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Lisa sat and looked around her. It was just a waiting room, like so many other waiting rooms. White walls decorated with inoffensive prints: a spring meadow, a tropical beach, a Dickensian lawyer's office. Borderline uncomfortable chairs, hardwearing carpet, a table spread with out of date magazines. Lisa was the room's only occupant.
Trouble was, she couldn't quite remember what she was here for. Who was she waiting to see? Doctor? Lawyer? Something niggled at the back of her subconscious, but not hard enough to make it to the front. She didn't know what she was waiting for. Still, she was here, doubtless all would become clear.
Come to think of it, she couldn't remember very much about last night either. She recalled going out with Carol, her house mate, and a few other girlfriends. She remembered several bars, having too much to drink, and getting into a taxi to go home. After that . . . well. After that was this waiting room. She could only assume Carol must have got her here on time; but, rack her brain hard as she could, she still couldn't remember what she might be on time for.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, maybe this would lead to some answers. A man stood on the threshold of the room. He was, maybe, thirty; six feet tall, wore a tailored dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a striped tie. He was good looking, no, scratch that, he was gorgeous. Lisa's eyes eagerly scanned his left hand in search of a wedding ring.
"Lisa Green?" the object of her new found desire spoke. His deep, well modulated, voice was as near-perfect as the rest of him.
"Er . . . yes . . . yes that's me." Pull yourself together, girl, thought Lisa. He's just a man. One glimpse of a good looker and you fall apart. He's probably gay anyhow, the best looking ones always are.
"Good morning, sorry to have kept you waiting. Would you come this way?" He led her down a short corridor and through another door.
An office this time, equally as bland as the waiting room. White walls once again, the only furniture an austere wooden desk and two chairs. He motioned Lisa to sit. The desk was clear apart from a single manilla folder, lined up neat and square.
Once they were both seated, the travelling salesman from paradise opened the file and leafed through a few pages before addressing Lisa again. A rectangular metal badge over his top pocket read ‘Peter', in simple black letters on a silver background.
"So, Lisa, tell me a little about yourself."
Ah! It's a job interview. Lisa's mind clicked into the appropriate mode and she began a precis of her advertising career.
Peter listened politely until she stopped. His eyes were an iridescent, swimming pool blue and she felt they were looking right into her soul.
"That's your career, Lisa. Tell me about yourself."
She was momentarily flustered, then began a brief summary of her life outside work. Shopping till she dropped, nights out with the girls, one night stands, trying to find the right man, the man who wanted more than a one night stand . . . although the one night stands were okay. She gave him an ‘if you're interested' smile. Peter looked through her. She blushed. Why had she told him all that? She'd never get the job now, probably blown the chance of a date too. Yet something in Peter's manner had made it all come pouring out of her in a torrent, unstoppable like a flow of lava.
"Fairly hedonistic. Wouldn't you say?"
Lisa tried to sound offended, but it didn't quite work. "Yes, I suppose so, but I don't really see . . ." Her voice trailed away.
"You don't see what?"
"Why it should concern you?"
"Ah, you're still a little disorientated, I fear." A hint of a frown crossed his face as he carefully pressed his fingertips together. "Where do you think you are, Lisa?"
"I'm at a job interview." Lisa wasn't sure she believed that anymore, and it showed in her voice.
Peter glanced at the file again then leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid it's rather more serious than that."
Lisa began to worry. She didn't remember the night out, what might she have done? "You're not the police are you?"
"No, I'm not the police."
"Then who are you?"
"How much do you remember of last night, Lisa?"
"Well, I remember getting pretty drunk, and taking a cab and then . . . Then, to be honest, the next thing is your waiting room."
Peter paused for a moment before replying, he sat forward again and placed his hands on the desk. Beautiful hands, musician's hands. "Lisa, your taxi was involved in a serious road accident."
Suddenly it all made sense. The white walls, the corridor, the lack of memory. "So this is a hospital? But I'm not hurt . . . Oh, my God! No! Carol! It's Carol, isn't it?"
"Carol is badly hurt, but she'll live."
"Oh, thank goodness. Can I see her?"
Peter sighed. "Not as such, no."
"What do you mean ‘not as such'?" Lisa fought back the panic rising within her. "Why are you playing these games with me?"
"I was hoping you might have worked it out by now."
Had she lost her memory? Was she going insane? Was Peter some sort of psychoanalyst? Was all this a test? "Worked out what? Tell me!"
"You're dead, Lisa." Peter's bluer than blue eyes met hers and a shudder ran through her body. "This is your selection interview for the afterlife."
Lisa laughed, she couldn't help herself. "This is a joke, right?" She turned in her seat and looked around the office. "Come on, where's the hidden camera?"
Peter's face was emotionless. "No joke, Lisa." He waved a languid hand. The walls of the office dissolved, like tissue paper in hot water, and they were seated in a spring meadow. Another casual gesture and the meadow became a paradise tropical beach, with palm trees and rolling surf. A third movement, and an office returned, this time oak panelled, one wall lined with antique books, the desk smoothly acquired a leather top and delicate carving.
Lisa's jaw fell open.
"It's been interesting to talk to you, Lisa." Peter composed his perfect features into a thin smile. Lisa thought she detected a faint golden glow above his forehead. "However, from our files, and from what you've told me, I don't think you're quite Heaven material." He handed her a printed form. "If you'd like to go back to the waiting room, someone else will be along to see you shortly. Of course you have fourteen days to appeal against my decision should you wish . . ."
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