’ I said, adding, as if I could hear Syed’s voice in my ear, ‘but I’m sure I could learn.’
‘Do you know what a quadriplegic is?’
I faltered. ‘When … you’re stuck in a wheelchair?’
‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it. There are varying degrees, but in this case we are talking about complete loss of use of the legs, and very limited use of the hands and arms. Would that bother you?’
‘Well, not as much as it would bother him, obviously.’ I raised a smile, but Mrs Traynor’s face was expressionless. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean –’
‘Can you drive, Miss Clark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clean licence?’
I nodded.
Camilla Traynor ticked something on her list.
The rip was growing. I could see it creeping inexorably up my thigh. At this rate, by the time I stood up I would look like a Vegas showgirl.
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Traynor was gazing at me.
‘I’m just a little warm. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ Before she could say anything, I wrenched the jacket off in one fluid motion and tied it around my waist, obscuring the split in the skirt. ‘So hot,’ I said, smiling at her, ‘coming in from outside. You know.’
There was the faintest pause, and then Mrs Traynor looked back at her folder. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-six.’
‘And you were in your previous job for six years.’
‘Yes. You should have a copy of my reference.’
‘Mm … ’ Mrs Traynor held it up and squinted. ‘Your previous employer says you are a “warm, chatty and life-enhancing presence”.’
‘Yes, I paid him.’
That poker face again.
Oh hell, I thought.
It was as if I were being studied. Not necessarily in a good way. My mother’s shirt felt suddenly cheap, the synthetic threads shining in the thin light. I should just have worn my plainest trousers and a shirt. Anything but this suit.
‘So why are you leaving this job, where you are clearly so well regarded?’
‘Frank – the owner – sold the cafe. It’s the one at the bottom of the castle. The Buttered Bun. Was,’ I corrected myself. ‘I would have been happy to stay.’
Mrs Traynor nodded, either because she didn’t feel the need to say anything further about it, or because she too would have been happy for me to stay there.
‘And what exactly do you want to do with your life?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Do you have aspirations for a career? Would this be a stepping stone to something else? Do you have a professional dream that you wish to pursue?’
I looked at her blankly.
Was this some kind of trick question?
‘I … I haven’t really thought that far. Since I lost my job. I just –’ I swallowed. ‘I just want to work again.’
It sounded feeble. What kind of person came to an interview without even knowing what she wanted to do? Mrs Traynor’s expression suggested she thought the same thing.
She put down her pen. ‘So, Miss Clark, why should I employ you instead of, say, the previous candidate, who has several years’ experience with quadriplegics?’
I looked at her. ‘Um … honestly? I don’t know.’ This met with silence, so I added, ‘I guess that would be your call.’
‘You can’t give me a single reason why I should employ you?’
My mother’s face suddenly swam into view. The thought of going home with a ruined suit and another interview failure was beyond me. And this job paid more than £9 an hour.
I sat up a bit. ‘Well … I’m a fast learner, I’m never ill, I only live on the other side of the castle, and I’m stronger than I look … probably strong enough to help move your husband around –’
‘My husband? It’s not my husband you’d be working with. It’s my son.’
‘Your son?’ I blinked. ‘Um … I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m good at dealing with all sorts of people and … and I make a mean cup of tea.’ I began to blather into the silence. The thought of it being her son had thrown me. ‘I mean, my dad seems to think that’s not the greatest reference. But in my experience there’s not much that can’t be fixed by a decent cup of tea … ’
