By The Book

By The Book

written by: Steven Elvy

@steveelvy2

 

‘The first thing you have to sell is yourself,’ the book had told him. ‘Your interviewer is seeking a person of integrity and self-motivation. Do not squeeze his or her hand or wink your eye in a caricature of a check-suited travelling salesman/woman. Do not attempt to “play a role” for your interviewer will immediately see through this and detect your insincerity. Be yourself and project YOUR qualities.’

All of these laudable instructions flew through Benedict’s mind as he entered the auspicious-looking building where the offices of GB Insurance (The People’s Insurance Partner) were situated.

His new shoes, glistening like wedges of black onyx, sank two inches into the plush, red carpet. He straightened his shoulders to try and compensate for the height loss. His eyes glanced downwards for a final inspection of his day-old double-breasted grey suit and his hand quickly checked the Windsor knot in his pale, pink-striped tie (designed to lend his otherwise conservative ensemble a touch of colour and provide a subtle hint at his rakish individuality).

The reception foyer seemed incredibly warm after his ten-minute trek through the streets of St Albans and Benedict’s nose was now feeling slightly soggy. He knew he should have brought a handkerchief, but Sally had dissuaded him from doing so on the grounds that this would have caused an unsightly bulge and impaired the cut of his suit. He sniffed, quietly.

Benedict crossed the deserted foyer and studied the legend on the far wall announcing the names of the various companies lurking above. There it was: GB Insurance PLC, seventh floor.

There was a lift but Benedict took the stairs. Knowing nothing of the building’s layout, he did not wish his entrance to be overly complicated by machinery. He needed to be in control.

By the time he reached the seventh floor, his breathing was unusually laboured and he could detect a slight but uncomfortable dampness beneath his armpits. Nerves, he told himself. Quite natural. The book had told him this may happen.

The pretty girl behind the desk beamed brightly at him.

“Good afternoon,” she said, perfect teeth sparkling. “May I help you?”

“Er, yes,” said Benedict. “I have an appointment with Mr Brown.”

“Yes. Whom shall I say is calling?” she asked, confidence oozing from her like molasses.

“My name is Turner,” said Benedict.

She picked up a telephone and punched a single number.

“Shan’t be a tick,” she said, a turquoise fingernail pushing a fold of blond hair behind a shell-like ear. “Hello, Hamish,” she purred into the mouthpiece.

Hamish, thought Benedict, alertly. Must remember that.

“It’s me, silly!” the girl said after a few seconds. “Veronica.”

Veronica, thought Benedict, filing away another name. The book had mentioned the benefits of gathering and remembering the names of those you encountered on YOUR JOURNEY.

The girl then giggled at something that Hamish must have said. Her sky-blue eyes glanced briefly at Benedict and she turned sideways in her seat, a smile growing on her lovely face as she listened intently. She laughed again, throatily, and then said, “Oh, Hamish, you are a swine!”

Benedict shuffled his feet uncomfortably, feeling like an eavesdropper. He moved to put his hands in his pockets but checked himself just in time. Sally had told him that it looked slovenly and, besides, would ruin his suit in no time. His shirt was sticking to his back beneath the thick wool jacket and he hoped the deodorant and aftershave were still doing their jobs effectively.

Veronica trilled again at the humorous telephone. Eventually, presumably taking advantage of a pause in Hamish’s witty repartee, she said, “I’ve got a Mr Turner here to see you, Hamish.” Her eyes were on Benedict as she spoke and he suddenly found himself with a silly grin on his face as if he had just been let in on the joke.

Veronica replaced the receiver and said, “He won’t keep you a mo’. Would you like some coffee while you wait?”

“Er, yes please,” Benedict replied. The book had mentioned that if refreshments were offered it was wise to accept them as this often served to create an early atmosphere of harmony and to help break down any social barriers.

“Do take a seat,” Veronica said as she got up and went in search of the coffee.

The reception area was simply decorated and furnished with only Veronica’s desk, a low glass-topped table, and a fawn three-seat settee. Benedict sat in this and immediately regretted it. The settee was softer than it had at first appeared and his bottom finally came to rest at a height of barely ten inches from the floor while his legs, unable to bend at the knees, stuck out before him like another pair of arms. Acting quickly and trying to suppress any panic, he shifted all of his weight onto his left elbow in an effort to raise himself. The movement, however, created a trampoline-like motion in the settee and he was left bouncing between his bottom and his elbow for several seconds as if he were a sobbing child in a tantrum.

“Milk and sugar?” asked Veronica, poking her head around a door.

“Just milk, thanks,” Benedict replied, his voice somewhat strained.

Having managed to right himself, Benedict sat perched precariously on the edge of the settee and sipped his coffee.

The digital clock on the wall announced that he had been waiting for ten minutes when a man came bustling into the small reception area, his hand outstretched. Benedict stood up as quickly as he dared, wary of the dangers that any rapid movement could have.

