My normal work outfits leaned towards casual, but given the formality of this event – and yes, if I was very honest, I wanted to look good – I’d gone shopping with Becka before the concert. She was the most fashionable person I knew. Left to my own devices, it would have been jeans and a nice top.
Today, I was wearing wide-leg, black trousers and a cream blouse that was possibly made out of either silk, or clouds, buteither way it was incredibly soft. It made me nervous. I had a coffee habit and this was a high-stress situation.
Becka had tried very, very hard to convince me to buy a pair of black, pointy toed heels, but I’d fought back. I’d argued that if I was going to be standing around for hours, I’d be damned if I was wearing in a new pair of shoes.
I’d told her I would be wearing my black Converses.
“They’re new.” I’d pointed out, when she’d put her head in her hands. “Ish.”
Clad in my new outfit and new-ish Converse, I made my way downstairs, only slightly early for the event.
I’d already scoped out the rooms yesterday, wanting to be familiar with the battle ground, because if I was going to be confronting emotional devastation, then I was damned if I was going to be lost at the same time.
People with lanyards milled about. Some were clustered in pockets, clearly knowing each other, but most were sat, or standing, on their own, looking at their phones and not paying attention to anything.
It was still early enough to help myself to the buffet table at the back of the hall, and ignoring the warning in my head, I poured myself a cup of coffee, and grabbed a mini muffin, before finding myself a seat along the wall where I could watch the room and eat my breakfast in peace.
Just as my nerves had begun to settle, the door along the far wall opened, and a woman in a business suit strode over to the temporary staging platform. The clack of her heels on the wooden boards seemed to get most people’s attention, and the hum of voices in the room dimmed, until everyone was turned to face her.
She waited patiently until she was satisfied everyone was listening, and in accented English, she announced that the group was ready to begin, and numbers would be called shortly, at which point the interviewer with the corresponding number was to present themselves at the door she’d from and hand over their credentials so that they could be announced to the group.
I swallowed, and the sudden lump in my throat had nothing to do with the mini muffin.
This was it. I was really doing this.
My past and my professional present were about to collide.
My palms began to sweat, and I was suddenly so glad I was wearing black trousers so it wouldn’t be noticeable how many times I had wiped my hands on them.
I put my cup on the table beside me, unfolded my legs, and discreetly tried to put my head between my knees.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.
I repeated the words over and over in my mind until they began to lose coherence.
I could do this. I just didn’t know what outcome I wanted or expected.
Would it be better or worse if he showed no reaction at all?
I needed to calm down.
I pushed to my feet and, pretending an air of nonchalance I very much did not feel, I took a stroll around the room.
Jesus, would it kill them to open a window in here? I shook my hands, trying to make it look like I was stretching out a cramp, or something, while trying to take deep, discrete breaths.
In through the nose, out through the mouth…
It was a sizeable room, but even so it didn’t take long to traverse it a couple of times.
What it did allow me to do, however, was observe my fellow journalists. Most of whom appeared bored.
I tried to emulate them. This was just another interview.
I would do this.
And hell, maybe it would be good for me.
Walking hadn’t necessarily shifted me into a feeling of calm, but it had helped to shift my perception, and I went back to my seat to wait.
