Frowning, I go down the corridor to the boardroom and slip in the back. The room is packed, and there isn’t enough space for everyone to sit. Clive stands by the wall-hanging monitor. He’s got a dour expression, which can’t mean anything good. He waves, signalling to us all to quiet down.
“There’s no way to sugar-coat this, so I’ll just come out with it,” he says.
Or he would if half the room didn’t erupt into frenzied whispers again.
He glares at the offenders until everyone is quiet. “The company has decided to outsource clothing design to a company in India. Cheaper wages.”
“What does that mean for us?” someone asks.
“It means we’re all being made redundant.”
A collective gasp sucks the air out of the room.
“When?”
“Can they do that?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Is it legal?”
The questions come too thick and fast for Clive to get a word in. He fans his hands towards the ground, and eventually, everyone falls silent so he can speak.
“We’ll all be given redundancy packages, which will give us time to find new jobs. I’m sorry. I am. I only found out about this an hour ago, and I’m in the same boat as everyone in the room.”
“What kind of redundancy package?”
“That will depend on lots of factors, such as the contract you signed when you started, your position, and your length of service. It’s not something I have control over.”
“Are they expecting us to carry on working?” The question comes from my left.
“They can fuck off if they do,” someone to my right says.
“Why should we keep working if they’re going to stab us in the back like this?”
“We’re all being sent home with immediate effect.” Clive’s voice is heavy and weary. “Clear out your desks and go.”
I stare at the carpet while chaos ensues around me. Clive and the other members of upper management squeeze their way out of the room. Some people stand and rant; others cry and run out.
What am I going to do without a job? I tighten my grip on the art folio. I’d stayed up late last night finishing designs for the new autumn and winter range. I’d come up with an adorable unisex outfit for the under-seven-year-old range. It’ll never hit a production line now.
I leave the boardroom and go to my desk. All the designers work in an open-plan office on the second floor. I don’t have much to clear out: some mechanical pencils and coloured marker pens, the cute planner my parents bought me for Christmas, a Britishism of the day calendar I got from last year’s Secret Santa, and the mini cactus Kyle sent me for my birthday. Arthur is the only plant I’ve ever managed to keep alive. I stuck goggle eyes on him, which made Kyle laugh. I still send him weekly proof of life photos.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Hayley’s eyes are puffy, and her cheeks are red.
“Nor can I.”
“What are you going to do?”
“No clue. You?”
She shakes her head.
“It sucks.”
“It does.” She smiles bravely. “Good luck.”
“Yeah, you too.”
