Trophy 2 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

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.”

“I see.”

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.

Trophy 1 - The Job Centre is never greener on the other side.

Elaine Johnson is one of the people I hoped never to see again after I jumped off the roof of my first primary school, aged nine and encouraged to do so by half of my classmates. Sixteen years later, at the wrong side of a Job Centre desk, Elaine looks nowhere near as intimidating. She's wearing leggings and a long blazer in a colour that reminds me of winter skies; a fortune's worth of make up to create a natural look and a straggly blonde ponytail on the top of her head. Though she's been waiting for over twenty minutes already, she doesn't sit down and seems to be hugging herself, as if she's trying to keep out the artificial cheerfulness of this utterly depressing place.

According to my mum, who got me this job in customer care as soon as I graduated, there are three types of people claiming JSA: the ones that want a job, the ones that don't care, and the ones that don't want to work. “The first,” she explained, “are just like us. They're working people, except they happen to be unemployed. They'll try hard to find and keep a job, and usually succeed sooner than they expected. Members of the second category will occasionally find work, but they often lose their jobs and come back to us. They're the ones that sometimes 'forget' to cancel their claim when they've found something temporary. They're also the regulars you'll end up bonding with, because they're much more agreeable than the parasites that don't want to work. Parasites are lazy, arrogant and they look down on us, even though they've got nothing to be proud of. Like your father – who rejected one job because he couldn't use his creativity and the next because it would drain his creativity. They're full of lies and damn hard to get rid off.”

It's obvious that Elaine has grown up to be a member of the last group. Her file is next in my tray and I'm running behind on schedule already because I tried to stretch the interview with one of the regulars. I've had twenty minutes to prepare myself for the confrontation but I'm still not ready. The name Elaine has been on my lips while waking up from nightmares for sixteen years but now that she's here, in my territory, I'm not even sure whether she remembers me.