by Sue Limb
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Be really careful.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Chloe, trying to sound sensible. ‘He’ll probably never ring me anyway. He probably treats all girls like that.’ You could tell by her voice that she was lying, and that she wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep until he rang her. ‘So what’s all this about the interviews?’ she asked, sounding almost really interested.
I quickly briefed her on the Scott and Matthew scenario, and she said it would be fine to interview them at her house. Her mum had gone off to spend the day with some friends.
‘So, no probs?’ said Chloe, rather dreamily.
‘Well, there is a problem, actually,’ I told her. ‘Last night, at the hospital, I actually got to talk to Oliver Wyatt – out in the corridor by the drinks machine.’
‘Really?’ said Chloe. ‘Wow! Well done you!’ But you could tell she was thinking about something else.
‘But I’ve got myself into a really stupid dilemma.’ I cringed at the thought that Oliver was waiting for Dad’s phone call inviting him to come and work on our farm. I was just about to tell Chloe all about it when she interrupted me, ignoring all mention of my dilemma.
‘Beast is really just a pussycat,’ said Chloe.
I gave up. My best mate was clearly obsessed and deluded. What really bothered me was that if Beast was the pussycat, poor little Chloe was certainly the mouse. I’ve always felt a teeny bit responsible for Chloe, and I knew with a sickening certainty that, at any moment, he was going to pounce. And I wasn’t going to be able to do a thing about it.
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10
SUNDAY 12.33 p.m.
It came from outer space
When I got to Chloe’s house she had lunch ready – the inevitable beans on toast. Then we spent an hour making ourselves look fabulous and businesslike by tying our hair back and applying a lot of red lipstick. Chloe tried to get away with cargos and a T-shirt, but I soon forced her into a pencil skirt and a nice crisp blouse. I was wearing a plain black dress, and some chunky silver jewellery.
We tidied up Chloe’s sitting room. We polished the coffee table, plumped up the cushions, and arranged pens and paper, so we could make notes.
‘I keep thinking we really are doing a job interview,’ giggled Chloe. ‘When do we tell them the job is really just taking us to the Ball?’
‘Hmm … I don’t think we should say anything like that in the interview,’ I said. ‘No matter how gorgeous they are. I think we should act as if it really is about being a life coach.’
‘Yeah …’ agreed Chloe. ‘But – but how do we wriggle out of it later?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, feeling a bit doubtful. ‘Let’s just play it by ear.’
‘What if we don’t like them?’
‘We just ring them later to tell them the position’s been filled,’ I said, thinking fast and trying not to panic.
‘You’ll have to do that,’ said Chloe, shuddering. ‘No way could I tell people they’re dumped!’ I sometimes wonder how she’d manage without me to do all the dirty work. But in a funny kind of way, I like being the one who can actually hack it, while Chloe watches admiringly from a place of safety.
Suddenly Chloe’s doorbell rang with a horrid nerve-shredding BAZZZZ! It’s not very spiritual really. I’m surprised her mum hasn’t got a yak’s bell from Tibet or something.
‘You go!’ whispered Chloe, going pink and sort of cringing as if she was hiding in mid-air. On my way through the hall I passed a mirror, and took a quick peep. I looked like someone auditioning unsuccessfully for the Matrix. Unfortunately Nigel had surfaced and was pulsing away on my chin like a road sign. What kind of life coach can’t even control her own complexion?
Nigel wasn’t the only throbbing little item in my repertoire. Suddenly I remembered the aliases. Oh God! I was going to have to conduct this interview as Squeaky Jane. Maybe it would be sensible to give up right now, before we even started. Maybe we should send Matthew away and apply to become nuns.
My heart was pounding anxiously as I opened the door. Matthew with the thrilling masculine voice was about to appear. I could hardly wait.
A strange, rather plump boy stood there. His fair hair was slicked back, and he was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. His face was pasty, and he didn’t smile. He held out his hand.
‘I’m Matthew Kesterton,’ he said. We shook hands. His hand was cold and limp. Ugh! I already knew I could never, never go to the Ball with him, because of his horrid cold hands. I was so tempted to wipe mine on my dress, to get rid of the cold limp feeling, but somehow I managed to refrain.
