Bernice slept well that night. She knew that the first stage of her insane endeavour, finding staff, was nearly over. She could view the prospect of seeing the remaining five candidates for the post of Reporter with a certain equanimity.
When Pete came in she was surprised to see that he had his left hand bandaged, rather as Terence had the day before.
"Er, Peter, you haven't been near Euston Station??? by any chance have you?" she asked a little concerned that she might have an office full of violent psychopaths - though in Pete's case this seemed highly unlikely.
"No, why?" asked Pete, mystified.
"Oh, nothing," she said. "What happened to your hand?"
"Just a scratch - I was doing some DIY last night and the Stanley knife slipped. But don't worry," he added, concerned, "I'm still be able to type. You'll have that other feature today."
"Great," said Bernice, pleased that somebody grasped the concept of a deadline. There was no sign of work from George, and as he sat still chewing his pen she felt guilty that she did not have more time to spend with him at the moment to try to sort out whatever problems he was having. Nor was there any work yet from David, though at least the latter seemed to be deeply immersed in something when he eventually got going. He normally strolled in around ten or ten-thirty, working until the early evening. When tackled on this he simply said that he preferred to be working when the phones weren't ringing all the time - hardly a danger at the moment, on a magazine whose existence was only now being announced to the world through the appearance of the job ads and promotional mailings. Only Pete and Janice had come up with the goods, the latter producing a very creditable first attempt at a list of business events over the next few months. With just a few additions and a little polishing it should be perfect.
Leaving the worryingly quiet office, she went across to the North tower and back to the claustrophobic interview room she had booked. Janice would bring across the interviewees as they arrived. Perhaps it was because she knew that she had most of her team in place, if not actually in the office, or perhaps it was just exhaustion caused by the strain of listening to people' life stories and then trying to judge them on that basis, but she found her mind wandering more during that day's interviews. The applicants all seemed so callow, so unformed and uninteresting. Surely there was someone out there with that extra something she was looking for?
Somebody who certainly had something extra walked through the door of the interview room at two o'clock precisely. He was smartly dressed in an expensive-looking double-breasted suit, was tall and graceful in his movements, had a narrow face with high cheekbones, rich brown eyes and masses of chestnut-coloured curly hair. His name was Christopher Hunt, and he had smile that made her feel that he was welcoming her to an interview, rather than the other way round. His handshake was warm and sensuous, and she noticed how his skin was as soft as a baby's.
Although he was just 22 according to his CV, he had an ease and assurance that only good looks and an unshakeable faith in their potency can bring. In fact Chris had yet to meet a woman - of whatever age - that he could not charm, and so when he saw that he was to be interviewed by Bernice alone he felt relaxed and confident, and this shone through in that smile.
If his first glance had revealed the basic fact comforting fact that Bernice was a woman, and hence susceptible, the second told him that she was also extremely attractive to boot. As a result he suddenly became filled with a simple but real happiness at the thought that the next half hour or so would be much more bearable than he had feared. This was important to Chris who tried to spend his life as pleasantly and with as little inconvenience as possible.
As for Bernice, she felt that Christopher had been sent to compensate for all the dull and desperate individuals she had been forced to endure over the last three days. It was if some benevolent god had decided to disguise himself as a mere mortal and descend to earth to reward her. It was with some difficulty that she turned her mind to the matter in hand.
"Right then, Christopher - "
"Chris, please. Only my mother calls me Christopher, and that's when she is being serious," he said smiling that smile again.
"Right, Chris," she continued, "thanks for coming - to see us. Just to let you know the structure of this interview, what I'd like to do...is to go through your CV and then chat more generally. After that I'll try to answer any outstanding questions you have," she said, conscious that her last comment made it sound as if ordinary questions would be dismissed out of hand.
"I see that you were born not far from here, Guildford, and that you are still living there...," she began.
