In desperation, I fuel the Penelope Jones Carbohydrate Machine and buy a bagel from the subsidised cafe on Level 3 (the one where everything tastes of stale). As I’m paying, I decide a measly bagel isn’t enough and chuck on a glazed doughnut to the order. But the only thing my sugar-charged elevenses serves is to bloat my abdomen and make me want more sugar.
And then I hear a quiet ping from my phone. Yes! It’s gotta be one of the girls, it’s just gotta be!
I pick up my phone and scan the message.
And there are no words to describe the horror that grips my heart.
I read it again,
Hey P-Diddy, got bad news. I’ve come down with food poisoning. Think it was the place Mags and I went to last night. I’ve let the Chief know I won’t be coming in today. You’ll have to go to the Lloyds meeting instead of me. Sorry bro.
I shakily place the phone (with Stalker’s message still flashing) alongside my almost-empty Starbucks cup. I stare at it. I have to see He Who Shall Not Be Named today? What? How? This wasn’t supposed to happen! Hence my bridge burning message on Friday. I mean, you never actually say that to a guy no matter how much you’re thinking it. Big, big, BIG faux pax to say that, especially to an ex who is your client.
I didn’t really think that one through.
I take the final slurp of frappuchino but I’m so panic stricken I don’t taste it. I start tapping my keyboard with my fingernails absentmindedly, running through my options. How to get out of this? Go home pretending to be ill? Nope, Angrypants saw me this morning and it was obvious I’m fit as a fiddle. Explain to Angrypants why I shouldn’t go? Nope, this is a woman who is so work driven she’s refused to take a honeymoon. What’s a little heartache when there’s £500,000 worth of fees to grab from these guys?
The meeting is in two hours. I frantically open the Lloyds folder on the shared drive and try to see what Sam’s been working on the last week.
I’m screwed.
***
“HiI’mfromGribblesandI’mlateforthe2o’clockmeeting!” I burst into the Lloyds office, startling the nice receptionist from last time.
She places her sandwich down. It looks like smoked salmon and cream cheese. My tummy rumbles. Hush my pet. Meeting first, then we eat.
The sweet-as-a-button PA lady smiles and says,
“Please follow me.”
She stands and motions for me to follow her. She is looking a tad confused by my panic stricken expression, as it’s only 2:02 p.m. I bet I look like I’ve arrived late for my only daughter’s wedding. But don’t you see? Angrypants hates unpunctuality. You know what she’s likely been doing for the last 120 seconds? Sitting in that meeting room, resisting the temptation to check up on me until I’m at least five minutes late.
I rasp a “thank you I got it from here” and power walk past the receptionist, because she’s walking too slow. My cheeks are flushed from the sprint I had to do to make it here (sorta) on time. My underarms are sweaty but that’s cool because I’ll just keep my jacket on and no one will know.
I’m in such a frazzle that I forget to smooth down my dress and hair as I walk into the conference room, where Angrypants and the Lloyds team are waiting. I avoid Sarah’s death glare, the pompous look of the Development Manager (our good friend Old Man Gin) and He Who Shall Not Be Named. I say a general hello and apologise to the group, my eyes locked on the young Lloyds lad, the only guy I feel comfortable being in a room with. He seems sweet and looks about twelve years old, and weirdly, also resembles Michael Cera
From the corner of my eye I notice my ex is wearing an ugly brown suit that doesn’t fit him properly. Yesss, I think rather pettily.
“I’m so sorry, have I kept you waiting?” I ask.
“Not at all Miss Jones, why don’t you get settled while I take this call? Excuse me,” Development Manager replies, standing heavily to walk out to the foyer where he answers his cell.
It’s just me, Angrypants, Voldemort and young Lloyds lad now. I’m still standing for some reason. He Who Shall Not Be Named shoots me a twisted smile,
“Hi Dumpling!”
“Hi. Um, if it’s alright by you, would you mind not calling me that in public?” I answer back.
