Page 40 - James Caan - The Real Deal

The Real Deal

went to bed. Being sixteen, I hadn’t packed any bed linen, but the
landlord had some blankets in a cupboard.
In the morning, we went for a walk just to get a change of
scenery and ended up aimlessly strolling round Queensway while
we continued the ‘What am I going to do?’ conversation. I
wondered if I should go back, but I realised that I didn’t have that
option: I had hurt my father so badly that I didn’t think I would
have been welcome.
While we were out we bought things like pizza and Coke, but I
don’t remember buying anything sensible such as a pint of milk,
and when Bernie went home I returned to my tiny, empty flat. I
was pretty low, but also pretty determined: I was going to have to
find some work.
On the Monday I picked up the early edition of the Evening
Standard and started looking at the job ads. I had never really
given all that much thought to what I wanted to do, or what I
would be good at, or what I had to offer an employer. There were
hundreds of ads, but they were all asking for qualifications or
experience. So I called a recruitment agency from the payphone in
the hallway as they had lots of jobs available and I thought that I
must be able to do one of them.
‘Hi, I saw your ad in the paper.’
‘Which position are you interested in?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘What line of work are you in?’
‘I just left school.’
‘And what qualifications have you got?’
‘None.’
‘Hold on one moment.’
I was put through to a recruitment consultant who said she
might be able to help me. I took down their address – which was
in Earls Court, so not too far away – and went straight round
there. The consultant had one of those boxes of file cards and

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