Drinks machine – Nothing
You continue to stand, feeling a bit miserable, a bit uncomfortable, watching the rain lashing down outside, when your attention is attracted by a polite cough behind you. You see a middle-aged man in a regulation jacket and tie, and you assume that this is Mr Metcalf, the manager.
You take a deep breath, determine not to make a mess of this, and lean your briefcase against your leg so that you can shake hands. Metcalf’s grip is warm and strong, exhibiting the sort of confidence you wish you had. What he makes of you has, you suppose, already been decided. That’s how it works for these things – first impressions and all that.
“I see you decided against something from the machine,” he said.
“I’m not a fan,” you say. It sounds weak, but he gives a brief chuckle and raises an expansive hand to usher you towards the lifts.
“Come on, we’ll go up to my office and have a chat.”