The Escape Room

by Megan Goldin

  ‘He’s a strong believer in giving back to the community he came from,’ I answered, as the elevator rapidly descended towards the lobby.

  ‘Professor Baker must have thought highly of you if he was your faculty advisor.’

  ‘He’s one of my referees,’ I answered, modestly.

  ‘Impressive. I gather you’re looking for work?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking for a graduate position.’

  ‘May I take your résumé since you have it handy?’ He asked. ‘I’m always looking for finance hotshots.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, handing it to him and taking the business card that he offered in return.

  ‘No promises,’ he said, looking directly at me with his piercing blue eyes. I didn’t have a chance to respond – the elevator doors opened and he walked out without looking back.

  I glanced at his business card before sliding it into my handbag. Vincent de Vries. Senior Vice-President at Stanhope and Sons.

  All the lights in the elevator turned off at once. It happened the moment the doors shut. One moment they were in a brightly lit elevator, the next they were in pitch darkness. They were as good as blind save for the weak fluorescent glow from a small display above the steel doors showing the floor number.

  Jules stumbled towards the elevator control panel. He pressed the button to open the doors. The darkness was suffocating him. He had to get out. The elevator lifted up before anything happened. The jolt was unexpected. Jules lost his footing and fell against the wall with a thud.

  As the elevator accelerated upwards, they assumed the lights would be restored at any moment. In every other respect, the elevator was working fine. It was ascending smoothly. The green display above the door was showing the changing floor numbers. There was no reason why it should be dark.

  Without realising it, they shifted towards each other, drawn together by a primordial fear of the dark and the unknown dangers that lurked within it. Jules fumbled for his phone and turned on the torch setting so that he could see what he was doing. He frantically pressed the buttons for upcoming floors. They didn’t appear to respond to the insistent pressure of his thumb.

  ‘It’s probably an express,’ explained Sylvie. ‘I saw a sign in the lobby that said something about the elevator running express until the 70th floor.’

  Jules pressed the button for the 70th floor. And the 71st. And, for good measure, the 72nd as well. The buttons immediately lit up one after the other, each button backlit in green. Jules silently counted the remaining floors. All he could think about was getting out.

  He loosened his tie to alleviate the tightness in his chest. He’d never considered himself claustrophobic but he’d had an issue with confined spaces ever since he was a child. He once left summer camp early, in hysterics after being accidentally locked in a toilet block for a few minutes. His mother told the camp leader that his overreaction was due to a childhood trauma that left him somewhat claustrophobic and nervous in the dark.

  ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ll be taking the stairs on the way down,’ Sam joked with fake nonchalance. ‘I’m not getting back into this hunk of junk again.’

  ‘Maybe the firm is locking us up in here until we resign voluntarily,’ Jules said dryly. ‘It’ll save Stanhope a shitload of money.’ He swallowed hard. The elevator was approaching the 40th floor. They were halfway there. He had to hold it together for another 30 floors.

  ‘It would be a mistake if the firm retrenched any of us,’ said Vincent. ‘I told the executive team as much when we met earlier this week.’ What Vincent didn’t mention was that several of the leadership team had avoided looking at him during that meeting. That was when he knew the writing was on the wall.

  ‘Why get rid of us? We’ve always made the firm plenty of money,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘Until lately,’ Vincent pointed out.

  They’d failed to secure two major deals in a row. Those deals had both gone to a key competitor, who had inexplicably undercut them each time. It made them wonder whether their competitor had inside knowledge of their bids. The team’s revenue was lower than it had been in years. For the first time ever, their jobs were vulnerable.

  ‘Are we getting fired, Vincent?’ Jules asked, as the elevator continued rising. ‘Is that why we were summoned here? They must have told you something.’

  ‘I got the same generic meeting invite that you all received,’ Vincent responded. ‘It was only as I arrived that I received a text with instructions to bring you all up to the 80th floor for an escape room challenge. The results of which, it said, would be used for “internal consultations about future staff planning”. Make of that what you will.’

  ‘Sounds like they want to see how we perform tonight before deciding what to do with us,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’ve never done an escape room. What exactly are we supposed to do?’

  ‘It’s straightforward,’ said Sam. ‘You’re locked in a room and have to solve a series of clues to get out.’

  ‘And on that basis they’re going to decide which of us to fire?’ Jules asked Vincent in the dark.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Vincent said. ‘The firm doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘Vincent’s right,’ said Jules, cynically. ‘Let’s take a more optimistic tack. Maybe they’re using our escape room performance to determine who to promote to Eric Miles’s job.’ Eric had resigned before Christmas under something of a cloud. They’d heard rumours the firm was going to promote someone to the job internally. Such promotions were highly sought after. At a time when their jobs were in jeopardy, it offered one of them a potential career lifeline.

  The green display above the door flashed the number 67. They had three more floors to go until the elevator finished the express part of the ride. The elevator slowed down and came to a stop on the 70th floor. Jules exhaled in relief. He stepped forward in anticipation of the doors opening. They remained shut.

  He pressed the open button on the control panel. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, holding it down for several seconds. The doors still didn’t budge. He pressed the button three times in quick succession. Nothing. Finally, in desperation, he pressed the red emergency button. There was no response.