‘Come in, Matthew!’ I squeaked, with heroic poise. I led him into the sitting room, where Chloe was waiting. She looked jittery and mad. Her eyes were more huge and green than ever.
‘This is Africa,’ I said, in the voice of a tiny cartoon character. Chloe kind of twitched and giggled. ‘Africa, this is Matthew Kesterton.’
‘How do you do,’ said Chloe. They shook hands. Chloe conquered her giggles and managed to look businesslike for a split second. I was pleased with her. ‘We’re business partners,’ she said, as we sat down. ‘Not – uh – lesbians or anything.’ God! I was instantly so not pleased with her! What an idiotic thing to say. I shot her a furious glance.
‘So, Matthew,’ I said in the twee tinkling voice of an elf getting down to the serious stuff, ‘can you tell us a bit about your previous work experience?’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew, looking me straight in the eye with a kind of weird confidence. ‘I’ve brought my CV as a matter of fact.’ He snapped open his briefcase and pulled out an immaculate piece of paper. He handed it over. It was beautifully set out and printed.
‘I’ve done a bit of everything, really,’ said Matthew. ‘Care assistant, relief support worker, kitchen assistant, waiter, handyperson, shelf stacker, cleaning operative, part-time receptionist, clerical assistant, warehouse operative.’ I tried not to faint. ‘And web design, of course,’ he added modestly.
‘Wow!’ said Chloe. ‘Amazing!’ Matthew gave her a contemptuous look, and turned back to me. That lesbian remark had put him right off Chloe. Clearly he had decided that I was the only person present who was not beneath him. He was wrong, though. Now I’d heard what he’d done, I realised I was several thousand miles beneath him. But he must never know.
‘I’ve also got three referees,’ said Matthew, fishing another piece of paper out of his bag and handing it over. I glanced down. There were three names and addresses. Boy, was he serious about this job. I felt guilty that we were, in fact, totally wasting his time. But we just had to get on with it.
‘So, Matthew, you’re obviously very experienced,’ I squeaked. He gave a serious little nod. I could see Chloe scratching her cheek. She does this when she’s trying not to laugh. My weird tiny voice was freaking her out. ‘So … which of these jobs did you enjoy most?’ Chloe scratched again, and emitted a kind of hysterical gasp, which she tried to disguise as a cough.
‘I liked being a receptionist,’ said Matthew. ‘Because of the responsibility. Dealing with people. Sorting out problems. But I like brainstorming too …’
He just talked on and on and on and on about all the lovely work he’d done. No expressions ever crossed his face, and I noticed that his eyes were a curious colour. I wasn’t sure what I’d call it. Khaki, possibly. It wasn’t a good colour for eyes. Not on planet earth, anyway.
‘Problem-solving,’ he was saying, in his dull, pasty way. ‘Troubleshooting.’
Listen, buddy, I was so tempted to say, just push off and do your brainstorming and troubleshooting and poodle-fiddling somewhere else, because I’d rather be run over by a cement truck than go to the Ball with you for even a split second.
‘Interesting!’ I squeaked with a gracious smile.
‘I imagine that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for?’ he asked with a pasty, khaki glare. I was startled for a moment. What was I looking for?
‘Being a life coach is all about troubleshooting and problem-solving, isn’t it?’ Matthew informed me.
‘Yes, of course, it’s an important part of the approach,’ I replied, trying to sound as if I knew all there was to know about being a life coach, even though I knew precisely zilch and Matthew clearly knew heaps.
‘So how does it work, then, exactly?’ asked Matthew. I began to feel as if I was the one being interviewed. Suddenly I broke out in a cold sweat. Two things were wrong.
My first problem was that I had to explain to this robo-boy how exactly our prize-winning business operated – and I hadn’t the faintest idea even how to life coach a flea.
But the second problem was way, way more serious than the first. I could feel a horrible, painful, squeezing pain spreading through my tum. Oh God! All those baked beans! The moment of reckoning had arrived! The choice before me was simple and stark: either I had to emit a serious of deafening farts, or pass out on the floor from intestinal agony.
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11
SUNDAY 2.28 p.m.
A disastrous and disgusting episode
‘Just excuse me one moment!’ I said, leaping to my feet in what I hoped was an elegant soaring movement worthy of a life coach. ‘I think we may have some of those brochures upstairs, Africa!’ I walked swiftly from the room.
