The interview, p.1
The Interview, page 1
THE INTERVIEW
C. M. EWAN
Contents
A fist bangs …
CV
1. Friday 5.03 p.m.
2
3. Friday 5.06 p.m.
4
5. Friday 5.13 p.m.
6. Friday 5.17 p.m.
7
8. Friday 5.25 p.m.
9. Friday 5.30 p.m.
10
11. Friday 5.47 p.m.
12
13. Friday 5.58 p.m.
14
15. Friday 6.07 p.m.
16. Fifteen months ago
17. Friday 6.11 p.m.
18. Friday 6.16 p.m.
19
20. Friday 6.21 p.m.
21. Friday 6.26 p.m.
22. Friday 6.32 p.m.
23
24. Friday 6.36 p.m.
25. Friday 6.40 p.m.
26. Friday 6.45 p.m.
27. Friday 6.49 p.m.
28. Fifteen months ago
29. Friday 6:51 p.m.
30
31. Friday 6.58 p.m.
32. Friday 7.03 p.m.
33. Friday 7.07 p.m.
34. Friday 7.11 p.m.
35
36. Friday 7.14 p.m.
37
38. Friday 7.17 p.m.
39. Friday 7.21 p.m.
40. Friday 7.27 p.m.
41. Friday 7.32 p.m.
42
43. Friday 7.44 p.m.
44
45. Friday 8.02 p.m.
46. Friday 8.07 p.m.
47. Friday 8.11 p.m.
48
49. Friday 8.13 p.m.
50. Friday 8.19 p.m.
51
52. Seventeen months ago
53. Friday 8.28 p.m.
54
55. Friday 8.34 p.m.
56. Friday 8.35 p.m.
57
58
59. Friday 8.39 p.m.
60
61
62. Friday 8.52 p.m.
63. Friday 8.58 p.m.
64
65. Friday 9.04 p.m.
66. Friday 9.07 p.m.
67. Friday 9.11 p.m.
68. Friday 9.14 p.m.
69. Friday 9.18 p.m.
70. Friday 9.25 p.m.
71. Friday 9.28 p.m.
72. Friday 9.44 p.m.
73. Friday 9.50 p.m.
74
75
76
77. Friday 9.56 p.m.
78
79. Friday 10.01 p.m.
80. Friday 10.04 p.m.
81. Friday 10.07 p.m.
82. Friday 11.19 p.m.
83. Friday 11.27 p.m.
84. Friday 11.33 p.m.
85. Friday 11.37 p.m.
86
87. Friday 11.42 p.m.
88
89. Friday 11.47 p.m.
90
91. Friday 11.53 p.m.
92
93
94. Saturday 12.01 a.m.
95
96
97. Saturday 12.07 a.m.
98
99. Saturday 12.13 a.m.
100
101. Saturday 12.18 a.m.
102
103
104. Saturday 12.29 a.m.
105
106. Saturday 12.32 a.m.
107
108. Saturday 12.38 a.m.
109
110. Saturday 12.45 a.m.
111
112
113
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For Jack
A fist bangs on a sheet of glass.
Bangs again.
On one side of the glass, all is still and hushed.
On the other side, the air sings with shouts and screams.
A hundred and thirty feet up, in the middle of a city of nine million people, and nobody hears or sees a thing.
CV
Kate Harding
17b Beaumont St, Balham, London
kharding@mycontact.com
I am an experienced PR Account Manager, a graduate from City, University of London with a 2:1 Honours Degree in Media, Communications and Sociology, and a former flight attendant with excellent customer care and problem-solving abilities. My career goal is to secure a Senior Account Manager role that enables me to hone my creative and business expertise and take on more responsibility at a dynamic, industry-leading PR agency with a focus on the travel sector.
EMPLOYMENT
Account Manager with Simple PR & Communications (September 2021–present)
At Simple, I have managed a portfolio of clients including Coachman European Travel, HomeSense Holidays and Scandinavian Getaways.
PR Account Executive rising to PR Account Manager at MarshJet Aerospace Engineering (September 2014–March 2021)
PR Assistant at MarshJet (September 2013–September 2014)
Flight Attendant with Global Air (September 2009–September 2013)
EDUCATION
2:1 Honours Degree in Media, Communications and Sociology from City, University of London
Diploma in Air Cabin Crew Level 2
9 GCSEs – 4 Grade As, 4 Grade Bs, 1 Grade C
ACTIVITIES AND ACHIEVEMENTS
I am fluent in French and Spanish. I speak good German.
I hold an advanced First Aid at Work qualification.
I run regularly and I enjoy swimming.
1
Friday 5.03 p.m.
The worst thing that can happen to you in an interview is getting caught in a lie. Everybody knows that. It was one more thing for me to stress about as I waited to get inside 55 Ludgate Hill.
‘Come on, come on.’
The revolving glass doors were moving too slowly. Anguish tugged at my insides. I darted forwards and back, forwards and back, then finally burst free and bolted for the front desk. There were three security personnel on duty: one woman, two men. Behind them was a back room where I could see a grid of surveillance monitors flickering against a wall.