  ‘It’s not working,’ he said.

  They looked up at the panel above the door which displayed the floor numbers. It had an E on its screen. Error.

  A small television monitor above the control panel turned on. At first they didn’t think much of it. They expected to see cable news or a stock market update, the type of thing usually broadcast on elevator monitors.

  It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the brightness of the white television screen. After another moment, a message appeared in large black letters.

  Welcome to the escape room.

  Your goal is simple. Get out alive.

  I received the phone call on my first day off in a week. Six straight days working double shifts at Rob Roy. My lower back ached from carrying pitchers of beer and heavy griddle pans with sizzling meat to an endless stream of hungry customers. I was so exhausted by the end of each shift that I had to make a concerted effort to make sure I was taking things to the right table.

  It was mid-morning. I was fast asleep with my head under my pillow to block the sunlight streaming through the half-open blind. I’d forgotten to pull it closed when I’d collapsed into bed in the middle of the night.

  I ignored the ring of my phone. That wasn’t easy to do given that it played on full blast the theme music from Curb Your Enthusiasm. I’m a heavy sleeper and most days, if I put my mind to it, I could sleep through the noise of a marching band.

  But that morning I couldn’t shut out the insistent drone of my phone no matter how hard I tried. Even in my deeply exhausted state, I worried that it was my mom calling about my dad. He was in hospital again after another procedure on his heart. In the end that nagging worry about my dad made me roll over, grab my phone and take the call under the covers.

  ‘Hello,’ I croaked,
my voice muffled by sleep.

  The long pause that followed suggested that whoever was on the phone line wasn’t my mom.

  ‘Sara.’ It was a man. Deep voice. Clipped accent. Maybe British? No, not British. There was a hint of something else. European. I was too groggy to think who it might be.

  ‘Yes, this is Sara,’ I responded. I tried to surreptitiously clear my throat. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘This is Vincent de Vries. From Stanhope and Sons?’ A pause for recognition. I almost choked when I heard his name. My voice was like sandpaper. It was obvious that I’d just woken. He’d think that I was an unemployed bum who lay in bed all day. This was a disaster. I scrambled into a sitting position and while he spoke squirted water from the drinking bottle next to my bed into my throat.

  ‘We met in an elevator at my office about two weeks ago,’ he continued.

  ‘Of course, Vincent,’ I responded with as much animation as I could manage given that I’d been in a deep sleep ten seconds earlier. ‘You offered to take a look at my résumé. That was so nice of you.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I mentioned at the time that I might have an opening coming up in my team. That has now happened. After looking at your résumé, I think you might be a good fit. I’d like to ask our recruitment manager to arrange for you to be interviewed. That is, if you’re still looking for work?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, with the overenthusiasm of the unemployed. ‘I’d be very interested in interviewing for the position.’ As I spoke, reality set in. Another 21-hour train ride to New York. Another three days of lost tips. Another train ticket and set of interview clothes that I couldn’t afford. More debt. More lost income. More inevitable rejection. Why bother when it was only going to end in heartache.

  ‘Great. I’ll ask our recruitment team to fly you over for interviews on Friday. If that suits you?’

  I paused to absorb Vincent’s words. He’d said he’d fly me over. I wouldn’t need to take Amtrak at my own expense. I felt encouraged that he’d said they’d bring me over for interviews, plural. It sounded as if I was a serious candidate. I actually had a chance.

  ‘That would be absolutely fine,’ I answered smoothly. ‘Thank you so much for calling, Vincent. I really appreciate the opportunity.’

  I was ecstatic. Before the call, I had been facing what felt like a lifetime of waitering hell at a franchise restaurant, with a boss who siphoned tips and blamed his staff for his own mistakes.

  Not to mention having to share an apartment with Stacey, a spoilt 22-year-old who let her deadbeat boyfriend Gary stay over almost every night, left dirty dishes in the sink to attract roaches and hung her bras and panties to dry in the shower stall so that I had to shower with her underwear hanging in my face.

  Vincent’s call potentially meant a chance to get my career on track, financial security, a new life in New York. Maybe I’d even be able to get an apartment to myself. I was high as a kite just from thinking of the possibilities.

  I jumped on my bed in my candy-striped pyjamas like a hyper-active kid at a trampoline park, shrieking with excitement. All of a sudden, life was sweet.

  Once my initial euphoria died down, reality set in. I knew from bitter experience how it would probably play out. I’d feel good during the interview and return to Chicago hopeful of a job offer. Eventually I’d get rejected by another recruiter letting me down gently with a generic excuse from a prepared script. I’d been through that scenario with Richie and it had left me feeling despondent.

  Richie’s recruiter had called me two days after the interview to tell me that I didn’t make it into the final round. ‘The hiring manager has opted for another candidate more aligned to his requirements.’

  ‘How specifically was I not aligned? I met every requirement in the job description.’ I tried to keep my tone non-confrontational but I could tell that she was annoyed by my persistence.

  ‘Richie, er, Mr Worthington felt you lacked gravitas,’ she said in a pointed tone, as if her words actually made sense. ‘Gravitas is such an important quality at our firm.’