It’s not the perfectly worded request but what am I supposed to say? He lost the privilege of calling me a glutinous miniature pillow case the moment he cheated on me.
His expression doesn’t change,
“Not a problem. Nice dress, when’s the due date?”
Ignoring him, Angrypants yanks my arm down so that I’m forced to sit close to her. She hisses furiously into my ear,
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m sorry Sarah, I took the bus and there was an... incident. It involved a five year old boy who didn’t know he suffers from motion sickness.”
“You took the bus? Why in god’s name would you do that?” She continues to whisper while Voldemort and Young Michael Cera Guy start chatting about the weekend football.
“I can’t help it, it was that essay on sustainability in the property market.”
I get a blank look.
“The one I’m doing for the Institute of Environmental Management? The one you told me to write?”
“Oh that. What about it?” She whisper-barks.
“I’ve decided I’m going to be more environmentally friendly,” I pull my shoulders back a little.
I want to tell her than I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. No more selfish, crazy Penny. I’ll be benevolent and kind, a real campaigner for everything good and just. Then a hot celebrity will notice me and we’ll get married. Like George Clooney and that Amal chick.
Angrypants doesn’t seem to be appreciating my new self-improvement philosophy. In fact, quite the opposite, because before I can explain she interjects,
“Be environmentally friendly on your own time. Goddam it Jonesy you’re supposed to be a professional. Act like it.”
Her words sting and I look down at my lap.
What does she have against buses anyway?
My thoughts are interrupted by Old Man Gin clearing his throat from the head of the table. I didn’t hear him, he must have snuck back in. By the look of things he’s overheard me and Angrypants. He’s wearing an odd, half-amused, half-annoyed expression. He turns to He Who Shall Not Be Named and gives him a small sigh,
“Women and their crusades, eh?”
“Crusades, Gerald?” Sarah replies evenly.
“Nothing dear.”
“Gerald, we need to discuss any issues that you have around the service we provide. Are you unhappy with how the transaction is progressing?”
“Not at all, I just find this sustainability mumbo jumbo a tad trite these days.”
“Do you now?” I reply, also trying to sound level and even but not succeeding in the slightest.
Angrypants shoots me a warning glance but I ignore her as I enter a mini stare-off with Gerald the Dinosaur.
He replies,
“We have a lot of women in Lloyds trying to get us to switch to fair trade coffee, support local schools, all that expensive PR rubbish. But don’t listen to me, I’m just an old timer, I was never taught how to manage the... emotional element of people in the workplace.”
I resist the temptation to say something, instead picking up my pen with one hand, fiddling with the corners of my pad with the other. My eyes are focused directly on the blank pages below me. But I start yelling inside my head anyway. So because women have different sexual organs we’re going to destroy your manly-acquired bottom line? That is such codswallop!
Angrypants kicks off the meeting,
“Onto more pressing matters, Sam Grobowski sends his apologies, he’s been taken ill.”
He Who Shall Not Be Named replies,
“We wish him a speedy recovery, but it’s good to see Miss Jones again. She’s been conspicuously absent from our correspondences.”
I continue to stare at the pad below, remembering how much I used to love his
deep voice. My how times change. The corners of my pad are getting ever more curled and wrinkly. Seeing that I’m not going to answer, Angrypants looks to address him,
“You’ll appreciate we are always extremely busy, and although we have prioritised Lloyds and this job above all others, Penny does have other pressing work.”
Sarah has lied through her teeth recovered brilliantly, as she always does. Yeah right we’ve prioritised Lloyds, we tell all our clients we ‘prioritise’ them. It’s the Consultant Way, say whatever you need to say, do whatever you need to do, write whatever you need to write, do all and sundry to get that client to hand over their dosh.
It’s something that’s never sat right with me to be honest with you. Sometimes, I’m almost ashamed to...
My thoughts are interrupted by that deep voice,
“I want to see Penny contributing in a more meaningful way from this point on,” He Who Shall Not Be Named asserts.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Old Man Gin butts in, “while Sam is unwell perhaps it would be best if there was a... man available, instead?”
