“Okay.”
“It was the group exercise primarily. The board felt you did not display sufficient depth of knowledge about the subjects under discussion.”
“Did anybody else make it through? Sam? Matthew?”
This is all I want to know. Just tell me that I came the closest out of all of them.
“For obvious reasons I can’t reveal that.”
I think I detect contempt in the way he says this, as if my asking such a stupid question has only verified their decision not to hire me.
“No, of course you can’t.”
“But thank you for your enthusiastic participation in the recruitment procedure. We all very much enjoyed meeting you.”
Oh, fuck off.
“It’s nice of you to say so. Thank you.”
“Good-bye.”
9
My first instinct, and this shames me, is to ring Mum. No sooner have I put the phone down on Liddiard than I am picking it up again and dialing her number in Somerset. She never goes out in the afternoon. She’ll tell me everything’s all right.
The number rings out shrill and clean. I can tell her everything, I can get it all off my chest. And I can do so in the full assurance that she will actually express relief at my failure. She might even be horrified to learn that I had even considered employment in such a murky organization. That her only child, her son, could have gone into such a thing without telling his mother…
I hang up. She’ll never know. It’s as simple as that.
Receiving bad news is always like this: there’s too much information to process, too much at stake that has been irretrievably lost. Something similar happened when Mum told me that my father had died. My mind went absolutely numb, and there was nothing I could do to put his loss into perspective.
The telephone rings, a volt of shock in my chest. I don’t even think about screening the call on my answering machine. I know it’s Hawkes.
“Alec?”
“Yes. Hello, Michael.”
“I’ve just heard the news. I’m very sorry. I really thought you’d go the whole way.”
“You weren’t the only one.”
“They telephoned me about an hour ago.”
“Why? Why did they call you? I thought you’d retired?”
He stalls here, as if making something up.
“Well, given that it was me who initiated your candidacy, they wanted to keep me informed.”
“But I thought you’d left? I thought you were in the oil business now.”
“You never really leave, Alec. It’s an ongoing thing.”
“So you’re not doing that anymore?”
“Don’t be concerned about me. Let’s talk about your situation.”
“Okay.”
His voice has thinned out, flustered, concealing something.
“They suggested to me that your cognitive tests were fractionally below par. That’s all they said.”
“They told me it was the group exercise, not the cognitive tests.”
Another awkward pause.
“Oh?”
“Yes. Said I wasn’t fully in control of my brief or something. Hadn’t covered all the angles.”
“Well, yes, there was that, too.”
He has obviously squared what to tell me with Liddiard, but one of them has fucked up. It must have been the interview with Stevenson. They know I lied about Kate.
“Did they give you any other reason why I failed?”
“Don’t see it as a failure, Alec.”
“That’s what it is, isn’t it?”
Why can’t he just be honest about it? I’ve let him down. He recommended me and I’ve embarrassed him. I was so sure it was going to be all right.
“The vast majority of candidates don’t even make it through to Sisby. To have progressed beyond the initial interviews is an achievement in itself.”
“Well, it’s good of you to say so,” I say, suddenly wanting to be rid of him. “Thanks for recommending me in the first place.”
“Oh, not at all. What will you do now? Go back to your old job?”
“Probably.”
He pauses briefly before saying, “We haven’t exhausted every avenue, of course. There are alternatives.”
For now this is of no interest to me. I simply want the conversation to end.
“You’ve done enough. Don’t worry. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re sure?” He sounds disappointed. “Think about it, Alec. And in the meantime, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”
“That’s kind. Thank you.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
A lie. Why would he bother contacting me again? My usefulness to him has passed.
“I’ll look forward to it,” I tell him.
“Don’t be too down, Alec. As I say, there are other options.”
At around six I go over to Saul’s, for company and for some way of shaking off the gloom. It takes about three-quarters of an hour to get there, driving through the rush-hour traffic and then finding somewhere to park. He has put up a notice on the door of his flat: JUST AS MUCH JUNK MAIL AS YOU CAN SPARE, PLEASE. When I see it, I smile for the first time in hours.
He pours two vodkas-mine without ice-and we sit in front of the television in the sitting room. A balding actor on This Is Your Life has just been surprised by the host, Michael Aspel, sporting his big red book. Saul says something about minor celebrities in Britain being “really minor” and retrieves a cigarette he had going from an ashtray.
“Who’s that?” he asks as a middle-aged woman in pink emerges onto the stage, mugging to the camera.
“No idea.”
She starts telling a story. Saul leans back.
“Christ. Is there anything more tedious than listening to people telling anecdotes on This Is Your Life?”
I do not respond. There is a constant, nagging disquiet inside me that I cannot shake off.
“What’ve you been up to?” he asks. “Day off as well?”
“Yeah. I’ve had a lot happening.”
“Right.”
He twists toward me on the sofa.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah.”