"Yes, that's right. Basically I've been staying with my parents since I came down from university. I decided some time ago that the only job I wanted to do was journalism, and I harboured no false illusions about how easy or how quickly I would be able to find an entrée. My parents very kindly agreed to put me up while I dedicated myself to applying for jobs," he answered employing a prepared speech that he used when asked this kind of question.
It was not entirely true. He had decided to become a journalist only just before leaving university, partly because he couldn't think of anything that sounded more appealing, and partly because he had this glamorous image of a reporter being sent all over the world and tapping out honed, government-toppling stories in Kuala Lumpur, a kind of cross between James Joyce and James Bond.
It was also not entirely true to say that he had harboured no false illusions: things that he wanted generally came easily to him, so it had been something of a shock to find himself turned down even for an interview for most of the other jobs that he had applied for. Unfortunately those that did give him interview had so far given him short shrift after that. For someone less sure of himself and his worth than Chris was, the experience would have been disheartening. And as for his parents, well, they had been spoiling their only child for 22 years now, so when he turned up on their doorstep with nowhere else to go, they of course were happy for him to stay.
"OK," she said, delighted at his reply, perhaps a little too pleased that he was saying all the right things so far - early commitment, dedication to journalism etc. "Perhaps we can explore your interest in journalism a little further."
"Well," began Chris, chuffed that another of his standard replies could be used - this is going to be easy, he thought. "In my first year at university I wanted to concentrate on my courses, to bed myself in, so to speak." This was certainly true: his first year at Sussex University he had spent bedding in all the attractive women who were taking the same courses for the English degree. "After that, I decided that I wanted to broaden my experience" - that is, of women on other courses - "particularly my practical experience as regards language, so I joined the university newspaper, becoming Editor after a few months," he added as diffidently as he could, as if it were really nothing. And it was really nothing, in that university politics were such that everybody got to be Editor for a few issues before being booted out in their turn.
"I see that in your last year you became President of the Union," said Bernice, already far more interested in Chris's personal history than the job really warranted. But he's so handsome, passed through her mind from time to time as if of its own volition.
"Well, my work on the newspaper brought me into contact with a wide range of people" - women, actually - "and I found myself increasingly drawn into the political and social issues of that time." What he meant was that he had fallen for one of the leading political ladies, and wanted both to impress her and to meet her as an equal on the political scene. He therefore used some of his time as Editor of the university rag to build support for his candidature for the presidency of the Union.
"Excellent," said Bernice rather uncharacteristically. "I mean commitment is clearly important for a journalist - don't you think?" This was not the way to ask such a question.
"Oh absolutely," said Chris, not slow to pick up on hints. "I think that commitment is one of the most important things that I can bring to this job - that and enthusiasm." Unfortunately his commitment and enthusiasm were mostly self-directed.
"OK, said Bernice, "we've covered your journalistic activities, and obviously you've been concentrating on applying for jobs since then, so what I'd like to do now is to ask a few questions about you." Chris's favourite topic.
"For example, looking back at your three years at university, what do you think were the most important things you learnt - apart from the coursework?"
"Yes, well apart from the coursework," echoed Chris, who actually had learnt very little from the coursework, "I think the main thing I learnt was how to get on with people" Here Chris was being modest: he had basically learnt how to seduce any woman and get on well with most men who were not perceived as rivals in his amorous pursuits. "It seems to me crucial for a journalist to be able to mix with people, not to be afraid to talk to strangers, but to jump straight in, to establish a rapport." Whether this was sheer luck on Chris's part, or genuine insight, these chimed very well with Bernice's own views on journalists. Too many of the people that she had seen recently would have been unable to say 'boo' to the proverbial goose, let alone winkle out sensitive information from reluctant and suspicious sources.
"And following this up," continued Bernice, "how do you think you grew during that period?"
"Growth..." - this had Chris stumped for moment: what on earth was she talking about? "well, I suppose I grew as a person in that I came to appreciate people more, and was able to put myself in a broader context." He hoped that was vague enough to pass muster.
