Swan (7 page)

‘So, tell me more about your job in the call centre.
You must get loads of irate customers.’

‘Yeah, we do. It can be an absolute nightmare
sometimes. I just want to tear my hair out. But, I guess I’m sort of used to it
now. When you’ve been there for as long as I have, it all becomes part of the
routine, you know? And there are days when you do get the odd nice customer.
Someone who’s grateful we haven’t towed their car away.’

David sniggered. ‘How long have you worked there
for?’

‘Seven years.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny, I wouldn’t have put
you as someone to work in such a confrontational environment. Nasty job,
parking tickets. How did you get into it?’

I shrugged. ‘Well I didn’t go to school thinking,
“When I grow up I want to work in a call centre.” It just sort of happened, you
know? Life does that to people. It never turns out quite as you plan.’

He wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
There were still little specs of cream on his chin. I thought this was kind of
sweet. ‘So,’ David continued, ‘what
did
you want to be when you were growing up?’

I suddenly went all coy. ‘I was really into writing.
I loved English. I wanted to be a scriptwriter, go to film school, the whole
shebang. I really wanted to be somebody.’

I felt his eyes on me now, watching, scrutinizing.
‘So why didn’t you pursue your dream? Why didn’t you go to film school?’

I rested my hands in my lap and stared blankly at
one of the pictures on the wall. ‘My mother got sick. It was really difficult
trying to juggle it all. Studying and caring for her, I mean. I had to get my
priorities right, and, in the end, family came first.’

‘But surely Beth could have helped? Surely it wasn’t
left just down to you to carry all that baggage on your own?’

I shrugged again. ‘Beth had her own issues to deal
with. It just seemed like the right thing for me to do. I don’t regret it. When
my father died, Mum was all alone. I was all she had. I couldn’t just leave
her.’

‘Your mother ... is she better now?’

Tears clawed at my throat. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’ David
reached over and put his hand on mine. Once again, I marvelled at how soft it
was. I looked at him. There was something so familiar about his eyes, something
that I couldn’t place, like fragments from a long forgotten dream.

‘So, what’s stopping you now?’

‘Huh?’

‘What’s stopping you from following your dream of
becoming a script-writer?’

‘Well, it just isn’t practical, is it? I mean, how
would I live? How would I eat? I’ve got bills to pay, credit card debts, rent
to pay. I can’t survive on thin air.’

‘You’re being way too pessimistic, Madeline. True,
most writers can’t afford the clothes on their back, but if you did make it
big, if you did get that big break, if you
did
get that elusive chance at fame, all the sacrifices you made would have been
worth it.’

‘Yeah, but that’s a very big “if”.’

‘So what? Better to do something you love then spend
a life filled with regret. Try being more spontaneous, Madeline; you might be
surprised by the results.’

I gave a hollow laugh. ‘That’s easy for you to say,
but the reality is, I just can’t. I’m not a teenager. I’ve got to think
sensibly about my future.’

‘And be sensibly unhappy?’ He let go of my hand and
jammed the final wedge of cake into his mouth. ‘How old are you anyway?’

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Pah! You’re still young. Plenty of time for a
career change.’

‘I don’t feel that young anymore. Since the age of
sixteen I’ve been trying to regress back to my childhood. I feel like I can’t
cope with being an adult. Sometimes there are just so many demands, so many
expectations from me, I wonder if I’m really cut out for it.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You looked after
your mother, didn’t you? That sounds like it took a lot of maturity - to stand
by and put someone you love before yourself. You must have had to grow up
fast.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ I swallowed hard. The
tears were rising again. ‘I just feel like life’s just passing me by, like I’m
stuck on this conveyor-belt and can’t get off. God, I feel so trapped
sometimes.’

I couldn’t believe how candid I was being. But
somehow I felt I could tell him anything. Share my innermost thoughts. They say
it’s easier to talk about your problems with a stranger than those close to
you, so perhaps that was the case with David. There was something benign in his
countenance, the ability to listen and not to judge.

David shook his head. ‘We all feel trapped at times.
But, as my therapist says, there really are no boundaries to what a person can
do. With enough focus, with enough determination, you can break free from your
self-made prison.’

I smiled meekly. David was starting to sound a bit
like one of those cheesy self-help manuals. Still, I found it rather endearing
how supportive he was being. At least he took me seriously and didn’t trample
on my ambitions, as Beth had done so many times in the past.

David got up. ‘Do you fancy a refill?’ He pointed to
my empty glass.

‘No thanks, I really shouldn’t.’ I glanced at my
watch. It was almost ten o’clock. My, how the time had flown. ‘I should be
going. I’ve got to be up early for work.’

‘What time do you leave in the mornings?’

‘Half seven.’

I stood. He followed me to the door. I hesitated,
trying to prolong the moment for as long as possible.

‘Well Madeline, it’s been a lovely evening. And
thanks again for the cake.’

‘I’m glad you liked it.’

I watched as he unlatched the door. He seemed
reluctant, almost like he didn’t want me to go. Or was that just my
imagination?

‘Oh, by the way,’ I said cheerily, ‘do you fancy
going to the cinema this Friday? I was thinking of catching a movie in
Greenwich, nothing major.’ I tried to make it sound as casual as possible.
Inside, I was quaking at the prospect of a rejection. Had I overstepped the
mark?

David paused. ‘Friday ... hmm, let me see, let me
see. What have I got on ... Yes, Friday’s good for me. What time are you
planning to go?’

‘Um, not sure yet. I’ll have to check out the show
times.’

‘Do you have any particular film in mind?’

Everybody
Loves Sid
had just been released, and
I was dying to see it. But I wasn’t about to mention this to David. It was far
too early in our relationship for me to unleash my obsession with Chet Vincent
on him. That would have to come later.

