She crosses her legs when sitting down at my desk, stuffs her hands between them and hangs her head. According to her CV, she's an actress. She isn't very good at the role of eager jobseeker, though.
“I really tried to find work, but there isn't much out there, you know. Especially not in my line of work.” Her voice is whiny and apologetic, but not genuinely so. She seems to think she has to beg for allowance, as if we're paying her for the show. I'm very conscious of her eyes, which are fixed on the name tag on my lapel, but she shows no sign of recognition. Playing with my father's wedding ring, I pretend to read what she's done to get a job.
“I'm sorry,” I say, “I can't read what it says here.”
She takes the form from me and reads out: “I emailed Christian Bale.”
I raise one eyebrow and brush the hair out of my face.
“I met him two years ago at a party in Shoreditch,” she explains, “and we had a lot to talk about, both being Welsh and such. So he gave me his private email address.”
“And why is that on your list?”
“It's called networking.”
“So your next step would be...”
“Wait till he gets back to me.”
She crosses her arms and says: “You have to be very careful when it comes to approaching famous people, you know. You don't want to ruin your chances by making it too obvious that you want to use them. But I'm working on it. Trust me.”
“Of course, but next time, perhaps you could include some more direct actions.”
She nods, I sign her card and that's it.
“I'll see you in two weeks from now, miss Johnson. Would Thursday morning suit you again, 11 o'clock?”
“That's fine.” She looks up from my name tag and says: “I'll see you then, Terry.”
Go to the opening scene of Trophy.