Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'I can't leave London', I said.

'Then there's really nothing I can do'.

'All I'm asking for, Jason, is something even part-time. Two, three days a week. More if you can - but the thing is: I really need the work'.

'I hear you, Sal. And God knows, I'd love to help. But Atlanta has tied my hands in this regard. Anyway, like I told you on the phone, I'm off tomorrow to run the Paris bureau for a month...'

I glanced at my watch. Ten-eighteen.

'Jason, I have to leave'.

'Hey, no problem. And I'm really sorry. But let's keep in touch, eh? Like don't become a stranger on me, okay?'

'I won't', I said and dashed for the door.

Outside, the traffic on the Aldwych was flowing freely. But there was a problem. I couldn't find a cab. At least a dozen of the black beasts drove by me - all with their lights off. I waved frantically in their direction, hoping one of them might have forgotten to turn their light on. Not a chance. At ten twenty-five, I realized emergency action was required, so I started running towards the Embankment Station - a ten minute stroll at the best of times. My hope was to find a taxi heading down The Strand, and tell him to step on it. Around ten cabs passed me by, all with passengers. My gait now turned into a canter. As I ran, I used my mobile to call Directory Enquiries, and get the number for the Wandsworth Contact Centre. But the operator couldn't find a specific listing for a Contact Centre under Wandsworth Council, so she gave me the general number for Wandsworth Council. But it rang around twelve times before someone answered and put me on hold, by which time I was at Embankment tube, my suit now drenched with sweat, my expensive hairstyle a shambles, and with only fifteen minutes to get to Garratt Lane. Even if a helicopter had been standing by, it's doubtful I would have made it in time. But I had no choice but to hop the District Line and fret like a lunatic all the way to East Putney - cursing Jason for his tardiness, and wasting my time by not being able to tell me over the phone what he already knew: there were no jobs going at CNN London.

And now... now... I was going to be desperately late for my one weekly hour with Jack. All the way south on the tube, I kept trying to use my phone - and managed to get connected to Wandsworth Council for a moment when the train briefly appeared above ground at South Kensington. But then the line went dead.

The next time I had a signal was when I alighted at East Putney station. It was eleven-twenty. I dashed down the steps, turned right and ran directly to a grubby little minicab despatch office located on a parade of shops on the next street. The despatch guy seemed a little bemused by my franticness, but he did find me a cabbie (in a battered Vauxhall) who couldn't do much in the way of speed when faced with road works on the Upper Richmond Road, with the result that I finally reached Garratt Lane by eleven-forty.

The receptionist seemed to be expecting me.

'Wait here', she said, then picked up the phone and dialled a number. After a moment, Clarice Chambers came walking down the hall.

'I cannot tell you how sorry I am', I said as I followed her back down towards the contact room. 'I was at a job interview in the West End, the guy was late, I couldn't get a cab...'

However, instead of turning into the contact room, we veered left and entered a small office.

'Please shut the door and sit down', she said. I did as requested, immediately feeling worried.

'Has something happened?' I asked.

'Yes, something's happened', she said. 'You're forty minutes late'.

'But I was trying to explain to you...'

'I know: a job interview. And judging from your clothes, I'm sure you're telling the truth. But this one-hour period is your sole chance to spend time with your son during the week. And the fact that you've missed the second visit...'

'I haven't missed it. I'm here'.

'Yes, but I sent your son home with his nanny ten minutes ago'.

'You shouldn't have done that'.

'But you weren't here, and the child was having a touch of colic...'

'Bad colic?'

'Colic is colic. But he was kicking up a bit, and as you weren't here... well, it seemed best to send them home'.

'But I tried calling'.

'I never received a message. I am sorry'.

'Not as sorry as me'.

'Next week will be here very soon', she said.

'Couldn't we arrange another visit before then?'

She shook her head. 'That would be contravening the court order. None of us here can do that'.

I shut my eyes. I cursed myself for so botching this up.

'In the future', Clarice said quietly, 'it's simply best to keep Wednesday morning completely free. You have to be here'.

This point was emphasized to me again two days later when Jessica Law came calling on me at home - buzzing me a half-hour before her arrival to ask me if I wouldn't mind her dropping by this afternoon. I knew what was coming - a verbal spanking, a 'talking to'. But Jessica Law didn't go all schoolmarmy on me.

On the contrary, she accepted a cup of coffee and several Stem Ginger biscuits, and then said, 'Now I'm sure you realize why I decided to make this rather sudden visit'.

'If I could just explain...'

'Clarice did fill me in. And do understand: I am in no way trying to berate you for what was quite evidently a mistake...'

'The thing was', I said, 'I had this job interview, and it was the only time the man could do it, and he was so late and...'

'I have read Clarice's report'.

This stopped me short.

'She wrote a report about this?' I asked.

'I'm afraid she had to. You didn't make a supervised visit with your son, as specified by a court order. Now you know, and I know, that this happened because of circumstances somewhat beyond your control. The problem is, it is still a black mark against you - and one which your husband's lawyers might try to use against you at the Final Hearing... but you didn't hear that from me, now did you?'

'No, I didn't. But what can I do to try to rectify the damage?'

'Never be late for a visit again. And I will write up a report of my own, stating that we've had this talk, and that you were delayed due to a job interview, and in my opinion, this one bit of tardiness shouldn't be classified as "irresponsible behaviour", especially as you were seeking employment at the time. How did the interview go by the way?'

I shook my head.

'Keep looking', she said, her way of telling me that, without a job, my chances in the Final Hearing would be lessened. And given that there was enough going against me right now...

But my attempts to find work were fruitless ones. If you're an outsider with few contacts, a vast global city like New York or London becomes an impenetrable fortress when you try to force your way into its economic structure. This is especially true when you have spent your professional life to date breathing the rarefied air of print journalism, but suddenly find yourself outside of your circle of contacts, not to mention your own country. And the great rule of thumb among all would-be employers in the media is always: when in doubt, discourage.

Well, I spent the next few weeks being constantly discouraged. I tried all the major American newspapers and networks, using my few contacts at NBC, CBS and ABC. No sale. I tried the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and even my old stomping ground, the Boston Post. Once again, they had their own staffers running their bureaus. And when I called Thomas Richardson, the editor-in-chief of the Post, his assistant informed me that he was otherwise engaged, but he would get back to me. This he did a few days later, with a polite, to-the-point email:

Dear Sally:

As I haven't heard from you in a while, I - presume that you will not be taking up our offer of a position back in Boston. Naturally, I am personally disappointed that you won't be returning to us - but wish you well in all future endeavours.