“Benedict!” boomed the man, pumping Benedict’s hand like a long-lost friend. Benedict kept a firm hold on his coffee cup. “Hamish, Talent Acquisition Manager,” the man continued, completing the introductions. “Come on, I’ll take you upstairs where all the real work is done.” He winked broadly and smirked at Veronica and Benedict recalled the words in the book.

“Did you find us okay?” Hamish asked over his shoulder as Benedict followed him down a narrow corridor.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Benedict replied. “As a matter of fact I came up this way yesterday. To get the lay of the land, as it were – study the territory, so to speak.” The book had recommended doing this, but Hamish seemed either unimpressed or wasn’t listening.

They entered a small office and each took seats on either side of a small desk. William put down the coffee cup that he had been carrying.

“Ah, you have coffee!” observed Hamish as if making an accusation.

“Yes, Veronica made me some,” said Benedict, in case an explanation was called for.

“Want some more?” asked Hamish, as if the reply he would receive may have some unfathomable significance.

“No . . . thank you,” Benedict said cautiously. The book had made reference to trick questions but he thought this was probably not one.

“Benedict, I wonder . . .” Hamish started to say in a thoughtful tone, rocking languidly back in his chair and running his fingers through the thick folds of his hair. He allowed the unfinished sentence to hang in the air for several seconds, his eyes seemingly transfixed by the fluorescent light fixture as he gazed upwards. “No!” he loudly said, tapping his palms on the desk and making Benedict jump. “I won’t ask you that question just at the moment. I may ask it later, but not just yet. Is that okay?”

Benedict, feeling unable to comment either way, simply nodded dumbly.

“Instead, Benedict,” continued Hamish, opening his arms expansively, “I’m going to give you the floor. This is your chance to tell me everything you can about Benedict -” he broke off to check the paper on his desk “– Turner. Okay? Spotlight on . . . Drum roll . . .,” and he tapped the desk with his knuckles to imitate a drum roll, “and . . . you’re on!”

Even though Benedict had expected this he was still caught momentarily off guard and simply stared at the other man like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The book had told him to expect something along these lines. Sally had told him to expect this. Sally had spent hours tutoring him on this night after night. On some occasions, these sessions had led to mild disagreement over details of his past (she still insisted that it was him who had played the lead in the sixth form’s production of The Merchant of Venice, but he had had to remind her that he lost the plum lead role to her cousin Neil on account of the fact that the fake rubber nose they’d made him wear had brought out a nasty rash).

But it had been different pretending to be interviewed by Sally. It had been quite fun, really, Sally thinking up loads of tricky questions and him answering them as if it was all for real (she always varied the trick question, but he usually spotted it!)

But this . . . this was for real. After taking a deep breath, Benedict began by telling Hamish his age and that he lived with Sally in Potters Bar, that he was a Barnet FC supporter but he didn’t get the chance to see many matches lately, that he and Sally liked going to the cinema and their favourite Indian restaurant. . . Oh, and that his favourite films were the Tom Cruise Mission Impossible series and that although he wasn’t much of a reader Sally was and she had read Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit from cover to cover and they both loved those films, too.

He noticed that while he was talking Hamish was making notes on a pad and occasionally nodding his head as if in approval. So Benedict ploughed on with an explanation of how he had started his paper round and had then designed a different route to take than the last boy had taken and this had meant he had shaved twenty minutes off the time it took and how Mr. Singh, who owned the paper shop, had highly commended him on his planning and ingenuity in this.

Hamish suddenly looked up and said, “Whoa, there, cowboy! Hold that horse right there! When was all this?”

Benedict thought for a moment and then named the year.

“Yes, yes,” said Hamish, now with some impatience. “But how old were you?”

Benedict rubbed his chin and thought some more. “Eleven . . . maybe twelve . . .” he replied softly, and then continued, “I didn’t think you’d want to know about anything before that . . .”

Hamish sat back in his chair and smiled at Benedict benignly. “That’s most interesting, Benedict,” he said in a measured tone of voice. “Frankly, at this early stage, I was not intending our conversation to be so – how do I put it? – in-depth. But the fact that you have elected to begin telling me your story from such a young age is quite intriguing and says much about you and your character.”

Benedict felt his cheeks tingle. He seemed to have made a good impression so far. It was all going very well.

“Tell me about after you left school, Ben . . . Bye the way, is it Benedict or Ben?”

“Ben,” Benedict heard himself say for no apparent reason. Nobody ever called him Ben!

“Okay, Ben,” said Hamish, trying out the new name and seeming to approve of it. “Tell me about after school. What was your first real job?”

“Trainee Assistant Departmental Manager at Tesco in High Barnet,” Benedict smartly rattled off. This seemed to be going a bit more like he and Sally had pretended it would.

“Good,” Hamish said, nodding as if this was the answer he had expected. “And what then? Did you realise your ambitions within Tesco?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you graduate . . .? From being a trainee?”