It did, if only because Bernice was admiring his deep brown eyes as he was answering. Which may explain why she asked the next question, generally one that she avoided as being crass and unfair, but which now she felt an uncontrollable urge to ask:
"What do you regard as your biggest failing?" The old favourite, thought Chris: you can't say that you have no failings, and yet to admit to failings would seem to incriminate you. Fortunately Chris was ready for this one, just as Bernice had been with Martin:
"Well, I suppose that I have to confess to a particular fault: that of getting carried away by my enthusiasm. Sometimes I get so wrapped in things, so swept along by them. Often this means that up until all hours of the night, unable to stop something that I've started."
"What, like a book or a particular task do you mean?" asked Bernice.
"Yes, could be a book, or a task..." or other things.... He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to suggest that he knew that it was a terrible failing, but there you were, that was the way he was made.
Seeing that smile again she thought fleetingly about asking him what he would do if he came into the editorial office to find that everybody had flung off their clothes and were engaged in a wild orgy, but instead limited herself to asking:
"What about hobbies?"
"Well, at university I was either doing coursework or my journalism or union work, and since then I've really concentrated on my career, so hobbies have not really figured much recently," well, apart from one.
"What sort of hours do you think you would be doing if you joined our launch?" asked Bernice.
"Deep into the night - whatever was necessary. As I said, I am a very committed person, and if I were fortunate enough to land this job, you certainly wouldn't find me stinting in my application."
"Well," said Bernice, I think that's more or less everything I need to know" - though not everything I want to know - "I'm sure you have some questions for me."
"Yes, just a few. Could you tell me a little more about the job itself, what it entails?"
"Certainly, as Reporter - if you got the job - " she added hastily " - you would be writing news stories, features, attending press conferences, generally contributing to the running of the magazine."
"And would I be reporting to you?" he asked as intensely as he could.
"Well, there's an Assistant Editor, but your direct line of reporting would be to me."
"And prospects for promotion?"
"Excellent I would say - in the sense that Wright's is a large company with many opportunities."
"And finally - if you don't mind me asking - what would the salary be?" In fact for Chris the salary was not that important in that he knew that his parents would always help him out by stumping up if he needed money. More important was getting the job, the kudos of being a journalist - and also the prospect of working with Ms Stuart here. But he knew that it was a question that he was expected to ask, and so did.
"The starting salary would be £12,000. There is also a tax-free reading allowance of £250 for buying magazines and newspapers to help you with your research."
"Excellent," said Chris. "Well, I think that is everything I wanted to ask."
"Right, then. Oh, stupid me, one other thing: when could you start - if you got the job, that is?" If?
"Well, fortunately I am relatively free at the moment" - and aim to stay that way, he thought to himself - "so I could join more or less immediately."
"Excellent," Bernice said, unconsciously echoing Chris. "Right, I'll be letting you know as soon as possible. Are you around this weekend, I mean could I reach you at your parents to let you know? Yes? Good. Right then, Chris, thanks a lot, for coming in, I look forward to, er, speaking to you." And she showed him, reluctantly, to the door.
It was only after she had closed the door and sat down again that she began to wonder to what extent she was being objective in all this. Was she just losing her head over a pretty face? - and it certainly was damn pretty. She had never really allowed personal feelings to invade the space she reserved for work before, and she was worried that her judgement might be affected.
But then she thought over his answers: very polished, to the point, very enthusiastic. And there was his English degree, not a very good one, mind you, but surely that was some kind of guarantee? And he had journalistic experience - was an Editor, even - which few of the other candidates did.
So as she began the last two sessions of interviews she already half knew in her heart that he would get the job. She knew that he would fit in well with the office, indeed contribute much to it with his self-confidence and social ease. Although utterly exhausted by these first two weeks of intense activity, she was already beginning to look forward to next Monday, when they could really start to get things moving, and when most of her team would be in place. Once she had made a phone call to Chris that weekend....
