Heels sinking in the plush carpet covering the floor of my boss’ office, I duck under a familiar arm holding the glass door open for me with a polite, but bland, smile. Mr McAvoy’s nephew, Thomas, grins back at me, shutting the door behind us and ushering me forward with a hand grazing my lower back.
He’s a little too friendly with the women in the office, if you catch my drift, but being the nephew of the top boss comes with perks and Thomas knows it.
I sidestep away from his sweaty palm, gracefully – or at least I attempt to look graceful – taking a seat across from Mr McAvoy’s wide mahogany desk. My boss in question steeples his fingertips, suede elbow patches resting on the many pieces of paper covering his cluttered desk, while peering at me over the top of his rounded, slightly smudged glasses.
Thomas, of course, takes the seat beside me, rather than choosing to sit on the opposite side with his uncle. I feel his thigh ghost against mine as he pulls his chair in close, spreading his legs wide, taking up space as if he owns the damn room.
I cross my legs to avoid any more contact, swallowing down the female rage and irritation coursing through myveins at having to become smaller, just so a man with a sure-to-reseed hairline can feel comfortable.
“Miss Becker. Do you have any idea why I’ve called you into my office today?”
I wrack my brain; grabbing a soft strand of my blonde hair betwixt thumb and forefinger while I think.
Maybe they’ve found the evidence from my first office Christmas party – just three years ago – when I got much too tipsy on spiced eggnog and thimblefuls of sherry, and I thought it be a hilarious idea to photocopy images of my bare tits.
I swore I’d gotten rid of all the evidence, especially as seeing how long ago it had happened, but maybe not…
Or had they found out about the time I snuck a cheeky vape in the staff toilets to quell the alcohol induced headache I had going on. It’s not like I’m a usual vape smoker, I’m just partial to a few puffs of the synthetic flavoured stuff after a few too many wines. Regardless, my few quick drags of the bubblegum air had sent the fucking fire alarm off. Before anybody could find out it was me, I’d shoved the tiny vape into my bra, ran out of the toilets, down the fire escape stairs and outside, joining the rest of my co-workers who we’re all shivering in the powdery snow falling from the sky. Oops.
I must admit, I’d played a good actress that day, playing along with the rest of everybody’s annoyance at the fucking fire alarm, so that nobody suspected it was my fault. I was sure I’d gotten away with it until right this bloody second.
Unless my boss had found out about the time I—
“Miss Becker?”
I pop my shoulders in a shrug, gripping the edges of my notebook and pen which sit on my lap until the paper cuts my fingers. “I have no idea why you’ve called me into your office today, Mr McAvoy.”
He hums noncommittedly, wiggling the mouse of his high-tech computer. This is it. I’m about to get my fine arse fired. Kicked out of the company. Tossed to the—
“We have a job opportunity we’d like to offer you.”
My heart drops, stomach plummeting, before my brain registers the words sitting on my boss’s barbed tongue.
“What?” I lean forward in my seat, whipping my head towards Thomas who grins back at me smugly.
“The correct term of phrase is pardon, Miss Becker.”
I swallow back my chastisement. “Pardon, Mr McAvoy. You’re not firing me?”
Unkept eyebrows threaded with silver greys frow in my direction. “Why would we be firing you?”
“No reason,” I all but coo, schooling my best ‘I’m totally innocent’ look onto my face. “So, you’re offering me a job opportunity?”
“Indeed.” Mr McAvoy nods his head, his eyes fixed on the pixilated monitor before him. I wait for further details – something, anything – but the hollow clicking computer mouse is the only sound in oppressive small space, echoing annoyingly through my ears like a gnat.
“Thomas,” my boss scoffs exasperatedly, thrusting the computer mouse into his nephew’s hands. “Put yourself to good use for once and find that blasted email, won’t you?”
Flattening my lips, I watch as Thomas rounds his uncle’s desk, doing as he’s told, without fuss, like a well-trained glorified lap dog.
Usually, when he’s out on the office floor without the supervision of his uncle, Thomas is the one bossingus staffaround with that slimy look permanently etched into his facial features; the one which says I’m above you and you’ll do what I tell you or else.
Now I get where he’s learnt that behaviour from. I guess, the rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“Send it through, boy,” Mr McAvoy directs with a wave of his sunspot wrinkled hand, returning his attention back to me. “There. If my nephew can follow instructions, then the client’s brief should be sitting in your in—whatever they’re calling it these days.”
“Inbox,” Thomas dares answer, coming to stand behind me. If I move my head but an inch, my lower face is sure to press into the placket of his tailored trousers. Ew.
I mentally run through the reasons as to why I love this job – the money, the hours, the elation on my client’s faces when they step into their forever home – while I stare ahead, back ramrod straight, toes curling in my heels.
