The Mean Girls’ situation at work has settled down at last. I avoid them and they avoid me. Although, I do hear them bitching about me from time to time, and there’s the occasional petty incident—like theaccidentalbreaking of my favourite mug. Nobody else seems to have a problem with me and my boss tells me I’m doing a great job, so I don’t even give it oxygen. I’m getting lots of cool projects to work on, and between the office and the house, I don’t have much spare time.
Dave and his crew have worked overtime to get the house finished, and the weather has, for once, cooperated, making it an incredibly quick build. Even Dave is amazed at the progress they’ve made. We’re now at the point where decisions can’t be made by email. I have to meet Josh there for walk-throughs. And it hurts. My feelings are like a splinter, stuck deep in the tender flesh of my palm. A constant dull throb of discomfort. Seeing him is like trying to dig it out. Sharp and bloody and ultimately futile. I stick to channelling Elsa, no matter how hard it is to ignore the looks he gives me. An uncomfortable mix of longing and guilt with a splash of determination.
Josh defers to me on almost every decision. From door handles to benchtops to light fittings. On the one hand, I love having the creative freedom to create the house I envisaged. On the other, with each choice, this house is feeling more and more like mine.
The house is now well past the lockup stage and the backyard only needs plants and the fabulous wide-plank hardwood on the deck. The pool looks sensational positioned near enough to the jacaranda for beauty, yet far enough away that it’s out of the shade and won’t get too many of those tiny little leaves in the filter. Matt has done a brilliant job. Although, I could’ve done without all the low-key flirting. On the other hand, I can see how much it grinds Josh’s gears when he sees Matt giving me the once-over. I’m not above enjoying his discomfort.
Matt has offered Ty ongoing work in the school holidays and whenever there’s weekend work, and despite the moaning about slave labour and early starts, it’s clear Ty loves both the work and being around Matt and his team. Josh lets him keep a tiny portion of the money he earns, and the rest goes towards his legal bills and the repairs on the car. There’s still no sign of his mother, so he spends most weekends with Josh at Will’s and often comes to family dinner, much to Mum and Dad’s delight.
Today we’re checking out the placement of the kitchen carcass. I want to make sure there feels like enough room between the bench and the kitchen island. Josh doesn’t think he needs to come. And really, he probably doesn’t. But how is he going to realise we’re worth fighting for if he never gets the opportunity to see me and my Elsa impersonation?
Before I leave the office, I have to get to a meeting about a new community housing project the firm won recently. Jonathan has asked us all to come up with some out-of-the-box ideas. Whoever has the best ideas gets to work directly with him as his second-in-command on the job. And I think I might have the winning ideas. Because the unintended consequence of my cold war with Josh is I’ve had more time on my hands. Time I’ve spent working on this project.
We all file into the conference room and as per usual, Zoe slides into place beside Jonathan, along with her entourage.
No sooner has everyone found a seat than Zoe is bouncing in her chair.
“Can I go first, Jonathan? I can’t wait to show you all my ideas.”
“Sure, Zoe. It’s great to see so much enthusiasm.” Jonathan gives her the floor.
Zoe isn’t what I would call innovative or imaginative, so I have a hard time believing she’ll have anything interesting to say.
As she stands, she gives me a look that’s equal parts malice, triumph and arrogance. A cold dread settles in my belly, and before a single word has come out of her mouth, I know what she’s going to say.
I have no idea how, but she stole my ideas. Word for word. Line for line. Colour for colour. All of them. Not only has she put herself at the front of the pack, but she’s left me with absolutely nothing. Not a damn thing.
I’m beyond furious, and I need to say something. But I’m frozen. This is high school all over again, and the memories of endless bullying and gaslighting have me paralysed. Which makes me as angry at myself as I am at Zoe.
My heart pounds. A cold sweat runs down my back. My mind screams,say something, say something, while the little girl who had her essay stolen and copied in year eight cowers, remembering how Mrs Baines hauled me over the coals. Going on and on about the sins of plagiarism. Calling my parents in. Putting me on detention. Even when it became clear I was the victim, she still blamed me for not being more careful to protect my work. That year was the one and only time I ever failed a subject.
I’m so overwhelmed I’m not even aware of what’s going on until she sits down. Jonathan is full of praise, while Zoe’s gaze is glued to me, daring me to say something. To accuse her. I can’t manage to get a single word out. It takes every ounce of my energy to pull myself out of the tar pit of memories I’ve fallen into. I’m not even conscious of the others presenting their ideas. I’m focused on making like a duck. Calm on the surface, while underneath, my mind is working feverishly to come up with one or two new ideas. I won’t have anything on paper, but having no ideas at all is not an option.
When it gets to me, I can feel the eyes of the Mean Girls boring into me while they smirk. Waiting for me to fail. I stand and head to the front of the room where the whiteboard sits unused because everyone else had detailed and professional PowerPoint presentations.
I’ve resurrected an idea that didn’t make the cut in my original presentation. It’s not brilliant, but I’m sure it’s not the worst idea that’s been presented, even if it is the least professional.
“Well, thank you, everyone. You’ve given me lots to think about. I’ll let you know in the next day or two who will be working on this project with me.” Jonathan stands, and since I’m already at the front of the room, I attempt to get out the door first.
“Greer? Could I have a word before you leave?” Jonathan stops me in my tracks. I hear a muffled snigger from Zoe as she sashays out the door, laptop crushed to her augmented breasts.
Jonathan hitches his hip on the edge of the conference room table and crosses his arms.
“What happened there, Greer?”
I can’t answer. My face is burning, and my throat has closed up. If I speak, I’ll cry. And I won’t give Zoe the satisfaction. I need time to work out the best way to handle this.
“You and I both know what we saw here today was not your best work. Are you spreading yourself too thin? I know I said you could work on the house for your friend, but that was on the proviso it didn’t impact your work here.”
“It’s not that. I … I guess I struggled to connect with the project.” Which is not true. I live for projects like this. But there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m telling him Zoe stole my work with her and her posse standing on the other side of the office avidly watching my every move through the glass walls. I need a plan first. And to calm down.
Jonathan doesn’t look convinced. “Right. Well, I have to say I’m disappointed. I expected better from you. Don’t let it happen again.”
And without another word, he stands and walks out of the conference room, leaving me in his wake. Fuming. Shaking. Boiling.
I don’t give myself time to think. I grab my laptop and bag and leave the office without passing Go or collecting $200.
You might think I’d have time to calm down on the drive from North Sydney to Manly. You’d be wrong.
