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Beatrice Shellesworth, matronly and insipid, takes my hand and marvels at how good I look, and how much she missed me at the charity gala last month. I respond with the appropriate noises, the brimming-over enthusiasm which is supposed to tell her how much I regretted having to make the trip to London for the business conference instead. She is not fooled; she knows the game, too, and was playing it long before I entered the scene. Bitch.I hate them all. Myself not least.Then there's the entrance, with its doormen and luxurious red carpeting, and the elegant table with the gilt-lettered parchment, Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Plantagenet. I'm just Mrs. Him.The wine is typical-- the best doesn't get any better if you've had it seven times in the last year-- and the conversation doubly so. This is all building to a fever pitch for me, and with a fixed smile I excuse myself to powder my nose ... and head instead for the exit. My head is ringing, and my ears are buzzing and for some reason. ’ ‘When it’s too good to be true, that usually means it is, Denise. I think the slightly sinister sounding Mr. McKuan is actually a good thing – otherwise it would be too perfect.’ ‘Well, be assured that it’s not too perfect then, go in, answer the questions, make sure you get in a couple of your own, and you’ll be in. Ah, hell, just relax and be yourself, Stan. You’ll do fine.’ Stan’s interview was before Denise’s. He made his way up and into the office to be greeted there by the receptionist, who he knew was named Valerie. He’d already spoken with her on the phone, of course. He introduced himself, and in no time at all Sid was there, saying hello, drawing him into the office where he met the possibly sinister Ken McKuan for the first time. An hour later he was being shown out, having done passably well, he thought. A small voice in the back of his head was telling him that that meant he’d actually done well. When he got outside into the cool air of that morning Denise pounced on.
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