By some miracle of muscles, I managed to hold my bum shut till I got to Chloe’s bedroom. I shut the door behind me, grabbed a cushion (as a kind of silencer) and farted into it. The door flew open. Chloe rushed in.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered in a hectic rush.
‘Shut the door!’ I hissed. ‘I’m farting! Those goddam beans!’ Chloe started giggling. I closed the door and groaned.
‘There’s another one coming!’ I let rip with gusto. ‘I’m sorry!’
‘Me too!’ gasped Chloe, and produced a sound like a fairy trumpet: high-pitched, cute and cheeky. ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. ‘And this Africa stuff! And why are you talking like a freakin’ insect? Oh my God! Oh my God!’
She fell on her bed, shaking with hysterical laughter. At the end of every breath she gave a kind of tiny, almost silent scream, as if she was going to suffocate. No way would she be ready to go back down to the interview in a moment or two.
‘What … are we … going to do?’ gasped Chloe.
‘Never eat beans again!’ I whispered. ‘Listen … I think I’m OK for a minute, now. I’d better go downstairs. I’ll say we’ve both got food poisoning and we’ll get back to him later.’
‘We can’t do that!’ said Chloe. ‘He’ll think we’re weird!’
‘Who cares?’ I shrugged. ‘He’s a Grade A nerd anyway.’
‘I thought he was quite nice!’ said Chloe, frowning.
‘Listen,’ I walked up and down a bit, trying to settle my insides, ‘I think the worst of mine is over. I’ll go down and tell him we can’t find the brochures, but you’re still looking. You come down when you’re ready. I’ll make up some garbage about being a life coach, and then we’ll get rid of him. OK?’ Chloe nodded. She needed to fix her face. Her mascara had run.
I went downstairs. Halfway down the stairs I had a nasty fit of silent and helpless giggling again. Horrid. Finally, though, I managed to sober up by thinking of starving children in a desert landscape.
Matthew was leafing through a magazine. He looked up as I entered, but without smiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We can’t find any brochures. They’re reprinting. Chl—Africa’s just having an extra look round the office. It’s chaos up there! We’ve been so busy!’ I made what I thought was a graceful gesture indicating our fabulous success.
‘Maybe … you need a life coach yourself?’ suggested Matthew. He had made a joke, but without showing any signs whatever of amusement. I laughed generously, while realising that deep down in my tummy, more trouble was brewing.
‘You’re so right!’ I said. ‘Oh – I forgot – we usually interview people to music. It creates an ambulance, you know.’ I went over to Chloe’s CD player. ‘Ambience, I mean.’ I was so flustered, I’d need a goddam ambulance if this went on much longer.
I selected a Beethoven CD, inserted it, and pressed PLAY. Beethoven was classy – classic, even, and he was loud. He would cover any unfortunate sounds I might be forced to make. I could always have a coughing fit as well, just to be on the safe side.
But what was this? This was not Beethoven. Literally the worst song in history burst out: ‘I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny!’ Matthew looked startled. Chloe entered the room. She hadn’t done a very good job of repairing her eye make-up. She looked as if she’d been crying.
‘Zoe!’ she frowned. ‘What’s this?’
It just kept on blasting out. ‘I’m horny, I’m horny horny horny!’
‘It was in the Beethoven case!’ I snapped. ‘I wanted to play some Beethoven to create ambience!’ I was also really annoyed with her for calling me Zoe when she knew perfectly well I was Squeaky Jane.
‘Switch it off! Switch it off!’ yelled Chloe, running to the CD player. In her haste she knocked into a framed photo of their dog, Geraint. It flew through the air and smashed into the wall. The glass broke.
Chloe screamed. She turned off the Horny song. There was a sudden silence, in which I farted.
Then Matthew’s phone suddenly started to ring. It was the Crazy Frog – I felt his ringtone let him down really. So trashy, and so last season. However, I was hardly in a position to look down on Matthew style-wise. I had just farted in his face, and as he answered his phone, I ran out into the garden and farted three more times.
‘Good afternoon!’ came a man’s voice behind me. I turned round. Chloe’s neighbour was clipping his hedge and staring disapprovingly at me over his glasses.