When Pete came in she was surprised to see that he had his left hand bandaged, rather as Terence had the day before.
"Er, Peter, you haven't been near Euston Station??? by any chance have you?" she asked a little concerned that she might have an office full of violent psychopaths - though in Pete's case this seemed highly unlikely.
"No, why?" asked Pete, mystified.
"Oh, nothing," she said. "What happened to your hand?"
"Just a scratch - I was doing some DIY last night and the Stanley knife slipped. But don't worry," he added, concerned, "I'm still be able to type. You'll have that other feature today."
"Great," said Bernice, pleased that somebody grasped the concept of a deadline. There was no sign of work from George, and as he sat still chewing his pen she felt guilty that she did not have more time to spend with him at the moment to try to sort out whatever problems he was having. Nor was there any work yet from David, though at least the latter seemed to be deeply immersed in something when he eventually got going. He normally strolled in around ten or ten-thirty, working until the early evening. When tackled on this he simply said that he preferred to be working when the phones weren't ringing all the time - hardly a danger at the moment, on a magazine whose existence was only now being announced to the world through the appearance of the job ads and promotional mailings. Only Pete and Janice had come up with the goods, the latter producing a very creditable first attempt at a list of business events over the next few months. With just a few additions and a little polishing it should be perfect.
Leaving the worryingly quiet office, she went across to the North tower and back to the claustrophobic interview room she had booked. Janice would bring across the interviewees as they arrived. Perhaps it was because she knew that she had most of her team in place, if not actually in the office, or perhaps it was just exhaustion caused by the strain of listening to people' life stories and then trying to judge them on that basis, but she found her mind wandering more during that day's interviews. The applicants all seemed so callow, so unformed and uninteresting. Surely there was someone out there with that extra something she was looking for?
Somebody who certainly had something extra walked through the door of the interview room at two o'clock precisely. He was smartly dressed in an expensive-looking double-breasted suit, was tall and graceful in his movements, had a narrow face with high cheekbones, rich brown eyes and masses of chestnut-coloured curly hair. His name was Christopher Hunt, and he had smile that made her feel that he was welcoming her to an interview, rather than the other way round. His handshake was warm and sensuous, and she noticed how his skin was as soft as a baby's.
Although he was just 22 according to his CV, he had an ease and assurance that only good looks and an unshakeable faith in their potency can bring. In fact Chris had yet to meet a woman - of whatever age - that he could not charm, and so when he saw that he was to be interviewed by Bernice alone he felt relaxed and confident, and this shone through in that smile.
If his first glance had revealed the basic fact comforting fact that Bernice was a woman, and hence susceptible, the second told him that she was also extremely attractive to boot. As a result he suddenly became filled with a simple but real happiness at the thought that the next half hour or so would be much more bearable than he had feared. This was important to Chris who tried to spend his life as pleasantly and with as little inconvenience as possible.
As for Bernice, she felt that Christopher had been sent to compensate for all the dull and desperate individuals she had been forced to endure over the last three days. It was if some benevolent god had decided to disguise himself as a mere mortal and descend to earth to reward her. It was with some difficulty that she turned her mind to the matter in hand.
"Right then, Christopher - "
"Chris, please. Only my mother calls me Christopher, and that's when she is being serious," he said smiling that smile again.
"Right, Chris," she continued, "thanks for coming - to see us. Just to let you know the structure of this interview, what I'd like to do...is to go through your CV and then chat more generally. After that I'll try to answer any outstanding questions you have," she said, conscious that her last comment made it sound as if ordinary questions would be dismissed out of hand.
"I see that you were born not far from here, Guildford, and that you are still living there...," she began.
