No distinguishing features

Margo runs her hands down the back of the tweed skirt, smoothing it as she lowers herself onto the plastic seat. She looks around her, taking in the room and its occupants. She’s rather disappointed. Beige, featureless walls drop to a buff skirting board. The only splash of colour comes from four rows of orange bucket seats welded to the black iron frames which keep them uniform. She expected it to be more flamboyant. Most of the people scattered about the room are as unremarkable as the décor. Most, but not all. One woman in her sixties sports a flame-coloured mohawk and has a silver chain looping from her right nostril to her ear lobe.
‘Too obvious.’ Margo snorts under her breath.
She hears her name being called. At least it’s almost her name. The woman who shouted it said, ‘Mary Smith.’
‘It’s Margo. Margo Smith,’ Margo says, getting to her feet.
The woman says nothing. She uses her arm like a signpost, indicating Margo enter the room she’s standing outside.
The interview room is devoid of furniture save for three plastic chairs. A man with a clipboard sits on one of two blue ones facing the third, which is brown. Without being told to, Margo sits down on the lone chair, smoothing her skirt as she does.
‘Hello Mary—’
‘It’s Margo.’ Margo corrects.
‘This shouldn’t take too long,’ the man continues without acknowledging the mistake.
The woman sits at his side, picking up another clipboard which she places on her lap.
‘How many men have you slept with?’ the man asks.
Margo is momentarily taken aback. She clears her throat. ‘Five.’
‘Five?’ The woman looks up. ‘Let me guess. The boy you lost your virginity to. A reluctant university shag because everyone else was doing it. The man you thought was the love of your life. The reckless one-night stand when the man you thought was the love of your life dumped you for a friend. And, finally, the man you are married to now. How did I do?’
‘Not bad,’ Margo admits, quietly.
‘Ever been attracted to a woman?’ The man doesn’t raise his eyes from his clipboard.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Have you ever had a lesbian relationship?’ he clarifies.
‘I most certainly have not.’
‘Pity,’ he mutters. His pen swipes across the board. ‘What about when you were younger? Any dark secrets? An abusive uncle perhaps? A cousin you were attracted to where games of doctors and nurses went further than intended?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Margo rubs the back of her neck. ‘I had a happy, well-adjusted childhood.’
‘You’re not making this easy, Mary,’ the man sighs. ‘Please tell me your husband has a violent streak. Slaps you around when he’s had a few.’
‘He’s a tender loving man. He’d never do anything like that.’
‘Damn. Let’s move on.’ He bites his lips and turns to his colleague. ‘How would you describe that hairstyle?’
The woman tilts her head and studies Margo for a few seconds. ‘Hmm, I’m not sure. Normal?’
‘Normal? That’s not going to work.’
‘C’mon, it’s not my job. That’s for others to deal with.’
‘Still,’ the man scribbles furiously. ‘It would be better if there was something standout about it. Silver streaks, a vibrant colour, a bob. Even better if it was down to her arse or she had alopecia … anything. No worries, hairstyles can be changed. Stand up and twirl around.’
Margo gets to her feet and slowly spins three hundred and sixty degrees.
‘What do you think?’ the man asks his partner.
‘Could be M&S, or even Primark. I’d have said they were from C&A … if they hadn’t closed years ago.’
‘Maybe she takes good care of her clothes. She could still have some C&A stuff in her wardrobe. That could be a thing.’
‘Seriously?’ the woman interviewer screws up her nose. ‘That’s just dull. The outfit isn’t the problem. It can be changed just like the hair. Margo, take off your clothes.’
‘What?’ Margo’s stomach flips.
‘Strip.’ The woman waves her clipboard at Margo, irritation creeping into her voice. ‘Take. Off. Your. Clothes. C’mon, you know the score, you should be prepared for this.’
Margo takes a deep breath, pulls her shirt out of her skirt and unbuttons it. She eases it from her shoulders, folds it neatly and places it over the back of her chair. Next, she unzips her skirt, slips it down over her hips, and carefully lays it on top of the shirt. For a moment she stands awkwardly, hesitating, before she rolls down her tights, aware of the tracks they’ve left around her waist. She stands up straight, trying to appear nonchalant in just her black bra and pants.