‘Good afternoon!’ I cried. Then I ran indoors. Matthew was on the phone. He had walked over to the window and was staring out into the garden where I’d just been. I glanced hopelessly at Chloe, who was picking up pieces of glass.
I bent down to help her, and farted again. This was the end. I was either going to burst into tears or die laughing. I leapt up, ran upstairs and locked myself in Chloe’s bathroom. I turned on all the taps, to make as much noise as possible, wrapped a towel round my head, and howled.
A couple of minutes later, when my panic attack was finished and my body felt nice and quiet again, I turned off the taps. I heard the front door slam shut. He must have gone! I waited. I heard Chloe coming upstairs.
‘Zoe!’ she shouted. ‘It’s OK! He’s gone! Are you all right?’
I opened the bathroom door. ‘What a complete and utter nightmare,’ I said. Now he’d gone, the urge to laugh had somehow disappeared.
‘His mum rang,’ said Chloe. ‘There was some crisis at home, so he had to go. I said we’d be in touch.’
‘Poor Matthew,’ I said. ‘He really was trying to have a job interview, and all we could do was fart at him, play obscene music and throw the ornaments about.’
‘I thought he was quite nice, really. In a way,’ Chloe said. ‘I mean, in casual clothes, and you know, if you could get him to loosen up a little …’ She looked thoughtful.
‘Well, thank God he’s gone,’ I sighed. ‘Now we can chill out and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. Let’s watch that new Keanu Reeves DVD.’ Then suddenly a terrible thought struck me. ‘Oh noooo!’ I wailed.
Chloe looked alarmed.
‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What? What?’
‘The nightmare’s not over,’ I informed her. ‘Scott Nicholls is coming in a minute.’
Chloe looked blank.
‘Who’s Scott Nicholls?’
‘The other one.’
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12
SUNDAY 2.46 p.m.
Worse and worse. And worse.
I reminded Chloe that Scott was the dreamy, poetic one and that he’d probably be loads more romantic than Matthew. He’d probably hav
e wonderful lyrical hazel eyes and long, fine, sensitive hands. His handshake would be warm, firm and lingering.
‘Just thinking about him is making my lips tingle,’ I assured her, ransacking my make-up bag. I was torn between two lipsticks: Porsche Red and Brandy Ice.
‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘You’ve convinced me. I just need to work on my mascara a bit.’
We both fixed our faces, then cleared up the broken glass and polished the coffee table again. Eventually we were ready. Scott was due at 3 p.m. and it was 2.57 p.m. precisely. We sat in our interviewing positions, trying to keep calm.
‘If it all goes pear-shaped,’ I said, ‘you say you’re just going to pop to the bathroom, then go upstairs and ring me on my mobile. I’ll take the call, and then I’ll tell him my dog’s been run over or something, so we have to end the interview.’
‘Zoe!’ cried Chloe, her eyes filling with tears, ‘Don’t say that! If anything ever happened to Geraint I couldn’t bear it!’
‘No, no, listen,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean Geraint. I don’t even have a freakin’ dog. I was just – oh never mind. Just say anything. He won’t be able to hear what you say, anyway, will he? I’ll just make something up. Don’t say anything funny though, or I’ll kill you. It’s got to be a sudden emergency.’
‘So I do this if the interview’s gone pear-shaped?’ asked Chloe. ‘How will I know?’
‘Oh, you’ll know,’ I said grimly.
‘OK, listen. If I think you want me to go upstairs and ring you, I’ll make a secret sign,’ said Chloe. ‘Then you have to make a secret sign back.’ Sometimes I think Chloe’s got a lot of growing up to do.
‘OK, OK,’ I said rather rattily. ‘What’s the secret sign?’
‘I’ll scratch my neck,’ said Chloe.
‘But you’re always scratching your neck.’
‘No, I promise I won’t unless I want to know if it’s gone pear-shaped. Then, if you agree it’s gone pear-shaped, you scratch your head.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ll scratch my head if I think it’s gone pear-shaped, whether you’ve scratched your neck or not.’
‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘So if I see you scratching your head, and I want to make sure it’s because it’s gone pear-shaped, I’ll scratch my neck, OK?’ I was beginning to feel dizzy with conspiracy.