smart-arse comment. The old Annie—the one who read tabloid newspapers and celebrity magazines—would not even have known who Pinter was.
The heating element clicked and clacked; Annie didn’t turn around.
“It started about a week ago. Doors sticking in their frames, and then closing in my face even when there was nobody on the other side.” His voice was flat, but there was little he could do to lift it, to add any emotion. He barely believed in what he was saying, so why should she?
“Just stop being so stupid, Nick. I’m a little bit bored with your excuses these days. ‘The post was already filled,’ ‘they already had someone lined up for the job,’ ‘my bus was late so I missed the interview.’” The kettle started to boil: the sound was like an asthmatic drawing frantic breaths. “You’re living in a dream land. That novel isn’t going to make you a millionaire. In this financial climate, you’ll be lucky if anybody even picks it up off the slush pile.”
Financial climate: another phrase he’d never heard her use before. Slush pile: that was another one.
Nick stared at her back, at her firm arse clad in the tight black skirt. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love, but he did remember it had been a disaster.
“Just get a job. Please , get a job.” Now she did turn to face him, and her eyes were red and sore-looking. She wiped a hand across her face, blinked, and breathed out. “You want coffee?”
He nodded, unable to think of anything to say.
Later that night he went upstairs to bed. Annie was lying on her front, her head buried in the pillows. During the early days of their relationship, this had worried him: he was often terrified she might suffocate in her sleep. He climbed into bed and reached out to her, stroking her bare arm. She moaned, shifted, and then went silent.
Nick stared up at the ceiling, still stroking Annie’s arm. His gaze slid down the wall, and then across to the door. He couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but it looked as if the door was slowly closing, the small gap between door and frame reducing to zero. Then, shockingly, it shut with an audible bang.
“I’m sorry.” Annie’s voice was tiny in the darkened room. “I didn’t mean to get at you earlier.”
“I know.” He kept stroking; maybe if he kept it up long enough she might realise how much he loved her.
“It’s just so difficult. You seem to be sitting around and waiting for something to happen, while all the time life’s passing you by...”
“I’ll try harder.” He closed his eyes. Stroked her arm. “I’ll do better.”
“I know you will.” Her voice was fading; she was entering sleep. “I know...” Then she said nothing more.
The next day he left the house with Annie and walked with her to the bus stop. When the bus arrived they kissed stiffly and he watched her climb aboard. She didn’t glance at him through the window, but he stood there watching anyway until the bus vanished from sight.
He walked into town, needing the exercise. Last night’s slight altercation with Annie had served to focus his thoughts. He needed to do something positive, and today’s interview might just be the kick-start he needed.
Entering town, he headed for the canal and started running potential questions and answers through his head: Why should we give you this job? Because I believe I can be an asset to this company. What are your main assets other than your qualifications? I’m loyal, a team-player, and strive for perfection in everything I do.
It was all utter bullshit of course, but he needed to tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. That was the art of a good interview: to give them what they wanted but without making them realise they wanted it.
He walked past new office buildings and multi-storey car parks whose external walls were mounted with CCTV cameras, feeling as if he’d entered some kind of Gerry Anderson version of the future—a clunky
The heating element clicked and clacked; Annie didn’t turn around.
“It started about a week ago. Doors sticking in their frames, and then closing in my face even when there was nobody on the other side.” His voice was flat, but there was little he could do to lift it, to add any emotion. He barely believed in what he was saying, so why should she?
“Just stop being so stupid, Nick. I’m a little bit bored with your excuses these days. ‘The post was already filled,’ ‘they already had someone lined up for the job,’ ‘my bus was late so I missed the interview.’” The kettle started to boil: the sound was like an asthmatic drawing frantic breaths. “You’re living in a dream land. That novel isn’t going to make you a millionaire. In this financial climate, you’ll be lucky if anybody even picks it up off the slush pile.”
Financial climate: another phrase he’d never heard her use before. Slush pile: that was another one.
Nick stared at her back, at her firm arse clad in the tight black skirt. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d made love, but he did remember it had been a disaster.
“Just get a job. Please , get a job.” Now she did turn to face him, and her eyes were red and sore-looking. She wiped a hand across her face, blinked, and breathed out. “You want coffee?”
He nodded, unable to think of anything to say.
Later that night he went upstairs to bed. Annie was lying on her front, her head buried in the pillows. During the early days of their relationship, this had worried him: he was often terrified she might suffocate in her sleep. He climbed into bed and reached out to her, stroking her bare arm. She moaned, shifted, and then went silent.
Nick stared up at the ceiling, still stroking Annie’s arm. His gaze slid down the wall, and then across to the door. He couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but it looked as if the door was slowly closing, the small gap between door and frame reducing to zero. Then, shockingly, it shut with an audible bang.
“I’m sorry.” Annie’s voice was tiny in the darkened room. “I didn’t mean to get at you earlier.”
“I know.” He kept stroking; maybe if he kept it up long enough she might realise how much he loved her.
“It’s just so difficult. You seem to be sitting around and waiting for something to happen, while all the time life’s passing you by...”
“I’ll try harder.” He closed his eyes. Stroked her arm. “I’ll do better.”
“I know you will.” Her voice was fading; she was entering sleep. “I know...” Then she said nothing more.
The next day he left the house with Annie and walked with her to the bus stop. When the bus arrived they kissed stiffly and he watched her climb aboard. She didn’t glance at him through the window, but he stood there watching anyway until the bus vanished from sight.
He walked into town, needing the exercise. Last night’s slight altercation with Annie had served to focus his thoughts. He needed to do something positive, and today’s interview might just be the kick-start he needed.
Entering town, he headed for the canal and started running potential questions and answers through his head: Why should we give you this job? Because I believe I can be an asset to this company. What are your main assets other than your qualifications? I’m loyal, a team-player, and strive for perfection in everything I do.
It was all utter bullshit of course, but he needed to tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. That was the art of a good interview: to give them what they wanted but without making them realise they wanted it.
He walked past new office buildings and multi-storey car parks whose external walls were mounted with CCTV cameras, feeling as if he’d entered some kind of Gerry Anderson version of the future—a clunky
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