Working Wonders. Jenny Colgan

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СКАЧАТЬ mate,’ said Sven. ‘Ooh no. Just wrong ones. Then they escort you out of the building and lock you up for life.’

      ‘He’s kidding,’ said Arthur. ‘Leave her alone.’

      ‘Woo, back off Sir Galahad.’

      Cathy giggled and blushed again. Arthur wondered how much he would mind starting his working life all over again as a lonely shepherd on a hillside.

      ‘Sheep is to shepherd as goats are to … banker-shepherd-goatherd-banana.’

      Arthur sighed and ploughed on with his pen. These were unbelievably crap, but he knew in the way of these things that they might suddenly get really hard in about fifteen seconds. At this point they were still checking his ability to read, which didn’t exactly reflect well on their hiring strategies in the first place.

      ‘Pig is to sty as dog is to … house-sty-kennel-banana.’

      What was the fascination with farm animals, anyway? Was it an additional measure of stress, to conjure up bucolic fantasies whilst being held prisoner in a room without any windows? Arthur suddenly felt a desire to draw one of those adolescent penises, with enormous teardrops coming out the top, all over the paper.

      ‘Monkey is to banana as polar bear is to bamboo-banana-fish-asteroid.’

      Hmm. Perhaps being a town planner was marginally better than being the guy who had to make up questions about polar bears.

      ‘Sword is to truth as horses are to … loyalty-dreams-journeys-bananas.’

      Arthur started and sat back from the table. He looked at the question again and remembered his dream suddenly. Well, that was a strange one. Horses again. Then he ticked ‘journeys’, even though it wasn’t the least bit the same at all.

      It was ten forty-five and he’d barely made a dent in the piles of paper. Now he was doing stupid maths questions along the lines of squares of things and whether or not two is a prime number, just because it really doesn’t look like one. He dispatched these quickly enough – one doesn’t become an expert on suburban bus ratios without being able to do long division – and reached the largest section of the test. Stretching, he realized how incredibly hot it was in the room. His shirt was sticking to his back.

      ‘There are no right or wrong answers on this test,’ it said at the top of the paper. Arthur snorted, then instinctively looked around for a security camera. ‘Please answer questions as quickly and honestly as you can and give the first answer that comes into your head.’ I would do, thought Arthur, if there was a box that said, ‘Augh! Christ, get me out of here!’

      Please tick whichever you feel most applies to you.

      I want everyone to like me

      I want to be successful

      I want time to read my book

      Hmm, thought Arthur. It’s like a haiku. And I want all of these things. Let me see: like me means weak, read my book means slacker – he ticked successful.

      I want to travel in my life

      I want to be successful

      I carefully finish projects

      Ooh, getting tricky. Let me see: slacker, successful, anal. Okay. If there was a ‘I want to be successful’ line in every question, then he was home free.

      Only your mother really knows what is best for you

      I want time to read my book

      I want to be the leader

      Okay. Hmm. Between all the successes and leaders, he was coming out a bit too type-A-heart-attacks-risk. The mother thing was a nightmare waiting to happen. Books are good.

      Four hundred identical ones of these later, Arthur was going stir-crazy. The same lines, repeated in seemingly infinite patterns of stupidity, designed to gradate just in whichever direction, given that you were already going to lie, you would prefer to lie. Would he rather come out as the teacher’s anal sneak or the crazed ambition seeker? The joiner-inner or the workaholic? What was more important – the good name of the company or getting every detail finished? Working yourself into an early grave or keeping up the good name of the company? Arthur groaned and let his head sink forward onto his arms, then pulled it up again in his ongoing hidden camera paranoia. He stared at the paper, distraught. This was meaningless. Useless. And if he didn’t pass … well, he was a town planner without much of a life and absolutely sod all he cared about. His body boiled with fury and he was very close to crumpling up the papers and storming out when the last question caught his eye.

      I was made to gallop through the trees

      I miss my sword

      This is not my time

      He stared at it, then swirled round in confusion as the door opened behind him. A tall, elegant-looking woman walked in.

      ‘Are you finished?’

      He looked at her. She was a very pale blonde, slender without being skinny, and had a high forehead and quite a long nose. Not exactly beautiful, but undeniably striking.

      ‘Um … Just about …’

      She swept the papers away from in front of him. ‘I’m afraid we have a strict time limit.’

      ‘Can I just see the last page …’

      ‘Sorry.’ She didn’t smile. ‘I’m Gwyneth Morgan. CFC consultancy.’

      ‘Ah, the Crazy Frightening Company,’ said Arthur, and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘I’m joking. You know, I’m sure our excellent chief executive Sir Eglamore would agree that humour in the workplace and …’ He was starting to stammer.

      She stared at him coldly. ‘Yes, I take your point, except of course that humour is normally funny.’

      Arthur was stung. ‘Well, very little is funny when you’ve been chained to a desk in a windowless room for ninety minutes.’

      She raised her eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you’d rather be excluded from the process.’

      Arthur stood there for a minute, feeling the adrenalin rush through him. Suddenly, he felt furious. What the hell was he doing here and why was she treating him like this? Shaking, he pushed back his chair and stood up. She was offering to sack him and he was swallowing it like chocolate. He hated himself.

      ‘Am I done?’

      ‘For now.’

      He almost pushed past her into the corridor.

      Open-plan offices don’t have anywhere to hide. Well, the solitary cubicle in the men’s toilets, but that isn’t a pleasant place to be at the best of times and this was emphatically not the best of times. Unconsciously loosening his tie and wiping his forehead – Jesus, why couldn’t that bitch have given him two fucking minutes to read the last fucking question – he strode back to his rat hole, hot and furious.

      ‘How was it?’ asked Cathy anxiously.

      ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