Don’t even get me started on that all-staff meeting McLaren made me reschedule at the last minute. Does he have any idea how much work goes into planning one of those things? Of course not.
He’s too busy being a tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick to care about the logistics. Never mind the fact that I’ve been planning this thing for three months. Never mind that I’ve got the fanciest, most pretentious canapés known to man being flown in from some farm in the Isle of Wight (at Ollie’s request), and a guest speaker flying for one day only from Germany.
No, he just waltzes in like he’s the King of England and decides, on a whim, that the meeting needs to be moved. And today he swans off to his fancy event, probably guzzling champagne fromthe navel of some silicone-enhanced model, while I sit in with my judgmental cat, trying to piece together the shattered remains of this logistical nightmare.
I swear to God, he does this shit just to see if he can make me cry.
Well, joke’s on him, because I’m made of sterner stuff. I’m like one of those inflatable punching-bag clowns—the ones with the weighted bottoms that no matter how many times you knock me down, I’ll just bounce right back up, a professional smile plastered on my face.
But oh, what I wouldn’t give to see the look on his stupidly handsome face if I just let loose and told him exactly where he could stick his last-minute changes and his complete disregard for my time and my sanity.
Maybe I’m being a touch overdramatic, but it feels good to let it all out. I’m really hitting my stride tonight, tapping into some dark corner of my brain. My McLaren rant continues for another two paragraphs, my fingers flying across the keyboard.
I word-vomit out everything that’s pissed me off today.
The analysts hollering like they’re at a pub watching England in the World Cup.
Dennis from accounting’s skin flaking off onto my desk.
Bridget royally screwing up on her deadline, leaving me to swoop in and save the day.
Samantha calling in “sick” with a suspiciously raspy voice when I know damn well she was throwing back tequila shots last night.
But I keep circling back to one name: McLaren.
Big red flag right there.
The man snapped at me no less than ten times today, and that was a slow day. I’m starting to think he gets some kind of sadistic sexual thrill from verbally eviscerating me.
But he will never, and I mean never, see me break.
I will stand there, smiling that professional smile, maintaining eye contact so unwavering it would make a serial killer proud, all while secretly fantasizing about slapping that sneer right off his perfect face.
That escalated quickly. I’m feeling a confusing mixture of rage-induced arousal and deep, existential horror. I think I need another cigarette. In the shower.
I have to say, my inner monologue has the emotional maturity of a hormonal teenager, which is just fantastic considering I’m a thirty-something woman with a grown-up job and a mortgage. And a cat. Can’t forget the cat.
Speaking of the little devil, Winnie meows at me, like she’s got some wisdom to impart.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, scratching behind her ears. “You try working for the biggest bastard in London and see how well you cope. You’d be stress-licking yourself bald within a day.”
A noise outside—probably some pissed bloke mistaking my tulips for a urinal again—startles Winnie. She leaps onto the coffee table, her tail thrashing back and forth. I watch in slow motion as my wineglass teeters, then tips, sending the dregs of merlot cascading over my laptop keyboard.
“Winnie,” I gasp, frantically dabbing at the keys with my sleeve.
Winnie just stares at me, unrepentant, before hopping down and sauntering off to the kitchen, probably to plot her next act of feline terrorism.
I’m elbow-deep in spreadsheets and passive-aggressive emails when I hear the door click an hour later.
“Heya.” Lizzie breezes in, her arms laden with bags that look suspiciously like they’re stuffed with clothes.
“How’d the audition go?” I ask, glancing up from my screen.
“Brilliant.” She beams, vibrating with excitement as she dumps her haul on the couch beside me. “It’s this romantic period piece and I’d be playing a tragically dying maid. I really think this could be my big break.”
She says that about every audition. Even the one with the chicken suit.
I resist the urge to be the cynical friend who reminds her that she might want to start hunting for a steady day job with an actual paycheck while she’s off chasing her West End dreams. There are times when her bank account balance dips so low, I need a paper bag to hyperventilate into, just thinking about it. “That’s fantastic. I’ll keep my fingers and toes crossed for you.”
