Is it such a crime to be fashionable in an office? Why is this the uniform, and why so ugly? So fucking miserable?
“Hi, Amy,” I reply, plastering on an even bigger, faker grin. “Nice to meet you. I would love to say the same, that I’ve heard all about you, but Pops never talks about work shit.” Her expression falters for a beat before she puffs out those cheeks again and crinkles her eyes. “What position is this interview for, by the way?”
Amy straightens her posture. “Oh, you didn’t receive an email?”
“All I got was a text from my father telling me to be here at nine and wear a suit.” My phone bing bongs with the Grindr ringtone as I take it out of my pocket to show Amy the lack of communication I’ve received from anyone.
She places her hand on my screen—actually touches my phone! “We operate a ‘no personal phones between office hours’ policy. So, I’m gonna have to ask you to put that away.”
“What the hell?” I look about the reception to see if anybody else is clocking her demented headteacher behaviour. There’s a small waiting area next to the desk with a few people sitting cardboard-stiff on puke-green chairs. They’re all determinedly watching an imaginary space somewhere over my left shoulder near the lift doors.
Okay, then. I slip my phone back into my pocket.
Amy smiles again. “It’s an induction, not an interview, though I’ve already discussed with your father that we might need to see how you get on today before we make any big decisions.”
I suck all my breath into my lungs and hold it there. “Wonderful,” I say as I puff it out in slow motion.
“Orlando, if you’d like to grab a seat with the other new starters, I’ll take you through to the boardroom soon.”
There are five other people in the waiting area. They’re a mix of ages, genders, and ethnicities, but they’re all wearing the same heinous office uniform, and not one of them will make eye contact with me.
Amy pisses off round the corner, and a second blonde woman with glasses replaces her behind the desk. I take my phone out of my pocket and mindlessly scroll through Instagram with the volume on mute. I open the messages and briefly consider texting Daisy until I remember how hellbent on abandoning me she is. And then my eyes catch on another name, and my fingers hover over the message thread.
Harry Ellis. It’s been so long since either of us has spoken to one another, and there is zero reason for me to text him. Anyway, what would I even say? “Hey, guess what? I met someone who works for your mum. She looks like Miss Trunchbull. Also, by the way, I still hate you.”
The guy next to me stares down at my screen, but nobody else has their phones out, and I already feel trapped. Oppressed.
“Okay, folks. We’re ready for you now,” Amy calls out a few moments later, and everybody rises to their feet.
I follow the crowd to a room where the tables have been pushed against the walls and the chairs arranged into a horrifying horseshoe. On one table sits a hot-water urn and next to it generic white mugs, an assortment of teas and instant coffees, individually wrapped biscuits, and a lidded silver jug.
“Take a seat,” she says, plonking herself in the chair beside the roll-away projector screen. “Help yourself to drinks and snacks. We’ll be here for a while.”
Help yourself? What the fuck is this?
Shit, my rich-boy privilege is showing.
“Can you help me?” I whisper to the woman standing next to me. She’s white and in her early twenties.
She looks me up and down, and then hands me a cup. “Tea? Coffee?” she whispers back, like she understands how fucking embarrassing it is not being able to do anything for myself.
“Coffee.” I can at least do this part. I spoon granules into my mug and then diligently watch as my saviour fills her own vessel with hot water by pushing down on a black button at the top.
Okay, straightforward enough. I copy her, then glance around for the oat milk . . . or almond . . . or rice . . . or literally anything. I can’t even see the regular milk.
“Milk’s in here.” She tops her mug up by tipping the jug whilst pressing another button on the lid.
“Is there only cow’s milk?” I ask loud enough for Amy to hear, who lifts her eyes from her files. “I’m lactose intolerant.”
Amy’s face presses into a tight line. “Yes, sorry, only cow’s milk. Though you’re more than welcome to bring in your own alternative milks in the future.”
I nod and find an unoccupied seat as close to the window as possible. My legs are so long they cross over the middle section of the horseshoe. “I’ll just drink it black, then.”
“Welcome, everyone, to Oakham Industries. It’s so nice to have you all on board with us today,” Amy says once we’re all seated with our drinks. “We’ll start with a little get to know each other task and then we’ll move on to some induction videos.”
Videos? Plural? Fuck my life.
“We’re going to go around in a circle and tell everyone a bit about ourselves. So I want your name . . .” Amy counts things off on her fingers. “Where you’ve come from, the position you’re moving into, something about the job that you’re looking forward to, and a fun fact about yourself.”
