Jack slid into the driver's seat of the car and turned to his wife, sitting next to him in the front passenger seat.
"How do I look?" he asked.
She straightened his tie and the matching handkerchief in his jacket pocket. "You look absolutely stunning, honey," she said. "I'm sure you'll ace this interview on looks alone. I just wish you'd wear a suit and tie a bit more often. It really suits you."
"Really suits you," echoed Kiki from her cage in the back seat of the car.
Jack laughed. "Thanks Melissa," he said. "And thanks, Kiki old bird. It seems I'm outvoted on that one." He had never liked wearing a suit and tie as they made him feel uncomfortable, itchy and sweaty at the best of times. Normally he would be wearing what the fashion pundits writing for Varsity, the Cambridge student newspaper, had referred to as natsci chic or mathmo chic. Jeans or shorts, trainers, a comfy T-shirt, sweatshirt or hoodie. Maybe a polo shirt if he was dressing up for a night out. Clothes chosen for comfort and practicality rather than for style and fashion. But today was different. This afternoon, at two o'clock, he was scheduled to be interviewed for a PhD studentship on a team in Lancaster researching the possible de-extinction of the Great Auk. This had been his childhood dream, and the opportunity to become one of the research scientists working to make it a reality was something he didn't want to mess up. If there was any interview worth wearing an uncomfortable suit and tie for, it was this one.
He started the engine and carefully reversed the car out of its parking space. He pulled out onto the road and headed out of town.
The four hour drive from their apartment in Basingstoke to Lancaster University gave the two of them plenty of time to talk about the interview, their forthcoming holiday up in Scotland, and what they were going to name their first child, due in mid January. Samuel Romeo if he was a boy, or Samantha Juliet if she was a girl. Sam with a Shakespearean twist either way. If all went according to plan today, the child would be born in Lancaster, its father around for much more of its early years than Jack's present career as a freelance wildlife photographer permitted. This was one good thing about this interview, Melissa thought. Leaving her family in Basingstoke and her job as a manager at Caledonia Bank's southern campus was a massive step, but if it meant that her husband wasn't away from home for weeks or even months at a time as he had been up to now, it would be worth it.
Jack's interview was scheduled for two o'clock. After the interview, their plan was to carry up to Scotland for a fortnight's holiday with Philip and Lucy-Ann at their home in Glenrothes, where they had lived since getting married three years previously. Jack hadn't seen his sister or his brother-in-law since his own wedding last summer and he was looking forward to it. He was also intrigued by what Philip had said to him on the phone the other night when they were discussing their plans. "There's someone up here you need to meet," he had said. Who, why, or what about, was anybody's guess.
The miles rolled by. Up through Newbury, past Didcot, Abingdon and Oxford. Once they got onto the M40 north of Oxford, they managed a steady 75 miles an hour all the way up to Birmingham. Heavy traffic on the M42 and M6 past Birmingham, but nothing that they hadn't already accounted for. An accident near Stoke-on-Trent and roadworks near Warrington resulted in lengthy tailbacks, but even so they still managed to reach Lancaster by one o'clock, in plenty of time to grab a bite to eat before the interview.
They arrived at the university at about quarter to two. Jack pulled up just outside the Biosciences department building, handed the car keys over to his wife with a kiss, and got out leaving her to head into town with Kiki to check out the local estate agents. After watching her drive off, he straightened his tie again and walked confidently into the building. Once inside, he headed to the reception desk.
"Good afternoon," he said to the receptionist. "I'm here for an interview with Dr Johns at two o'clock. The name is Jack Trent."
The receptionist looked at her computer screen. "OK thank you Mr Trent," she said. "If you would like to take a seat, someone will be down to see you shortly."
Jack sat down in one of the seats in the reception area and picked up a copy of National Geographic that had caught his eye. It featured an article on puffins in the Outer Hebrides. He read it with interest, a flood of memories coming back to him from an adventure that he had had in that very part of the world, eleven years previously, studying those very birds. Could the birds pictured on the cover be the descendants of Huffin and Puffin? He could just hear in his mind the way that they went Arrr whenever anything interesting happened.
He was about halfway through the article, deeply engrossed in what he was reading, when a voice penetrated his thoughts.
"Jack Trent?"
He looked up to see a man standing in front of him who was definitely not Dr Johns. He was a thin fellow, rather weedy and skinny looking. He had a thin little moustache and a high forehead on which his hair grew far back. He wore brown herring-bone trousers, a Dilbert-esque short sleeved shirt and tie, and thick glasses over his weak and watery eyes. Jack thought he looked vaguely familiar.
He stood up to greet the man.
"Yes," he said. "I'm here for an interview with Dr Bob Johns."
"Unfortunately Dr Johns won't be seeing you today," said the man. "He had a major stroke last night and he's in hospital. I am dealing with the postgraduate student interviews in his absence so I will be interviewing you today. My name is Dr Horace Tipperlong."