“I fuckin’ hate them.”
“Really? Why?”
“Orion’s a miserable sod, that’s why. Don’t you have work to do?”
“I’m…not sure what you want me to do.”
Without looking at him, I wave in the general direction of his desk. “Go organise, or whatever it is you’re meant to do.”
“I’ll start by checking your diary,” he says patiently.
“You do that.”
Goddamn, it was a mistake to hire him. I can't even bring myself to look at him for fear I'm going to start salivating. It's pathetic.
"When I've started jobs before, I've normally been given a list of tasks that need doing on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis," Archie says. "There's a lot of overlap, but each of my past bosses has wanted things done slightly differently. Plus, I've never worked for an author before. I might be wrong, but I’m guessing you’ll have different requirements of a PA than the CEO of a tech start-up company?”
“There’s a document on your computer,” I tell him. “Called ‘what I want my fuckin’ PA to do.’”
He sniggers. “Really?”
"Yes, really." I huff out a sigh. "But in a nutshell, I'll need you to keep track of my deadlines," I say in an attempt to actually give him some guidance. "And any social engagements I have. You'll be in charge of ordering stationery. I'm traditional, in that I like to have a hard copy to work off when I'm editing. Don't lecture me about cutting down trees."
“I wouldn’t.” His response is so meek it makes me shiver.
“I know it’s not a normal PA duty, but if you don’t make me lunch, I’ll forget to eat if I’m engrossed in my words. You can make yourself food too. You don’t need to bring your own.” I should have mentioned it yesterday.
“Thank you, sir.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, he needed to lay off with saying ‘sir’. Not that I can bring myself to tell him to stop. I like the way he says it—softly. Quietly.
“I might need you to read over the odd scene here or there.” Only of the words I write officially, obviously.
“Really?” The excitement in his voice is palpable.
I can’t help but smile. “Aye. But I’ll want honest feedback.”
“Yes, yes, of course, sir.”
I pinch my eyes shut. Does he realise what it does to me every time he says that word? No, of course he doesn’t. My reaction is entirely my problem, not his. I’ll never make him aware of it or ask him to change his polite behaviour.
“Is there anything else?” Archie asks.
“Isn’t all that enough?”
“Just checking.”
“There is one more thing…”
“Oh?”
“I hold a party here once a month. I’ll need you to organise catering and send out invitations. I’ll give you the guest list, although it doesn’t change much from month to month. Occasionally, I add names if one of my guests wants to bring someone along.”
“I can do that.”
He doesn’t need to know what kind of parties I hold; it’s not as if I’ll ever invite him to one. I wave at him dismissively. “Get to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