"Yes, that's right. Basically I've been staying with my parents since I came down from university. I decided some time ago that the only job I wanted to do was journalism, and I harboured no false illusions about how easy or how quickly I would be able to find an entrée. My parents very kindly agreed to put me up while I dedicated myself to applying for jobs," he answered employing a prepared speech that he used when asked this kind of question.
It was not entirely true. He had decided to become a journalist only just before leaving university, partly because he couldn't think of anything that sounded more appealing, and partly because he had this glamorous image of a reporter being sent all over the world and tapping out honed, government-toppling stories in Kuala Lumpur, a kind of cross between James Joyce and James Bond.
It was also not entirely true to say that he had harboured no false illusions: things that he wanted generally came easily to him, so it had been something of a shock to find himself turned down even for an interview for most of the other jobs that he had applied for. Unfortunately those that did give him interview had so far given him short shrift after that. For someone less sure of himself and his worth than Chris was, the experience would have been disheartening. And as for his parents, well, they had been spoiling their only child for 22 years now, so when he turned up on their doorstep with nowhere else to go, they of course were happy for him to stay.
"OK," she said, delighted at his reply, perhaps a little too pleased that he was saying all the right things so far - early commitment, dedication to journalism etc. "Perhaps we can explore your interest in journalism a little further."
"Well," began Chris, chuffed that another of his standard replies could be used - this is going to be easy, he thought. "In my first year at university I wanted to concentrate on my courses, to bed myself in, so to speak." This was certainly true: his first year at Sussex University he had spent bedding in all the attractive women who were taking the same courses for the English degree. "After that, I decided that I wanted to broaden my experience" - that is, of women on other courses - "particularly my practical experience as regards language, so I joined the university newspaper, becoming Editor after a few months," he added as diffidently as he could, as if it were really nothing. And it was really nothing, in that university politics were such that everybody got to be Editor for a few issues before being booted out in their turn.
"I see that in your last year you became President of the Union," said Bernice, already far more interested in Chris's personal history than the job really warranted. But he's so handsome, passed through her mind from time to time as if of its own volition.
"Well, my work on the newspaper brought me into contact with a wide range of people" - women, actually - "and I found myself increasingly drawn into the political and social issues of that time." What he meant was that he had fallen for one of the leading political ladies, and wanted both to impress her and to meet her as an equal on the political scene. He therefore used some of his time as Editor of the university rag to build support for his candidature for the presidency of the Union.
"Excellent," said Bernice rather uncharacteristically. "I mean commitment is clearly important for a journalist - don't you think?" This was not the way to ask such a question.
"Oh absolutely," said Chris, not slow to pick up on hints. "I think that commitment is one of the most important things that I can bring to this job - that and enthusiasm." Unfortunately his commitment and enthusiasm were mostly self-directed.
"OK, said Bernice, "we've covered your journalistic activities, and obviously you've been concentrating on applying for jobs since then, so what I'd like to do now is to ask a few questions about you." Chris's favourite topic.
"For example, looking back at your three years at university, what do you think were the most important things you learnt - apart from the coursework?"
"Yes, well apart from the coursework," echoed Chris, who actually had learnt very little from the coursework, "I think the main thing I learnt was how to get on with people" Here Chris was being modest: he had basically learnt how to seduce any woman and get on well with most men who were not perceived as rivals in his amorous pursuits. "It seems to me crucial for a journalist to be able to mix with people, not to be afraid to talk to strangers, but to jump straight in, to establish a rapport." Whether this was sheer luck on Chris's part, or genuine insight, these chimed very well with Bernice's own views on journalists. Too many of the people that she had seen recently would have been unable to say 'boo' to the proverbial goose, let alone winkle out sensitive information from reluctant and suspicious sources.
"And following this up," continued Bernice, "how do you think you grew during that period?"
"Growth..." - this had Chris stumped for moment: what on earth was she talking about? "well, I suppose I grew as a person in that I came to appreciate people more, and was able to put myself in a broader context." He hoped that was vague enough to pass muster.
