After packing everything up, I give her a small wave and turn to leave. When she says, “Ben?” I stop. Turning back, I look down at her. I can see from her expression that she wants to apologize. At least I hope that’s the expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No worries.” The sad thing? She’s right. I am paranoid, and she’s the main reason why. She’s a consultant hired to find out if some of us need to go. At least that’s what I assume is going on.
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with your department.”
I stare at her for a moment. Pulling the chair back out, I sit and lean forward. “That’s just it, Alison. There’s nothing wrong. We’re efficient and successful. Did you take the time to look at our numbers?”
She nods.
“Our plans generate above average revenue, and as far as social media is concerned, we’ve tripled the following for MFH since last July.”
“I know.”
“So why are you here?”
I think my question startles her, because her long lashes flutter quickly. Is she upset? “I’m here because an employee lodged a complaint against your department—several, actually—and many of you are mentioned in that complaint.”
“What are the complaints?” Seriously, what’s the issue?
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Bullshit.” This is ridiculous. “If you can’t tell us what we’re accused of, how are you ever going to get answers?”
“Fine.” She flips her notebook open again. “Have you ever stolen ideas from a member of the support staff?”
She cannot be serious. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Pretty sure. I mean, sometimes when we’re brainstorming, people are shouting shit out and they don’t always get credit. It happens. It’s not intentional.
She hits me with another one. “Do you feel as those you’re treated differently than others in the department?”
“What?”
“Have you been given preferential treatment over others in your department, whether they be subordinate or on the same level as you?”
No.”
“Have you ever stolen a lunch out of the break room refrigerator?”
“What the hell?” I laugh, but it sounds more like a scoff. “No. Of course not.”
“Great. That’s all I need.” She slams her folder closed again and begins to pack up.
I’m at a loss for words. For a second, anyway. “So Clive accused me of stealing his ideas?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” I point to the green fucking folder. “That’s his. He used to be my assistant. He hates me for some inexplicable reason. Of course I’m the one he’s accusing.”
“I didn’t say that,” she repeats.
Crumpling the bag in my hand, I shove it under my arm, then turn and stomp toward the entrance to the deli. That’s when I see my boss, Sam Ford, sitting at a table near the door. Without a word, he winks at me, and I can’t figure out what the hell that means. Did he hear our exchange? Does he think this shit’s funny? It’s not. Ignoring my boss, I step out the door and make my way toward the elevator.
When I hear clicking steps behind me, I turn and see Alison approaching. Part of me thinks I should apologize for acting like a petulant child, but the other part thinks I’m entitled to these feelings.
This sucks. My day started off so promising, and now it’s utter shit.
