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chain-link walls and down to the unsuspecting proles below. This time of year you wonder why Melbourne doesn’t have those pedways that join all the buildings together like they have in Canada—hermetic, corporatised, dehumidified; relieving us of the need to interact .
    Stuart says, ‘What else does the vetting interview consist of? Apart from inquiries into the person’s background?’
    Madison takes a third macaroon and bites it.
    This should have been a standard meeting, just me and Madison, where she handed over the candidate files and the two of us talked through the schedule for tomorrow’s interviews. Which is what we’ve done every year for the past whatever-years since the firm of Albert Kane and Roach first contracted with me to consult on their internship program. But today we were followed into the conference room by an overweight stooge wearing the kind of colourful braces that lawyers describe as fun. Madison introduced him as Stuart, a partner. He said he wanted to ‘shoot a couple of questions’.
    ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Stuart says, not waiting for a response. ‘We need our candidates vetted. We don’t question your ability to do that. But our harvesting process includes half-a-dozen interviews, cocktail parties. Christ, last year we took them ice skating. Whycan’t your interview be conducted instead by us, at one of those junctures?’
    ‘Yeah, no, they can,’ I say, amplifying my geeky professionalism. ‘And I promise that all I do in the interview is ask about the subject’s background, how much of it is accessible online. It’s just preparation for the research phase. You could ask the questions yourselves. But then, some people aren’t comfortable with…like, digging into a person’s…like, online dating history. Or whatever. I mean, to their face. But I’m used to it.’
    Madison is the HR boss and she’s never so much as coughed suspiciously in the direction of my work. Too, it’s her nature to be as direct as a robot overlord: she wouldn’t dream of going easy on a third-party actor like me, not out of mere courtesy. But instead of offering even facial support—on her home ground at the edge of the troposphere, in the shmick lawyer’s conference room that was designed to intimidate me, flanked by an array of sweet biscuits and a crystal water jug paid for by the tears of failed litigants—she looks back with that mannequin bassface and slowly chews her macaroon. Like all these years she’s been wondering the exact same thing.
    Stuart smiles the way you do when a joke isn’t funny, furrows his brow, holds open his mouth and licks his lips.
    ‘That with which we are or are not comfortable needn’t be a concern of yours.’
    I can’t help a nervous smile, a shuffle in my seat. My nipple twitches. It is there, in my breast pocket, where the post-it burns hot and itchy like a mosquito bite. I tap at my suit jacket and scratch, not too hard in case I somehow smudge the number.
    ‘Also,’ I say, ‘to be honest, I was under the impression my time was cheaper than yours.’
    I strafe them with a grin.
    ‘Obviously…’ Madison says, her tongue sifting biscuit-mush from her teeth. ‘This isn’t a question of money.’
    Last night, in the warmth of my flat, I wasn’t able to make the call. Despite the exhilaration of having found the number, my dialling finger couldn’t man up and dial it. I knew what I was going to say, had the pretext all figured out. But last night, at the momentof truth, I got stage fright. Something more than stage fright. Stagefuckingterror.
    So coming here on the bus I made a deal with himself: if Madison said ‘obviously’ eleven times or more, I’d call that number today. If not, the post-it could sit in my pocket another twenty-four hours, let tomorrow wring its hands about it.
    It’s a word she’s fond of, repeats it like there’s a glitch in her voice chip. Eleven times was possible, while being in the outer realm of