Nobody makes a sound, but Ifeelthe groans reverberate around the space.
“I’ll go first,” Amy says, like she’s genuinely excited to know more about this sad little polyester-wearing bunch. “My name’s Amy James. I come from Southampton originally, but I live in Chippenham now. I am the on-boarding manager of the Swindon branch of Oakham Industries, and I’m also Warwick Oakham’s personal assistant when he’s visiting.”
“Is he around often?” I say, and Amy just stares at me like I’ve asked a forbidden question. Maybe she hasn’t understood me. “The great Warwick Oakham the second, does he deign to visit often?”
Amy opens her mouth but swallows whatever retort she’d been brewing. “So, a fun fact about me is that I love to travel. I’ve been to eight different countries already this year, and it’s only April.”
Some of the other folk are still watching me, waiting to see what I’ll make of Amy’s deflection, or maybe waiting to see if I’ll chase her for an answer. I don’t need to. I know very little about my father’s work, but I could count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken about the Swindon branch and I’d have five fingers left.
“Charlie, why don’t you go first?” Amy says, holding out her palm and passing on the baton of riveting conversation to the person on her immediate left.
“Hi, I’m Charlie,” the white girl who helped me with my coffee says. “I live in Royal Wootton Bassett, and I’m working in facilities. Something I’m looking forward to is helping people achieve their best at work through makingthings more accessible, and a fun fact about me is that when I was nine I won a national breakdancing competition.”
We go around the room and everyone has their say. I don’t listen, but I try to remember their names in case I need to unionise. Charlie, Omar, Alice, Ben, Liz, Jasmine. None of them are even remotely cute.
“I’m Lando, or just Lan if you can’t be bothered with the dough. I live in Mudford-upon-Hooke near Hookborough. I have no idea what job I’m doing here. I assume at some point someone will tell me.”
Amy doesn’t respond, she simply runs her bottom lip under her teeth and avoids meeting anyone’s eyes. I wonder if she even knows. Has my father told anyone? Or has he just announced my arrival like the second coming of Covid and told people to deal with it?
The other new starters shift their weight in their seats. They’re figuring it out. That I’m the talentless nepo pity hire, come to steal a high-ranking position based solely on my exquisite good fortune to have been spawned from my father’s loins.
I can’t decide whether I care. I need the job. I need the money. I will apply myself to it once I figure out what I’m doing, but I don’t need any friends. Especially not people who wear pleather flats without socks. Pretty sure I can smell Amy’s sweaty feet from here.
“The thing I’m most looking forward to is my pay cheque.” I don’t imagine it, Amy definitely flinches. I wonder if dearest Papa told them all he’d cut me off. I wonder if he’s fucking her too. Wouldn’t surprise me. She’s exactly his type. Suddenly, I feel sorry for her. “A fun fact about me is that I once shat my pants at Edinburgh Zoo. In the panda section, actually.”
Jasmine yells, “Oh my god!” Omar barks out a laugh, Ben howls, and poor Charlie decided at that exact moment to take a sip of her cow’s tit coffee. She’s now wearing it. The room, which a few seconds ago was as still and sombre as a funeral home, is now alive with chatter and movement as Jasmine rushes across the horseshoe to dab Charlie’s legs with a paper napkin. Even Amy’s smiling.
She checks her watch. “Okay, we still have plenty of time. Orlando, why don’t you tell us what happened?”
“I have IBS; it’s not that deep,” I say. “Sometimes there’s dairy in things that don’t need dairy in them. Sometimes I get explosive diarrhoea for no other reason than my body is a mutinous asshole. I’ve shat myself in a lot of places.” I’m enjoying the rapt attention so I start reeling off place names. “Harrods Food Hall, the Waitrose in Hookborough, at my friend’s pub, my local rugby club. I always keep spare pants and trousers nearby, just in case.”
Amy’s still smiling when she gets to her feet a moment later, and I think I’ve broken her. If I have one singular talent in this bottomless pit of familial bias, it’s comic relief.
“Okay, okay, let’s settle down. Now that we’ve gotten to know a bit more about each other—some a little too much—we’re gonna watch a few introductory videos to get up to speed with the company and our processes.” She boots the laptop into life, and a cheesy jingle begins, followed by images of uncomfortable-looking people in their uncomfortable-looking clothes posing stiffly in a boardroom. Unlike this one, the boardroom on the screen has panoramic views over the Thames.
Out my window, I can see the flat roof of the adjacent building. Patches of moss and puddles of rainwater and yet more litter interrupt the otherwise endless expanse of grey concrete. Super inspiring. I can’t wait to fulfil my true potential here.
“At Oakham Industries we don’t just think outside the box,” the middle-aged guy on the video says. “We dismantle any pre-existing perceptions of what a box should be. We’re revolutionising transport and logistics across the globe, bringing innovation and . . .” Blah, blah, blah.
I’ve never had a job before, but even I know this is corporate bullshit. I need to focus, need to pay attention, but there are pigeons fighting on the wasteland roof, and—no, not fighting, fucking. The video can wait.
I’m one hundred per cent certain that as the only heir to the Oakham throne, I get a free pass not to pay attention.
Midway through the video, I realise my phone is in my hand and I’m scrolling Instagram again. Amy’s not looking at me. She’s watching the projector screen, rapt, like it’s the first time she’s seeing it.
Daisy’s uploaded a new photo. Well, it’s an old photo, taken on the August bank holiday last year when Serasi came to visit. We’d spent the day on my father’s yacht in Poole Harbour getting pissed on Veuve Clicquot, eating burgers, and watching the sunset. The picture shows Daisy planting a kiss on her girlfriend’s cheek. Daisy’s face is shadowed and her eyes are closed, but Serasi’s brown skin is bathed in a cinematic orange glow from the waning evening sun. She’s wearing a sleepy, love-drunk smile, and I stare at the screen for way too long. The caption reads:Less than a week until we’re reunited.
Sure. Mr B, a.k.a. your loving father, is getting married. That might be a little more important than your fucking girlfriend coming over.
I’ve been conveniently cut out of the photo even though in the original I’m right beside Daisy. The poetic irony is too much.
Also cut out of the picture is the person who’d been sitting to my left. Harry Ellis.
That was the night we . . .
No. I don’t need to go there again.
Why would Daisy choose this photo? Of all the fucking photos in existence. Was this a deliberate stab in the back?
