Cambridge, but for that she had to ace the interview
and I was desperate to improve her chances. I offered to
come back in for a second session.
The interview was now two weeks away but her
nerves were already at the surface. This was what I was
expecting, so I had googled interview tips to see if
there was anything useful to pass on. Advice for the
night before ranged from shaving your legs and deep
conditioning your hair to the ominous reminder to lay
out your supplies. For the interview itself the advice got
more bizarre. It ranged from making sure your hands
were visible to leaning slightly forward on your chair,
all of which was meant to be done while staying “in
your body”, for anyone planning not to. There was only
so much I could achieve in two sessions in the
face of competitors who had spent their lives being
made to believe they were entitled to a place.Thursday, December 9, Shoreditch
I heard the news that Fatima got an offer.
Unsurprisingly, trying to help a state-educated
Muslim girl get into Cambridge felt markedly more
satisfying than getting an oligarch’s son into Eton.
It was the result she deserved.NEW JOB ALERT
Who Farah, ten, is applying for a place at Cheltenham
Ladies’ College. Strong in all subjects but unfamiliar
with the process
Where Pall Mall
When Wednesdays, 4pmWednesday, October 28, St James’s
The client lived in an apartment a stone’s throw from
Buckingham Palace and adjacent to a century-old
gentlemen’s club. I wondered what kind of person
would choose to live on a street populated by bloated
bankers and retired colonels stumbling into black
cabs after having a second bottle of merlot with their
beef bourguignon.
Arriving at the apartment, the door was opened
by a short man with a paunch and one of the biggest
smiles I have ever seen. I had googled him and learnt
that he had made his fortune in construction in
Indonesia. England’s private schools had remained
overwhelmingly white, but since the recession they
were more reliant than ever on foreign investment.
“Matt, is it?” the man said, chuckling. “The tutor,
yes?” I confirmed his hunch and he burst into
another delighted cackle. “Mr Rahmawati,” he said,
offering his hand. I had never seen a client so pleased
to see me. I had never seen anyone so pleased to see
me — not even my parents when I got back from my
year abroad or our cat after it had been shut in the
cellar for a week.
Farah was waiting for me at the kitchen table. She was
small and alert, her shyness apparent. But that was an
ideal starting point for the charming friendshipthat was about to unfold. Time to get rid of Mr
Rahmawati. I gave him an awkward little nod, which
is the best you can do when you have walked into a
stranger’s kitchen and are expecting them to leave you
alone with their daughter. But Mr Rahmawati didn’t
take his cue. He took a seat at the head of the table as if
he had front-row seats at the theatre.Wednesday, February 3, St James’s
I had never known a client fall faster in my estimation
than Mr Rahmawati. Following his initial invasion, he
had attended every minute of every lesson I had with
Farah. He was invested in the outcome and it didn’t
occur to him that it might be hindered rather than
helped by his participation.
Farah had her interview approaching and I decided to
test her with, “Why do you want to come to Cheltenham
Ladies’ College?”
“It’s a wonderful school,” Farah said robotically.
“With excellent facilities. And beautiful grounds.”
I cast a suspicious glance at Mr Rahmawati. He
beamed back with pride. I wondered if one of the
broader questions would give Farah more chance to
display even a semblance of personality.
“What about the future?” I said. “Do you have any
idea of a job you might like to do when you’re older?”
Mr Rahmawati almost squealed with excitement.
“Oh yes,” he said. “There’s a plan.”
I kept my sights firmly trained on Farah. “A plan?”
“Yes,” Farah said blankly. “To become prime minister.”
I had to stop myself from laughing. It wasn’t the
ambition itself, which is so often sweetly childish, but
the fact that this was being presented to me as a very
serious plan. I presume my astonishment was plastered
across my face, as Mr Rahmawati became self-
conscious. “Obviously we’ve got some back-up options.”
“Great,” I said, still looking at Farah. “What are they?”
If we could get the poor girl aspiring to be a lawyer or
a doctor it would improve not only her chances at
interview but at escaping the madly prescriptive
trajectory her father had staked out for her. “Governor
of the Bank of England,” Mr Rahmawati said. “Or head
of the UN.”Wednesday, February 24, St James’s
Today was my final lesson with Farah, ahead of her
interview at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. I noticed
a copy of Twilight on the side of the table.
“Ooh, are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?” I asked.
Farah stared at me.
The closer I got to my pupils and the better
I understood the pressures of their education, the
more I had become convinced that this blend of
quasi-friendship and emotional support was the best
I had to offer. But to Farah the idea that casual chitchat
might be part of our relationship struck her as absurd.
Farah was as much of an enigma as the day we met.
It was too easy to blame her father. There was no doubt
his presence had prevented me from establishing any
kind of rapport with his daughter, but I couldn’t deny
that it had kept our eyes on the prize. It was the schools
I blamed for encouraging this level of tunnel vision.
There were plenty of less-stressful ways to run
admissions, but the schools were obsessed with getting
the best students so they could top the league tables
and justify their exorbitant fees. They must see how the
process stripped applicants of their individuality and
turned them into high-achieving automatons.
Presumably that’s what they wanted.“We love British,” Sergei said. “Is
true!” said his wife, Maria. “Range
Rover. Bentley. Yorkshire terrier.”
“And you — you went to Cambridge”
GETTY IMAGES, ALAMY
The Sunday Times Magazine • 31