“It’s payday today,” she says. “For everyone else in the company. But you missed the cutoff for the month by a few days. I spoke to your father, and he suggested you might need an advance to help you with buyinggroceries.”
I look at the letter again. Is this a payslip? Is this what a payslip looks like? There are a bunch of numbers and tax codes and other shit I don’t fully understand.
“One thousand, one hundred and four pounds, and thirty pence. Is that it?” These trousers alone cost more than that.
“That’s two weeks’ pay. It’ll be taken off of your next pay cheque. Payday is the first Monday of every month.”
“Oh,” I say, because double that isn’t too bad, I guess, but it’s nothing like I was used to. Granted, I don’t have rent to pay or a mortgage, and I don’t have any gas or electric or car bills to pay. I only have groceries, clothes, and skincare to fund. I could probably make it work if I cut back on a few things.
I could start using The Ordinary instead of La Mer.
Jesus, save my soul, I’m going to die out here.
“What is this bit? Gross pay?” I ask, pointing to a number significantly higher than the one reportedly hitting my bank account.
“That’s how much you earn before tax,” Amy says, like she’s explaining the ABCs to a toddler.
Ew, tax.
“And what’s this?”
“National Insurance. That pays for your state pension and NHS,” she says.
“And this? Why are there so many deductions?”
“That’s your company pension. You pay a certain amount each month, and Oakham Industries will match it.”
“Jesus, fuck, do I have to pay that?”
“You can opt out, but sixty-five-year-old you will thank current you if you don’t.”
I curl my lip at her and refrain from hissing. “And what’s this three-pound deduction?”
“Oh, that’s your company health insurance. You can download the free app, and you have loads of—”
“No. I don’t need it. I’m on my father’s Bupa. I’m not paying three pounds a month for something I already have. Take it off.”
Amy folds her arms, leans back in her chair, and puffs out a long sigh. “You’ll need to speak with HR, then. I can’t remove it for you. Listen, Orlando, whilst you’re here, we should conduct your one week informal review.” She gets to her feet. “Let’s take this to one of the smaller meeting rooms.”
“Now?” I ask, firmly standing my ground and not following her.
“Unless you’ve got something more important to work on?”
I don’t say anything. I simply limit my eye roll to a brief ceiling glance and follow her through the office space.
The overhead fluorescent lights flicker on, and Amy takes a seat. The room is small, three metres by three metres at most, and there are only three chairs at the table. The air smells of dust and printer toner, and despite the sunlight cleaving through the dirt-speckled windows, it’s chilly. The hairs on my arms stand to attention beneath the goosepimples on my skin, and my nipples are spiking against my shirt fabric.
“So . . .” Amy says. “How are you finding it here?”
Do I lie? Do I tell her I’m enjoying it when in fact I’d rather slice my veins open with a rusty screwdriver and squeeze grapefruit juice into the wounds than watch another fucking manual handling training video? And let’s be honest, who in this office full of vitamin D deficient zombies is doing any heavy lifting? Isn’t that what the porters are for?
I’ve accidentally been silent for too long and answered Amy’s question.
“I understand it’s a bit of a culture shock, and this is what these review meetings are here to address. We’ll have another in a couple of weeks, and then one at the end of twelve weeks and one at the end of six months.”
I don’t mean to do it, but a groan slips out. Imagine working here for six months. Imagine waking up every single morning at six thirty and dragging my ass all the way from Mudford to Swindon. Imagine eating that minging cafeteria food five days a week for the rest of my fucking life.
“Tell me what it is you’re struggling to adjust to and we’ll see if we can work something out.”