It did, if only because Bernice was admiring his deep brown eyes as he was answering. Which may explain why she asked the next question, generally one that she avoided as being crass and unfair, but which now she felt an uncontrollable urge to ask:
"What do you regard as your biggest failing?" The old favourite, thought Chris: you can't say that you have no failings, and yet to admit to failings would seem to incriminate you. Fortunately Chris was ready for this one, just as Bernice had been with Martin:
"Well, I suppose that I have to confess to a particular fault: that of getting carried away by my enthusiasm. Sometimes I get so wrapped in things, so swept along by them. Often this means that up until all hours of the night, unable to stop something that I've started."
"What, like a book or a particular task do you mean?" asked Bernice.
"Yes, could be a book, or a task..." or other things.... He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to suggest that he knew that it was a terrible failing, but there you were, that was the way he was made.
Seeing that smile again she thought fleetingly about asking him what he would do if he came into the editorial office to find that everybody had flung off their clothes and were engaged in a wild orgy, but instead limited herself to asking:
"What about hobbies?"
"Well, at university I was either doing coursework or my journalism or union work, and since then I've really concentrated on my career, so hobbies have not really figured much recently," well, apart from one.
"What sort of hours do you think you would be doing if you joined our launch?" asked Bernice.
"Deep into the night - whatever was necessary. As I said, I am a very committed person, and if I were fortunate enough to land this job, you certainly wouldn't find me stinting in my application."
"Well," said Bernice, I think that's more or less everything I need to know" - though not everything I want to know - "I'm sure you have some questions for me."
"Yes, just a few. Could you tell me a little more about the job itself, what it entails?"
"Certainly, as Reporter - if you got the job - " she added hastily " - you would be writing news stories, features, attending press conferences, generally contributing to the running of the magazine."
"And would I be reporting to you?" he asked as intensely as he could.
"Well, there's an Assistant Editor, but your direct line of reporting would be to me."
"And prospects for promotion?"
"Excellent I would say - in the sense that Wright's is a large company with many opportunities."
"And finally - if you don't mind me asking - what would the salary be?" In fact for Chris the salary was not that important in that he knew that his parents would always help him out by stumping up if he needed money. More important was getting the job, the kudos of being a journalist - and also the prospect of working with Ms Stuart here. But he knew that it was a question that he was expected to ask, and so did.
"The starting salary would be £12,000. There is also a tax-free reading allowance of £250 for buying magazines and newspapers to help you with your research."
"Excellent," said Chris. "Well, I think that is everything I wanted to ask."
"Right, then. Oh, stupid me, one other thing: when could you start - if you got the job, that is?" If?
"Well, fortunately I am relatively free at the moment" - and aim to stay that way, he thought to himself - "so I could join more or less immediately."
"Excellent," Bernice said, unconsciously echoing Chris. "Right, I'll be letting you know as soon as possible. Are you around this weekend, I mean could I reach you at your parents to let you know? Yes? Good. Right then, Chris, thanks a lot, for coming in, I look forward to, er, speaking to you." And she showed him, reluctantly, to the door.
It was only after she had closed the door and sat down again that she began to wonder to what extent she was being objective in all this. Was she just losing her head over a pretty face? - and it certainly was damn pretty. She had never really allowed personal feelings to invade the space she reserved for work before, and she was worried that her judgement might be affected.
But then she thought over his answers: very polished, to the point, very enthusiastic. And there was his English degree, not a very good one, mind you, but surely that was some kind of guarantee? And he had journalistic experience - was an Editor, even - which few of the other candidates did.
So as she began the last two sessions of interviews she already half knew in her heart that he would get the job. She knew that he would fit in well with the office, indeed contribute much to it with his self-confidence and social ease. Although utterly exhausted by these first two weeks of intense activity, she was already beginning to look forward to next Monday, when they could really start to get things moving, and when most of her team would be in place. Once she had made a phone call to Chris that weekend....