‘My name is Kate Harding.’ I was panting, short of breath. ‘I’m late for a 5 p.m. appointment with Edge Communications.’
‘I see.’ The guard nearest to me lifted a phone to his ear. He had a stiff, business-like demeanour. Early sixties, balding with a moustache, dressed in a navy blazer with shiny brass buttons. ‘Let me call up for you. Sign the visitor book, please.’
I grabbed a pen, scrawled down my details. My hand was shaking. I could feel perspiration bubbling on the back of my neck despite the cool lobby air.
Had I blown it already? After waiting all day Friday, a Tube delay had forced me to run here from Blackfriars Station. I’d had anxiety dreams where I was late for my interview. Now it was actually happening.
Then there was my CV. Why had I added that line about swimming? I suppose it wasn’t a total lie. I used to enjoy swimming. A long time ago, I was a member of a club. It had been a much more sociable way to stay fit than the gruelling dawn jogs I’d been taking around Tooting Common for the past nine months. But if they asked about the last time I’d been swimming, I’d have no idea what to say. It was definitely before my life was upended. Everything was.
The guard set down his phone. ‘They’re sending someone down to collect you, but they’re running a little behind themselves, so they’ve asked if you could take a seat for the time being.’
He pointed to an area behind me and I spun to take in the lavish atrium for the first time. The lobby was enormous. There was a lot of glass and steel. Acres of limestone flooring. Far in the distance, a group of black leather sofas were arranged near a trio of gleaming elevators.
‘Go right ahead. They’ll find you.’
To one side of the elevators, water cascaded down over a wall of rippled slate tiles into an infinity pool. To the other, a living wall was filled with plants in varying shades of green. In the foreground, professional men and women in office attire bustled to and fro. Some held mobile phones to their ears. Others carried briefcases or document folders. Most appeared to be hurrying for the exit and, I guessed, home for the weekend.
You used to be just like them, I told myself. But somehow it only made me feel like more of an imposter.
‘And if I may, Miss – good luck.’
I cringed. ‘Is it that obvious? How nervous do I look exactly?’
The guard’s two colleagues looked up from their duties and joined him in indulging me with smiles.
‘Less than some,’ he said. ‘You may prefer not to hear this, but they’ve been interviewing for most of the day. But Edge Communications? I’d say you’ll fit right in.’
I wished. Once, maybe, but right now I felt daunted. The glitzy atrium wasn’t simply impressive – it was imposing. And just hearing about the other candidates who’d been interviewed before me was enough for my doubts to resurface in a major way.
Not for the first time I told myself that I should have said no when Maggie, my recruitment agent, had set up this interview. Deep down, I knew I’d been too easily flattered when she’d told me that my past campaigns had impressed the team at Edge. Now I found myself wondering if Maggie had lied flat out. And . . . Oh God. What if the team had never actually heard of me and this was all a huge waste of time?
No, I told myself. Focus.
I knew I was in danger of spiralling. Knew that if I wasn’t careful the swirl of negative thoughts would take hold of me and put me in a spin. In the quiet centre of my mind I conjured the calm, reassuring mant ra of my counsellor, a wise and worn mother of two I meet with once a fortnight in Hackney: Now is not the time.
And it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I was stepping out of my comfort zone here – no use pretending otherwise – but I’d lived and breathed this world before. I could do it again.
‘Miss? Was there something else?’
‘No, I’m fine. But thank you for your help.’
I edged away from the desk, my heels echoing into the void. June in London. There was so much sunlight streaming into the atrium I had to raise my hand to shield my eyes from the dazzle.
Ahead of me, a cleaner in grey overalls was using a noisy handheld machine to polish the floor. I could smell the cleaning fluid he was spraying – something cloying and strangely familiar that conjured up a memory I really didn’t need. For a dizzying moment, I could have been striding across an airport concourse again, hurrying towards a press briefing. The stutter of flashbulbs. The clamour of questions. The choking surge of emotions at the back of my throat.
A job interview.
Why was I putting myself through this?
But in the pit of my stomach, I knew the answer to that question. I was doing it because this interview might – or might not – change everything.
2
Joel White’s pulse quickened as he watched Kate cross the light-filled atrium. He’d watched her from the moment she’d entered the building. He’d watched her every second since.
He watched her now, and she didn’t know it, because he was standing high up on a glass walkway that criss-crossed the lobby far below, just an anonymous employee in a shirt and tie standing alongside a second man in an expensive suit, who might have been a colleague, but wasn’t.
The man standing alongside him was thin, grey-haired, grim-faced. He seemed to have shrunk a size or two since his suit was last tailored and his bunched hands were wrapped around the steel banister in front of him, wringing it so tightly the metal squeaked. A high-profile businessman who’d amassed a vast personal fortune, he was a millionaire, maybe even a billionaire on paper – rich enough, anyway, that the distinction no longer mattered a great deal.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ the man asked, in a voice that was wheezing and constricted, a combination of ill-health, stress and deep unease. Throat cancer, Joel speculated, though he hadn’t asked and wouldn’t be told if he did.