  I wanted to tell her that if gravitas was so important then they should teach their hiring managers not to stuff their mouths with snack food during job interviews. It was a struggle to finish the call without telling the recruiter where Richie could shove his gravitas.

  The way that I saw it, gravitas was a masculine quality. A characteristic of men in suits. Men like Richie, minus the bad table manners.

  I later found out that Richie hired the brother of a college buddy for the job. I was the decoy. Or one of several. He had to pretend to look at other candidates to cover for the fact that he was hiring a friend for the job. Good old-fashioned cronyism. It’s how half the jobs in the city are filled.

  The episode with Richie had left a sour taste in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if I had the resilience to go through it again with Vincent. To lie awake at night filled with anticipation, counting my chickens before they hatched. That’s what I’d done before the interview with Richie. I’d even looked up apartments listed for rent so I could figure out where I’d want to live. Talk about being overconfident.

  A few days would pass after I returned home from my interview. I’d make excuses as to why I hadn’t heard back from the firm. I’d tell myself the recruiter was ill, or Vincent was away on business. But at some point there would be no reasonable explanation for the time lapse other than the obvious: I didn’t get the job. A form email would arrive in my inbox sent by a recruitment manager.

  ‘We were impressed with your skills and experience. However we had a strong field of candidates and have found a candidate who better matches the skill set we were seeking in this role.’ Whatever that meant. Or it would say the role had been frozen, offered to an internal hire, changed in scope. Or one of a hundred other excuses that I’d heard ad nauseam.

  I decided that I had to believe that I had a chance. Otherwise, I might as well curl up and die. The firm flew me to New York just as Vincent had promised. My flight arrived in the afternoon, the day before the interviews were to be held. The firm had booked me into a five-star hotel within walking distance of the office.

  It was the first time in my life that I’d stayed at hotel that had more than three stars to its name. The closest I’d come to that level of luxury was working a summer job doing room service at a resort hotel at Lake Superior when I was nineteen. I was the girl in the hotel uniform who brought the breakfast trays and newspapers up to the rooms in return for tips.

  That’s why I gave a generous tip to the bellboy who showed me to my room in New York. Even though I was hardly flush with cash, I knew what it was like to end a shift with barely enough money for a ride home and dinner.

  I grew up in a family in which every month, every week was a financial struggle. My father had health issues. He tired easily and was constantly ill. A mechanical engineer by training, he hadn’t been able to carry a stable job since my early teenage years. My mother, who’d worked as a school teacher before I was born, struggled to get work once she had to step in to help support us both.

  My childhood had been distinguished by scrimping and saving and struggling to get scholarships for my schooling, all while trying to hide our dire situation from everyone we knew. My parents were terribly ashamed at having failed to achieve their dreams, other than having me. Whatever money they had to spare went straight into paying for my education. We rarely went on holiday and when we did we certainly never had the money to stay at five star hotels.

  I relished my first experience of luxury travel. I was given a large room with turndown service and a bed big enough for five people. There were Belgian chocolates on the pillow and a basket of snacks by the window with a card that said it was compliments of the firm. It also said that Stanhope and Sons would cover up to $200 of food and beverage costs during my one-night stay.

  I lay on the bed and revelled in the luxury. I checked out the pillow menu and selected one for the night, then played around with the music and
entertainment system like a kid. In the bathroom I found a vanity bag with expensive French-label products and body scrubs. I tried them all before soaking in lemongrass-scented water in the tub while watching TV, calming my nerves.

  I couldn’t resist ordering room service for dinner that night; steak, salad and fries delivered on a white cloth-covered trolley, complete with silverware. I ate dinner cross-legged on the bed while rehearsing my interview responses.

  The next morning I ate a continental breakfast in my room, wearing a white robe and watching the early-morning Manhattan congestion through my window. The disorderly line of cars gridlocked on the street below resembled a piece of abstract art. The lines were unruly. The colours clashed against the asphalt grey. The hint of movement was so vague that it looked like an illusion.

  When I was done drinking my second cup of coffee, I dressed in the suit that I’d worn for the interview with Richie. I paired it with a new lilac satin shirt and a filigree gold necklace.

  I walked to the Stanhope and Sons office two blocks away, passing throngs of Wall Street types striding into work in their $2000 suits. The platinum blonde assistant at the reception desk had been supercilious when I’d interviewed with Richie. This time, she couldn’t do enough for me.

  ‘Vincent told me to expect you,’ she gushed, as she led me to the interview room. ‘Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.’ She smiled as she closed the door and left me alone to await my first interview.

  The meeting room was larger than the one used for my disastrous interview with Richie. It had a long white table that could sit eight people. There was no transparent glass tabletop like the one through which Richie had ogled my legs. The air conditioner was on a comfortable setting.

  I would do five rounds of interviews in a single day. All in that interview room. I left only to use the bathroom and to go down for a half-hour lunch at midday. That was further proof that Richie’s interview had only ever been for show. If he’d considered me as a serious candidate then he would have arranged for the other interviews to take place on the same day. He’d never intended for me to get past the first round.