“Er, not exactly,” Benedict replied slowly. He tried to remember how this bit had gone with Sally. Then, in a flash, it came flooding back to him and he continued, “Realising that my career path with Tesco PLC, although most assuredly on an upward trajectory, was not at that time challenging me in such a way that I considered would be advantageous to my ongoing professional advancement or, to put it bluntly, remunerate me as sufficiently as I considered was my worth, I sought alternative employment with Sainsbury’s in Golders Green.”

“Ah, so you sold out to the competition,” said Hamish with a touch of admiration.

“So to speak,” Benedict admitted modestly.

“And you joined Sainsbury’s as a . . .? What, manager? Assistant manager?”

“Er, no,” explained Benedict. “As a trainee. Again.”

“But you got more money, eh?”

“Er, no. Not quite as much, actually.”

“But you saw this new position as a more prominent launch pad for your future ambitions. Yes?” prompted Hamish.

“Oh, yes!” said Benedict, pleased that the other was grasping the narrative so well. “I was only there for two months and then I became a postman. And that did pay well!” He was pleased to have been able to get that point over.

“A postman?” said Hamish, now putting down his fountain pen and again leaning back. “I’m sorry, Ben, I don’t really follow. What was the link, the significance . . .?”

Leaning forward, Benedict animatedly continued, “The postman who delivered to the store in Golders Green applied for a job at the supermarket. It was actually on account of his bunions, but that’s probably bye the bye. Anyway,” he went on, moving even closer across the desk, “as soon as I heard about it I rushed down to the post office sorting office and straight away applied for his job!”

Benedict sat back, delighted that he had taken the opportunity to demonstrate his resourcefulness and quick thinking. He couldn’t wait to be able to tell Sally how well that bit had gone!

“Yes, I see,” said Hamish after a short pause. He made a couple of notes on his jotter, a slight frown forming on his forehead.

The afternoon sun was rapidly lowering and through the slats of the Venetian blind behind Hamish’s shoulder, it was shooting mischievous arrows of light into Benedict’s face. His left eye was almost completely closed. It was hot and stuffy in Hamish’s little office and Benedict had lost most of the feeling in his left leg due to his constrained sitting position. He slowly and surreptitiously stuck it out sideways beneath the desk and then experienced a tingling pain as the blood began to circulate again.

The conversation had reached a halt as Hamish busied himself making some notes. Benedict was wondering what he and Sally would have for their tea that night.

“So, you are at present employed by the post office,” said Hamish, resuming.

“Yes,” Benedict confirmed.

“But you consider you would be better suited to insurance sales?”

“Yes,” Benedict confirmed further.

“‘Why?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, well . . .” Benedict swallowed audibly. He retrieved his leg from its juxtaposition and sat up straighter in his chair. He had been rather taken off guard by the direct question. The advertisement for the job he had applied for had called for applicants who were able to demonstrate initiative and drive, self-starters who were seeking the opportunity to escape from humdrum conformity; people with real ambition and who were determined to realise their full potential and earn upwards of fifty thousand a year. Well, Benedict thought to himself, who wouldn’t want that?

“In my job as a postman,” he hesitantly began to explain, “I meet all sorts of people. I meet people who run pubs and cafes, I meet people who work in shops and factories and warehouses. I meet housewives and people who are at home because they can’t find a job or they’re sick. And these people talk to me. I don’t know why, but they do. And about all sorts of things as well. About who’s gone into hospital or gone on holiday, who’s buying a new car. Who’s died. Who’s having a baby or getting a divorce.
“And I thought to myself, well, people don’t just talk to me and tell me all these things because I’m a postman, do they? They’d probably talk to me and tell me things if I was a salesman. And if I got some training – the advert did say there was some training? -”

“Two-week residential course at our Reading HQ,” Hamish confirmed. “If accepted.”

“Well, then, that would be good . . .” Benedict quickly swallowed. He knew none of this was coming out the way he and Sally had rehearsed it. He was rambling now, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself.
“I mean,” he continued, unable to stop fidgeting in his seat, “If I know all these people now, all these people that talk to me just because I’m delivering letters and parcels, then I’m bound to get to know loads of others when I can travel about a bit.
“And each person I get to know must know loads of other people too, mustn’t they, and they would help me to meet them . . . mustn’t they?
“And as for selling insurance, well, I know I’ve never done it before but with a bit of help and training I’m sure I could do it – especially if I can make fifty thousand pound a year!”

Benedict suddenly stopped speaking. I’ve said it all wrong, he thought to himself. This wasn’t what the book – or Sally – had said to say at all. I’ve properly messed it all up!

Hamish did not say anything. He stared absently at Benedict, his elbows on the desk and his fountain pen lightly tapping his lower lip.

Then Hamish leaned forward and scribbled something on his jotter. Upside down, Benedict could not quite make out what he had written but he thought it was YES, SHOWS POTENTIAL.