He also didn’t respond to the man’s question. Years of conducting interviews, years of applying his own particular skills in locations all across the globe, and still it amazed him how the big beasts of the corporate world could crumble and fall apart when their reputations and livelihoods were on the line. When that happened, often enough, they would turn to him.
‘I asked you a question.’ The man’s voice pinched and strained. ‘I was assured you wouldn’t let me down.’
Again, Joel ignored him. The bank of elevators was behind them and he turned without comment to press the call button. When an elevator arrived, he paused for a second before stepping in, glancing briefly at the leather folio case the man had handed him and then staring one last time at Kate Harding. As he watched her, he could feel himself changing. A contraction of his muscles. A hardening of his resolve. A low-level burning like acid in his blood.
‘Answer your phone when I call you,’ he told the man as the elevator doors slid closed. ‘I’ll get you what you need.’
3
Friday 5.06 p.m.
I was close to the seating area when a woman stepped out from behind a tall plant to my side and took hold of my arm. ‘I don’t want you thinking I do this for all my clients,’ she whispered in my ear.
‘Maggie?’
‘Sit down. Smile. Let’s both just pretend you’re not late and I’m not having a fit about it. You can ignore my missed calls when you finally check your phone, by the way.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘My job.’ Maggie tugged me down into one of the sofas, taking the seat next to me and placing her handbag on her lap. Her handbag was large and no-nonsense, much like Maggie herself. She had a mop of strawberry blonde hair, keenly intelligent green eyes. Her olive trouser suit was generous at the bosom and hips, worn over a plunging white blouse. ‘It’s Friday evening, Kate. I was in the neighbourhood.’
‘Your office is in Dulwich.’
‘So I’m protecting my investment. You do know I get a bonus if you land this job?’
I peered at her. In the Zoom calls we’d had on and off during the past fortnight, I’d placed Maggie as just a few years older than me, in her mid-to-late thirties. Now, though, the fine lines around her eyes and mouth told me she was some way past forty.
‘Did you think I wouldn’t show up?’ I asked her.
‘It’s probably best I don’t answer that. You look great, by the way.’
I glanced down, unconvinced, still worried my look was too formal and safe for a company like Edge. I’d gone with a black pencil skirt and matching jacket over a blush silk blouse that had cost far more than I could afford to spend on it. I’d been to my local salon first thing this morning. Nothing fancy. Just a trim and a tidy-up of my fringe. Look closely, though, and you would have seen the insomnia-bags under my eyes, the hollows in my cheeks. I suppose I was lucky that the four years I’d worked as cabin crew before switching to a career in PR had taught me all the make-up tricks anyone could care to know.
‘Maggie, the security guard just told me Edge have been interviewing all day.’
‘Why worry about it? You’re the one they’ll want. Trust me. They’ll have applicants with general PR experience coming out of their ears, but nobody with your background in the travel industry.’
‘How many candidates did you send them?’
‘Just you.’
I gave her a dubious look.
‘Seriously.’ She seized my hands in her fleshy palms. ‘Kate, how many times do I have to tell you this role is perfect for you and you’re perfect for this role? I wouldn’t have stuck with you if I didn’t believe that. Not after you tried to talk us both out of it enough times.’
Her brusque show of support warmed me, even as the doubts rose up in me again. It was strange to think how someone I’d only spoken with over the phone or in online meetings before now had become such a force in my life in such a short space of time. Maggie had been tenacious when she’d first approached me just over two weeks ago, even as I’d told her (less and less convincingly) that I wasn’t interested in a new job. I’m not sure whether that said more about how persistent Maggie was or how much of a loner I’d become. Secretly, I knew that if she hadn’t reached out to me in the first place, told me I was wasting my talents at Simple, I could have continued in the miserable rut I’d been in for months, maybe years.
‘Breathe,’ Maggie said. ‘Relax. Take a look around with me for a second. Didn’t I tell you this place was incredible?’
Together, we looked up at the lobby as the chlorinated waterfall babbled softly behind us.
And she was right. It was incredible. 55 Ludgate Hill – popularly known as The Mirror – was London’s most recent statement high-rise building. At thirty-eight storeys high, it dwarfed the dome of nearby St Paul’s Cathedral, although its signature feature was the way the exterior above the triple-height lobby was covered entirely in silvered, reflective glass panels. From outside the building nobody could see in to the uppermost floors, but I knew from my online research that they offered breathtaking views across the Thames and beyond.
The Mirror had only been officially opened in February, but there were already rumours that the company behind the project was on the verge of going bust. Construction on the site had begun before the global Covid pandemic and now that the building was completed, the business world had changed. More and more people were working from home and that meant fewer firms were looking to rent prime office space in the City. The penthouse restaurant that had grabbed press attention because of its celebrity chef was yet to open to the public, and there was talk that multiple floors remained unlet and unoccupied. That fitted with what I was seeing in the lobby. There were people here, but nowhere near as many as the project’s backers must have planned for.
I found that weird. Maybe I was in the minority, but I had zero interest in working from home, and not just because my one-bedroom flat in Balham was dingy and depressing. One of the attractions of the pitch Maggie had made to me about working at Edge was the distraction a busy office could provide. My counsellor had told me it was time to put myself out there, take risks, scare myself.
