The Flirt. Kathleen Tessaro

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       The Interview

      Hughie was sitting in a warm patch of sunlight on a bench in Green Park, with ten minutes to go before his appointment. He felt stiff and uncomfortable wearing the dark wool suit he’d borrowed from Malcolm. But at least it didn’t smell like violet water.

      Perhaps it had been a mistake allowing Clara to dress him. But when she heard he finally had a job interview, she wouldn’t leave him alone. Her trademark yellow Post-its began to appear offering advice instead of warnings: ‘Make eye contact and smile! But not like an IDIOT!’ ‘Don’t eat anything smelly the day before.’ ‘Remember to shave!’ As the week wore on they grew increasingly more like American life-coaching slogans: ‘You can do this!’ ‘This job already belongs to YOU! All you have to do is reach out and GRAB IT!’ ‘Failure is for LOSERS!’ Hughie had begun to miss the Post-its that only required him not to forget his fucking keys.

      He looked around at the people strolling past and the ones lolling, reading papers or dozing on the grass. And he wondered if any of them might be the person he was waiting for.

      It was unusual to hold a job interview on a park bench. It was one of the things he’d kept secret from Clara and her endless grilling. But then, he was an actor and used to strange impromptu arrangements. Besides, any job that required discretion coupled with a romantic history was bound to be a bit unorthodox.

      He checked the time again on his mobile phone. Any minute now, the man he spoke to would be here.

      Then a red-headed woman sat down next to him, unfolded a newspaper and began to read. Hughie felt a bit anxious. This was the difficulty of using public spaces; namely the public. Should he ask her to sit somewhere else? Or perhaps he should just wait until the man arrived and take it from there?

      Suddenly his phone buzzed. A text appeared.

      The message read, Flirt with the woman next to you. Your interview has begun.

      Hughie blinked.

      Flirt?

      He read the message again.

      Then he peered across at the woman reading her paper. She was about fifty-five, sensibly dressed; she looked like one of his mother’s friends. Definitely not the sort of woman he’d ever flirt with. Not that he was much of a flirt in the first place. His normal opening gambit was something along the lines of, ‘Hey’ And occasionally, he’d add, ‘Nice shoes.’

      Just on the off chance, he glanced down. She was wearing a pair of fiat, black loafers, what his mother called a ‘driving shoe’. He knew that because they were her favourite footwear. The originals were from Todd’s but his mother bought them in bulk from Marks and Spencer’s in a variety of garish colours. An involuntary shiver shot up his spine. How could he flirt with a woman who dressed like his mother?

      His phone buzzed again.

      A second message popped up.

       There’s a time limit.

      Hughie slipped his phone into his pocket. Was he being filmed? Was this some sort of reality television show? Whatever it was, there were clearly two choices: to play along or to stand up and walk away.

      Well, he was here now, up and dressed. And anyway, he’d get an earful from Clara if he just wandered off. He stole another glance. She wasn’t such a bad old bird. Her eyes were quite friendly and at least she didn’t have any disfiguring facial features—moles, moustache, СКАЧАТЬ