Subject: re: Late night?
If your concern is whether preparations are on track for the all-staff, allow me to reassure you: the main conference room is ready, the refreshments are laid out, and your employees are already gathering to await your presence.
I can also assure you that I am more than capable of managing my own workload. Pacing has never been an issue for me.
Could you be more specific as to which important tasks you are concerned I’m not finishing?
I look forward to seeing you at the meeting. Rest assured I will be there ready to dazzle you withmy usual 110%.
Best,
Gemma
There. Professional, to the point, and with only a hint of “fuck you” undertones. Exactly the kind of response he deserves.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. I try not to look over toward the boardroom again, but it’s a losing battle. I sneak a glance and catch Liam smirking at his laptop.
As if he knows I’m watching him, his eyes meet mine through the glass. That smirk widens a fraction.
Oh shit, he’s typing.
I look away, swallowing hard.
A new email slides into my inbox.
From: Liam McLaren
To: Gemma Jones
Subject: re: re: Late night?
Gemma,
Thank you for your outstanding efforts in ensuring today’s all-staff meeting runs smoothly, despite the last-minute scheduling changes. It’s reassuring to have such a loyal, committed professional like yourself overseeing these crucial operations. One who I know truly respects my authority.
I’m glad you feel able to finish everything you’ve started, no matter how strenuous the task may seem. Nobody wants to be the reason their esteemed head of HR is losing sleep at night, completely ravaged by exhaustion. And frustration.
By the way, please have the quarterly HR reports printed and on my desk for my next meeting.
Liam
Shit!
The reports—the ones I spent all night marking up with my brilliant insights—are still sitting on my kitchen table.
I suck in a sharp breath and spring to my feet. At this point, I’m going to need to invest in a separate tote bag just for lugging around all these dropped balls.
I don’t have time to ponder themanyquestions swirling about that email. I’d need a year. And a team of psychologists. And probably several bottles of wine.
I glance at the huge clock on the wall, its multiple faces telling us the time in every corner of the globe. It gleefully informs me that we’re down to a mere two minutes until the quarterly all-staff. Dammit, the execs are already wrapping up their alpha huddle in the boardroom.
In a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation, I call Lizzie.
“Heya!” she singsongs when she answers. “I’m just on my way to the vet.”
“Reverse. Fucking reverse. I left some important documents at home.”
“But . . . Winnie’s poo . . .” she starts.