The two interviewers scrutinise her impassively.
‘Those are definitely M&S,’ the woman decides. ‘Not bad. Not shabby. Just not particularly sexy.’
‘No,’ the man agrees, his head dropping to the clipboard. ‘Remove your underwear.’
Margo swallows, then reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. The woman was correct, she did know to expect anything. Knowing and doing are two very different things though. She steps out of her pants.
The woman stands up and walks around Margo. ‘Raise your arms,’ she orders.
Margo does as instructed.
‘Anything?’ the man asks.
‘Not that I can see. The breasts sagged only a little when she removed her bra. That’s quite good. She’s got a slight pear shape, wouldn’t you say? There’s cellulite where her bum meets her thighs. There are no scars or birth marks. She doesn’t even have a tattoo.’
‘One of these days we’ll get a third nipple,’ the man quips. They both laugh. ‘Okay, you can get dressed now, Mary.’
Margo doesn’t correct him. She just wants it to be over.
‘Thanks for coming,’ the woman says when Margo is fully dressed. ‘We’ll be in touch if anything comes up.’ She doesn’t extend her hand or say goodbye. Margo nods and exits the room, overhearing the woman remark, ‘Not unattractive, but not pretty either. She’s Mrs anonymous.’
Distracted by the experience, she doesn’t notice the man coming out of the interview room next to hers. He staggers and falls into her.
‘Shorry,’ he mumbles, his breath reeking of alcohol. He sticks out a hand. ‘Chen Munro.’
‘Margo Smith.’ Margo accepts the hand. It is sweaty, but his handshake is firm.
It’s barely nine-thirty and Chen Munro is clearly drunk. He claws at his left arm through the stained sleeve of his shirt. Curry, Margo guesses. The shirt sleeve rides up, revealing needle tracks. He is a mess.
‘Are you okay?’ Margo asks.
Chen leans against the beige wall. ‘I can’t lie, it’s been a rough couple of days,’ he wheezes and runs a hand through the hair on the side of his head, the movement exposing a kippah. ‘My wife kicked me out.’
‘Because of your drinking?’
‘What drinking?’ Chen sounds almost hurt at the suggestion. ‘Because of my gambling. I lost her prize Shih Tzu in a game of poker. No loss if you ask me, he was a yappy little bastard.’
‘Ah,’ Margo says.
‘And my daughter doesn’t want anything to do with me. Sorry, not my daughter, my son … now. She, he is transgender.’ He kneads furrows into his forehead. ‘I can’t get my head around that, so keep calling him her. I blame his mother for insisting we name our daughter Stevie after her grandmother. Without them I’m nothing. Before I came here this morning, I climbed onto the parapet at Hanover Bridge and nearly jumped.’
‘That’s awful.’ Margo puts a hand on Chen’s arm. As she moves forward her foot kicks his shin. ‘Oh god, I am so sorry.’
‘That’s okay. No harm done.’ Chen leans down and pulls up his trouser leg to show a prosthetic limb. ‘I had to have it amputated after a motorcycle accident.’ His bleary eyes well up. ‘I knocked down and killed a pregnant woman. They said it wasn’t my fault. It will always feel as though it was. That woman and her dead baby haunt my dreams every night.’
Margo doesn’t know what to say. The poor man’s life is a disaster. Meeting him has put her petty problems into perspective. ‘Chen, when I walked out that room, I was feeling really sorry for myself. You’ve shown me how lucky I am.’
Chen Munro stiffens. Margo thinks she might have insulted him. A wide beam spreads across his face. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, Margo. My problems aren’t problems, not in this game. They’re assets. They’ve just landed me a great gig as a washed-up Edinburgh detective barely hanging onto his job and his sanity in the new Irving Walsh novel.’ He pushes himself off the wall. ‘Got to go, my character needs some fine tuning. Hopefully, I’ll see you around. Possibly in the pages of someone’s book.’ Chen looks Margo up and down. ‘Then again, maybe not.’