The interviewer began with the letter.
“Nigel,” she said, “your cover letter was… notable.”
He shifted slightly in the chair. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“I’d like to read a portion.”
She didn’t wait for permission.
“I’m past it. I’m old. I’m burned out. I’m good for nothing. And yet here I am applying for this job. Unemployed for over two years. Unemployable.”
She looked up.
“Accurate?”
“More or less.”
“Good.”
He gave a small frown. “Good?”
“Yes.”
She placed the page down neatly.
“The candour is useful. We’re looking for that.”
“I didn’t see much point in pretending otherwise.”
“No,” she said. “There wouldn’t be.”
A pause.
“Though,” she added, “we’re aware you’re more articulate than that.”
Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Based on what? That letter’s about as honest as I get.”
“We conduct deeper assessments of our candidates.”
“Right,” he said. “And what did you find?”
“That you’re capable of clearer expression than you chose to demonstrate there.”
He watched her for a moment.
“Bit unsettling, that.”
“We take applicants seriously.”
“More than most places, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“How many interviews have you had in the last twenty-six months?”
“One.”
“One excluding this one?”
“No. Including this one.”
A small pause.
“Excellent.”
He let out a quiet breath. “You keep saying that.”
“I’m not being sarcastic. It indicates suitability.”
“This isn’t a wind-up, is it?”
“No.”
She didn’t blink.
“There’s no sarcasm in this process.”
“Right,” he said.
“We’re specifically interested in candidates who’ve been out of work for extended periods.”
“Why?”
“The relevance will become clear upon acceptance.”
“Of course it will.”
Nigel leaned forward slightly.
“Look, I hope I’m not being rude, but the job description didn’t actually describe the job. And so far, neither have you.”
“That’s correct.”
“So… what is it?”
“We can only provide full details upon acceptance.”
He nodded slowly.
“So I have to agree to it before I know what it is.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… unusual.”
“It is.”
“Do I work from home?” he asked. “Or—”
“You’ll be operating within your local area.”
“My neighbourhood.”
“Yes.”
“And doing what, exactly?”
“You’ll be compensated for voluntary activity.”
He stared at her.
“You’ll be paid to perform unpaid work.”
There was a short silence.
“Right,” he said. “That clears everything up.”
“We expect a minimum of thirty hours' weekly engagement.”
“And if I don’t manage that?”
“You would be falling below expectations.”
“And you’d know that how?”
“It doesn’t matter how we know.”
He considered that.
“Fair enough.”
She closed the folder.
“I’m prepared to make a decision.”
He looked up.
“Already?”
“Yes.”
A small beat.
“I’m prepared to offer you the position, Nigel.”
Just like that.
He leaned back slightly, as if to test the distance between himself and the moment.
“So if I say yes… you tell me what the job is.”
“Yes.”
“And if I say no?”
“We conclude here.”
He nodded.
“Right.”
She slid the contract across the desk.
He glanced down at it, not really reading at first—just the shape of it, the density of text.
Then a line near the top caught his eye.
Primary activity: voluntary engagement within pre-existing social network…
He frowned slightly.
Read it again, slower this time.
“…right,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
His gaze drifted further down the page—
—and stopped.
A pause.
He leaned in a fraction, as if the number might shift if he got closer.
It didn’t.
He let out a small breath.
“Fifteen thousand… a month?”
“That’s correct,” she said.
No emphasis. No reaction.
Just confirmation.
He sat back slightly, still looking at the page.
Another quiet moment passed.
“Right,” he said.
He closed the folder.
“Yeah… all right.”
A small nod.
“Go on then.”
He picked up the pen and signed.
“Thank you, Nigel,” she said. “Welcome aboard.”
She gathered the papers, precise as before.
Closed the folder.
Then:
“Would you like me to outline the role now?”
Nigel sat back.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I would.”