‘Er, no,’ I replied with an air of nonchalance, ‘I
don’t know what’s out. But I’m sure we’ll find something.’

‘Well, as you know, I’m not much of a film man, so
I’ll let you decide.’

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. If you’d rather not come ...’

‘No of course I’ll come. Friday it is. Shall I pick
you up about seven?’

‘Perfect! See you then.’

I smiled all the way back to my flat.

Chapter Six

Friday morning got off to a bad start. The sky
outside was grey like a heron. Then it started to rain, perhaps an omen of the
nightmare ahead.

I had an interview with Angela Towner for the
management position at nine-thirty. I wasn’t generally a suit person, preferring
to languish in baggy jumpers and ankle-length skirts, but today I had decided
to make a special effort with my appearance. I had gone to Marks and Spencer’s
in Oxford Street and purchased a nicely tailored skirt suit. It was navy blue
and fitted me like a glove. I liked M&S sizes. There, a 16 really
was
a 16 and made allowances for women
with a bum.

At quarter past seven, I was ready to go. I checked
myself out in the full-length mirror and, satisfied that I looked the part,
grabbed my keys, my handbag and my phone. Before locking up, I made sure that
the iron, strengtheners and gas cooker were switched off. I was a bit obsessive
compulsive about stuff like that. I had a terrible phobia of coming home to a
burnt-out flat. In fact, things had got so bad that I now actually factored in
an extra fifteen minutes each day to run these checks, so that I wouldn’t be
late for work.

I got to Blackwall DLR station at quarter to eight.
As usual, the platform was packed full of commuters heading into central London.
Some mornings it was so crowded that I had to wait for a couple of trains to
pass before I could actually get on. Luckily, that wasn’t the case today. I
managed to get on the first train to Bank, although, as always, I was forced to
stand.

The next few stops passed without incidence, until
we got to Shadwell and a strange old lady got on. She reeked of piss and
carried all her worldly possessions in a portable shopping trolley. The stench
was cloying to the nostrils, and I was fighting a terrible urge to be sick. A
couple of the other passengers were trying not to look at her, trying to
pretend that the decrepit old bag lady wasn’t there. But she was. And no amount
of wishful thinking was going to make her disappear. That’s one of great the
things about London: anything goes - even a half-naked man in a ladies’ thong
would barely merit a second glance on the Tube.

However, one little boy with his mother wasn’t so
charitable. He was like the kid from
The
Emperors’ New Clothes
: keen to voice what the adults left unspoken.

‘Mummy, why does that woman stink so much? Mummy,
she’s gross, I’m going to be sick.’

Stifling a smirk, I turned and looked out the
steamed-up window.

When the train finally arrived at Bank, I
disembarked and made my way to the Northern Line, which was even more crowded
than Blackwall. I had to fight to get to the front of the platform, and then I
glanced up at the electronic timetable. Two minutes until the next train. When
it finally thundered in, a surge of bodies pushed into me, making me lose my
footing. It was on days like this that I loathed humanity, loathed the fact
that I had to share such a confined space with all these annoying, clawing
vultures.

The carriage doors opened. Five people pushed ahead
of me.

The voice on the Tannoy
[E3]
 
blared: ‘This train is now ready to depart, mind the closing doors.’ Cursing
under my breath, I lunged forward and managed to make it through just in time.
Then to my embarrassment, I found that I was caught between the doors.

‘Help me out!’ I squealed, trying desperately to yank
myself free.

A young Indian man rushed to my assistance and
started pushing me back onto the platform.

‘No, I mean help me in, help me in!’

‘Oh, sorry, sorry.’ He gripped my arm, pulled me
through to safety. The doors momentarily opened and closed again. Now the
bloody hem of my skirt was caught! With every ounce of strength, I wrenched
myself free. There was a terrible ripping sound. I glanced down. The bottom
half of my skirt was completely torn off. Red-faced and bitter, I skulked into
a corner and tried to obscure the tear. There were a few titters from the other
passengers. I was absolutely mortified.

My journey to work couldn’t be over fast enough.
When at last I arrived at my destination, I was in one of my blackest moods
ever. As I approached the top of the escalators, I looked down at my skirt. The
scraggy hem was now trailing just above my knees. There was no way I could wear
this thing to the interview.

I glanced at my watch. It was nine o’clock. Exactly
thirty minutes to get myself together. I surveyed the half empty street. Most
of the shops had only just opened but sadly, there wasn’t an M&S in the
area so I would have to buy my replacement from elsewhere.

I walked in great strides until I came to the indoor
market on the corner. Most of the stuff there was cheap tat, but on the odd
occasion you came across a real bargain. After a brief look around, I settled
for a dark navy pencil skirt that the peroxide blonde stallholder insisted was
a size 14-16. I had my doubts, but now was not the time to be choosey.

I paid up then hurried across the road to work. My
interview was being held on the second floor of Walton House, a six storey
building which, in addition to Parking Services, housed Human Resources and the
Council Tax admin. team. I raced through reception and got the lift up to the
designated floor. Then, I dived into the ladies’ toilets to change. The new
skirt felt a bit tight around the waist but it would have to do. The other
majorly annoying thing was that it kept riding up, one of the features of
pencil skirts I’d always detested. I had to keep pulling it down, which made me
feel very self-conscious.

Finally, at exactly nine-thirty, I staggered into
the kitchen area where the other applicants were waiting to be called in. I
took a seat and surveyed the room. Someone nodded at me. There were five of us
in total, all familiar faces from the call centre. Not surprising really,
considering the post had only been advertised in our department. As far as I
knew, ten of us had been short-listed - five to be seen today and five on
Monday. The interview was to be conducted in two parts: a group exercise in the
morning and a one to one with Angela in the afternoon. I was dreading both.