There had been no chance of sleeping well the night before, but still, plenty of hope. After 2 a.m, the hope faded, but at least she drifted off some time soon after that. In the morning, her eyes stung and the rolling of the train made them beg for sleep, but unfortunately, the nervous feeling in her stomach wouldn’t let her eyes close for more than a few minutes between stations – Staplehurst, Marden, Paddock Wood… No use. The woman opposite her stretched in her seat and grunted uncommonly loudly, which was disconcerting but welcomely distracting. The peak time ticket had burned a hole in her debit card and given her another thing to think about; if she did get the job, would she end up spending all of her money on train fares?
Don’t worry about it, just try not to look nervous in the interview. You might not even get the job, no use in getting worked up about it.
The plan was to get to Goldsmiths early, have a drink, get her bearings, and look composed, and definitely not sweaty. The previous week’s trip up with T had been a reconnaissance mission, figuring out the trains and setting eyes on the campus for the first time. It was worth it, at least she wouldn’t get on the wrong one again. Wouldn’t it be good to get a part-time job on the same campus at which she was doing her MA? Probably a bit too good to be true. What if she managed to say something hideously inappropriate in the interview? At least let it be funny. If it all went horribly wrong, at least it would be an experience to learn from. Please don’t let it go horribly wrong! she thought. Fiddling with facebook on the train would fill the time.
I hate feeling like this – nervous and slightly sick to my stomach.
Three minutes later, three comments:
John Plummer: Interview?
Mark Maguire: Disposing of a body again?
Lewis Arnold: Sugar shock?
Funny. But why couldn’t she keep it to herself? Now if she didn’t get the job, everyone would know. She’d already told Ali, though. And it was no use, the only way to get past it was to confess all, even if only into the ether.
The morning went as planned – early arrival, checking appearance in the toilets, sipping on a cup of tea (less leisurely as the time slipped by) and finally, taking up position outside of the meeting room.
Check time, look nonchalant, try to sound like you have a clue what you’re doing.
After an age of nonchalantly reading and re-reading the same page of her book, a figure opened the door.
“Leeanne?”
“Yes.”
Well, that went well.
It went. It had gone. Quickly. She wondered if she should go in search of a few galleries while she was up here – make the most of that ticket – but inspecting her reflection before rolling back out onto New Cross Road, the blooming sweat patches on her grey jumper told her to get back on the train and go straight home. Maybe they didn’t see that.