Jesus fucking Christ!
Angrypants ignores Ginman, instead looking at He Who Shall Not Be Named,
“Penny will be as involved as you like.”
“I’d like her to be very, very involved, particularly since we have several transactions planned for the next twelve months.”
And I finally see what he’s doing. It’s all there in the sharp glean of his eyes. He wants to make my life hell from this point onwards. He will hound me with emails, phone calls, unreasonable requests, ridiculous amounts of iterations, all because I didn’t take him back. That night he asked me for a second chance. That night I did the Terrible Thing.
Angrypants is responding to Voldemort,
“Fine. Anything else before we move onto the actual reason why we’re here?” she snaps.
The three men shake their heads no. They’ve realised Angrypants is in no mood to be trifled with. Maybe it has something to do with her female genital organs, because apparently those make us all sooooo emotional.
Sarah continues, now staring at Young Guy.
“Good. In that case back to the agenda. I would like an update on the prospective buyer list.”
Michael Cera #2 begins describing the three bidders for the title deed, their financial positions and a risk analysis he’s put together. He’s sharp, for a young guy. The meeting goes well for the next half hour while Michael Cera and Angrypants exchange information, blitzing through agenda items one to seven.
I’m not looking forward to item eight.
“Right, item eight, the report.” Angrypants segue-ways.
He Who Shall Not Be Named turns to me,
“Yes. Miss Jones, can you explain why the abstract hasn’t been updated to reflect my review comments? I specifically emailed you and Sam about including the corporate process diagram.”
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, smiling that slimey grin.
I flounder.
“I’m sorry but I’m not sure. I’ll have to check with Sam and get back to you.”
“Fine. Also, Sam mentioned he wasn’t receiving Lloyd’s internal notifications. Do you know if you two have been added to the distribution list yet?”
“I’ll have to double check that one too.”
I scribble a couple of notes under my ever increasing to-do list.
“And the performance data for the contractors?”
“Contractors?” I ask weakly.
“Yes. The contractors we’re going to hire to refurbish the building?” he says with a tone of dramatic exasperation. Prick. .
“I...” this is getting embarrassing, “I’m sorry, Sam has been doing all the...”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t really know much about this job at all?”
I speak before Angyrpants can pipe in to save me, as I know she will. She won’t do it to defend me personally, but to defend the Gribbles brand. Later, back in the office, she’ll rip into me just as badly if not worse than my dickhead ex is doing.
“Again, I’m sorry, Sam has been doing most of the work, I’m taking note of all your queries and I promise I will have them addressed by close of business today.”
“And you’re good at keeping promises?” he asks.
“Better than you ever were.” I snap.
His eyes narrow but that smile doesn’t leave his face. I glare at him. Bastard. At least my conscience is clear. He drew first blood.
He’s about to reply but Sarah is on it faster than a fly on poo.
“I think the conversation has steered outside professional matters, if we could...”
He Who Shall Not Be Named interrupts,
“I’m sensing that Mr Grobowski has done the lion’s share of the work, is that correct Miss Jones?”
It’s Ms, not Miss.
“Yes, but that’s normal in private practice. We share the work.”
Old Man Gin speaks next,
“That’s all well and good my dear, but you see, your timesheet says something quite different. We want to double check the accuracy of your contribution.”
I don’t answer for a moment,
“I’m sorry? I don’t understand?”
I feel like I’ve said ‘sorry’ fifty times in the last two minutes. The Development Manager passes me a summary of the time charged to the Lloyds project code. My eyes bulge.
“There’s been a mistake. I didn’t spend thirty hours...”
“Obviously not,” He Who Shall Not Be Named sneers.
“We were expecting more from you today, seeing as you spent nearly all of last week charging time to our budget,” the Development Manager adds.
