Emma Thrower. The name seemed familiar to me but I couldn't put my finger on the reason why. I was certain I didn't know anybody by that name and I was equally sure that it wasn't the moniker of anybody famous, so why did it seem so familiar?
All of the other names on the list of interviewee's that lay on the desk in front of me were typewritten and accompanied by C.V.'s, but this one had been hand written, an obvious last minute addition and I could find no accompanying notes.
I had already decided that I was going to offer the vacant post of research assistant to the first girl I had interviewed that morning, a very able twenty year old who was ideal for the job. I still had to go through the process of interviewing all of the other candidates, not only as a matter of courtesy but also because there were certain other vacancies that, if they were suitable, they may consider filling.
The interviews were going somewhat slowly and I was running about half an hour behind schedule, mainly because my personal assistant had upped and left the company a few days before. She was allowed to leave gracefully although she wasn't given much choice after one of the directors had discovered that she was passing client information on to her brother who worked for a smaller competitor. She also resented the fact that she was my assistant. At twenty-three years old I was one of the youngest members of the department that I headed, something that she couldn't really accept.
By the time I had worked my way down to the last name on the list I was running almost an hour late. I pressed the button on my intercom and asked for Ms Thrower to be shown in.
The door opened and I was taken aback by the stunning vision of her when she entered the office. Immaculately dressed in a light grey business suit, the short skirt revealing at least four inches of her leg above the knee and her jacket not quite covering an almost transparent cream coloured blouse. She had short dark hair, was tall and slim and was wearing bright red lipstick. Her bright blue eyes peered through thick-rimmed spectacles. My first impressions told me that she was in her late thirties and although she dressed much younger her clothes suited her. Like her name she seemed familiar, and again I didn't know why.
I asked her to sit down but before I had the chance to say anything else she said, "Hello Claire. Would you like me to leave now?"
"Why should I want that?" I replied.
"After all I put you through in school I wouldn't blame you if you did." She stated.
Then it hit me. Emma Dawson, the one teacher who had made my life hell during the last three years of schooling. She had lost around half of her weight, had cut her hair much shorter resulting in her looking a lot younger, but now I knew her identity she was unmistakeably Miss Dawson.
"I'm sorry, but your name threw me." I told her, "You must have gotten married since we last met."
"Yes," she replied, "And I'm about to get divorced. I married Ed Thrower."
"Throw-up Thrower? Why? He was a creep!" I said. "Sorry. I shouldn't be so rude. I apologize."
"There is no need to apologize. You are right he is a creep. But you know the saying, 'A fool sees less than a blind man.' Well, I was a fool."
I smiled. I thought it better to not add any more to that part of the conversation.
"Why on earth does somebody with your experience apply for a lowly job like the one on offer here?" I asked.
"Necessity." She answered. "It may be lowly but it is a job and what is more it is something that I could do in my sleep. I am desperate for employment. But as I said, if you don't want me working for you I will understand and accept it."
I was puzzled as to why she needed employment. Until the moment she walked through my office door I hated, no, detested her. During those last years at school she seemed to do everything she could to knock me down. Endless after school detentions, extra homework and repeatedly low marks for my work made my later school days a misery. I vowed that one day I would get my revenge and now that the chance had arrived I wasn't sure if I wanted to exact it.
"Why do you need a job?" I asked. "Have you given up teaching?"
"I had no choice," she replied.
"Why is that? You know and I know that you are not exactly my favourite member of the teaching profession, but even I have to admit that you are an excellent tutor. The problem between us was personal not professional. To this day I still don't know why you had it in for me. What did I do to make you react so badly to me?"
She paused for a second or two before she replied, "You didn't do anything, nothing at all. It was what you were going to do that worried me. I just couldn't let you carry on along the path you were taking. I know that you will never be able forgive me and equally I know that you would never believe it if I told you that I only did those dreadful things to save you from yourself. Looking at you now and seeing you in your present position, I feel comfortable in the knowledge that I did do the right thing."
"Pardon!" I replied, unintentionally raising my voice, "I got where I am today by my own hard work and determination. No amount of your detentions or extra work let alone criminal low marks had anything to do with it."
"You're wrong Claire," she replied, "So totally wrong."
"How?" I asked, "Just tell me one way that your actions helped me to obtain my present position. By keeping me back after school all you did was to make me resent you more and more. It didn't help with my education one little bit."
"Nor was it designed to," was her surprising answer. "I didn't do it to improve your education, I did it to protect you. Tell me what you would have done with your time if you hadn't been detained after school. No, I will tell you."
I looked at her as she continued, her voice becoming a little raised and emotional.
"You would have hung about with your so called friends. Ask yourself what they are doing now. Sharon and Stephanie are both in prison. The other Claire works in a chicken-processing factory, working all hours that God sends for pay little better than a slave, trying to scrape together enough to keep herself and her young child. As for sweet little Joy, you will find her in the cemetery with her brother, both killed when the stolen car they were in collided with a bus. Not one of your 'little group' has done anything with their lives except you."
"That still doesn't explain why you continually gave me detention." I told her.
"But it does," she said. "Every time I heard through the grapevine that they were going on one of their little shop-lifting expeditions or were going to do some other misdemeanour I did my hardest to keep you out of it. I couldn't say anything to you because you just wouldn't have listened. I know what everybody said about me, being a fat bitch only there to make your life a misery. I know my actions stopped you from enjoying yourself with your friends but that is the cost that had to be paid. I just couldn't stand by and let you destroy your future. Unfortunately it was too late to do anything to help the others."
We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped a small tear from her cheek before she stood and picked up her bag.
"I think that I had better leave. I don't want to upset you and I certainly don't want you to think that I'm just making up excuses for my actions. I'm just so glad that I have found out that your life has worked out so well for you."
She turned and headed for the door.
"Please stop," I said. "Come back and sit down. I'll have some coffee made. I'd very much like to continue our conversation."