“I...” I’m so surprised I don’t know what to say for a moment. I compose my thoughts, “I did not charge this time. I remember my timesheet from last week. I charged fifty or so hours to Tesco and a few hours to Phoenix. I didn’t charge a single hour to Lloyds.”
I shoot a panicked look at Angrypants, begging her to back me up. This is my professional reputation on the line, and this is the very worst mistake a consultant can make. Sarah approves our timesheets and checks them meticulously. She must know this is all a big mistake.
I get blanked. Angrypants points her horn rimmed glasses down and starts checking emails on her iPhone.
The Development Manager speaks instead,
“Miss Jones, the records are there. Are you sure you’re not being... forgetful?” he asks.
What, because I’m on my period?
“With all due respect, I’m not forgetting anything, sir.”
“It’s okay to make mistakes. You’re a good girl, I can see that,” he prompts.
Girl?
“I have not made a mistake. Someone else has made a mistake. Sir,” I say through gritted teeth.
Angrypants casually looks up from her phone.
“Gentleman, Miss Jones has been suffering work related stress lately, it’s nothing to worry about she’s just a bit overloaded. I’m sure it was an innocent error on her part and we’ll reverse the time back in the office.”
Work related stress?
I turn to her, angrily,
“I didn’t make a mistake,” I enunciate each word through my tightening jaw.
“Let’s move on,” she closes the discussion.
“I’m sorry Sarah but I can’t move on. I have always charged my time honestly. I’m no thief.”
He Who Shall Not Be Named emits a low chuckle. The table looks to him,
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking... If the cap fits.”
“Excuse me?”
I stand from my chair as I say it (because I think standing gives more weight to my words, somehow). The eyes in the room stare up at me but I don’t utter another word. My lips are pursed into a thin line. You know those life changing moments people have, where they stand back and think, ‘I’m gonna make a change for once in my life. It’s gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference...�
� Wait a minute. That’s a Michael Jackson song. Well anyway, you know what I mean! It’s time to alter my destiny. I’m sitting in a room being mocked by an ex-fiancé hell bent on revenge, derided by a sadistic manager who won’t even take a honeymoon, and insulted by a misogynistic client. And through it all the innocent face of Michael Cera #2 is gazing at me from across the table, with pity and sadness. I’m being pitied. Pitied by a boy who could be my son (well sort if, if I had him when I was 11). This is more than depressing. It’s pathetic.
“I said, if the cap fits,” He Who Shall Not Be Named repeats.
“And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I seem to remember my laptop, my bag, my wallet, everything, going missing the last time we caught up, then magically turning up behind the bar.”
The Terrible Thing... I swallow before replying,
“You got them back in the end, didn’t you?”
“Just like we’ll get our hours back, and exactly what I said. If that cap fits.”
As I stare down at him, I can feel I’m at the Tipping Point. You know when something inside you just... goes? I am very, very, very close to crossing over to Cage-Fighter-Blood-Rage-Terrorist Insanity. Right in the middle of this meeting. Utterly insane, will-grab-a-cop’s-gun-outta-his-holster-and-start-shooting-people kinda insanity.
I know I’m not the most even-tempered of people. The Stranger was right, I am a firecracker. I’ll go from blissful biscuit induced ecstasy to attacking Spanish people in a nanosecond. Even faster than a nanosecond, that is how unstable my moods are. And y’all have seen what happens when Satan-voice takes over. But what I’m experiencing now, as I stand looking at my ex’s smug, bloated face wrapped in an ugly brown suit, next to the callous woman who has made my work life hell, next to an old sexist pig emitting booze-wafts, is something completely different.
I am a heartbeat away from a nuclear fission chain reaction. Possibly involving fire breathing dragons and army tanks.
All that will take me to lapse into a bottomless pit of murderous rage is one tiny, little thing...
“For god’s sake Jonesy, sit down.” Angrypants snaps.
Still able to control it... Hold... On... Penny...
Then He Who Shall Not Be Named speaks,
Crazygirl Falls in Love Page 21
