The investigator sees me out. If it’s any consolation, he looks sympathetic. Not that sympathy will make any difference to the outcome. He will have to make a recommendation based on what the facts appear to tell him.
And nine days later I have my answer, darting out of a three-hour disciplinary hearing holding my hand over my mouth as I barrel into the back of the first taxi I can hail. Holding it together in the meeting room cost me, jaw clenched to stop from crying out, only able to nod my understanding of the outcome.
On the balance of probabilities it is reasonable for the panel to form a view that something untoward occurred and the allegations are therefore proven. Given your position in the company and the breach of trust and confidence in the contractual relationship, our decision is to summarily dismiss you without notice. A letter detailing the outcome and your right of appeal will be sent to you within five working days.
It was awful. The death of hope. But worse was Tony’s smirk at me when no one was looking. What the hell have I done to him to make him go this far?
My P45 arrives a week later but I ignore it, too busy lodging an appeal against the decision. I can’t say the process was unfair, but I put a letter together stating I’ve done nothing untoward, and although I can see that Tony has more evidence than I do, I have a previously clear disciplinary record and a reputation for being a fair manager within the company. Plus no one actually saw or heard me do anything to him, so how can they prove I did? Sending my appeal grounds off, I wait for the invitation to the appeal hearing.
It’s worse than the first hearing. There’s no new evidence and the appeal panel simply review the original panel’s decision based on the information to hand … and then Tony gets teary, exclaiming how much this has affected him, how mortifying it’s been to reveal he’s been harassed by a woman senior to him, how he’s had to seek counselling for depression.
‘What?’ I spring out of my chair. ‘This is ridiculous!’
Tony flinches away, gripping the edge of the table and keeping his eyes downcast as if too scared to look at me.
Everyone on the panel – two men and a woman, strangers – and others in the room glare in disgust at my outburst and its apparent impact on their quaking employee.
I can feel what’s coming. Tears scorch my eyes and my neck goes hot and itchy. I won’t give him the satisfaction of crying in front of everyone.
‘Apologies,’ I announce. ‘But I think I’m done. Obviously nothing I say will matter when I’m contending with this,’ pointing at Tony’s theatrics. ‘And I won’t sink that far.’ I stare at the panel members in turn and none of them looks away, they’re so sure I’ve done wrong. ‘I understand the facts appear to say one thing, but if you knew me, how passionate I am about the company and what I’ve given over the years, and if you could see through him,’ I gesture at Tony with my chin, ‘you’d know the truth would speak another. Thank you all for your time.’
Spinning on my black stilettos, I tug my suit jacket down, eyes burning as I fling the door open. Launching myself down the corridor, only a firm hand on my arm stops me breaking into a run.
‘Wait.’
‘What?’
Mitchell, the investigator, at the hearing to answer the panel’s questions, looks down at me. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘You were credible. I never said you were lying when I presented the case. Just that the evidence against you was stronger.’
‘What good is that? It doesn’t change anything.’ My face screws up. ‘Doesn’t change what I’ve lost.’
‘I wanted you to know.’ He checks the door behind him. ‘I have to investigate the facts, and present them as I find them.’ He looks torn, brown hair neatly combed down, tie perfectly straight, but fingers of both hands rubbing anxiously together.
I soften minutely. He’s making sense. ‘I know. But as I said, it means nothing now.’ My nose tingles. Tears aren’t far off. ‘Goodbye.’
‘I work for the company. I’m in a tight spot,’ his voice follows me as I exit into the stairwell.
Not as tight as the spot I’m in, I think, erupting into sobs as I clatter down the stairs, barely able to believe how my career with Ionian Casinos is ending.
Securing proper work after that’s impossible. Raising a tribunal claim doesn’t help, because word gets back to Tony and he and his friends call all the reputable agencies and main employers in central London, telling them I was fired for gross misconduct and the reasons why. It’s clear he wants me gone and forgotten, but I can’t let it go without one last try, if for nothing more than the reason that he could do this again and wreck someone else’s life. So I lodge the claim, pay my fee and wait for my day in court, if it gets that far.
But in the meantime the job search is lousy. The most recent reference I can provide has dismissed for GM under Reason for Leaving and it’s not one employers look for in prospective employees. So I stop using it, and my failure to provide a current satisfactory reference is the killer. It’s competitive enough in the recession, with the labour market so buoyant with redundant people, that without a reference my chances are slim, if not downright skinny.
After a month I start leaving the years at the casino off applications, writing that I was unemployed, but then I don’t have the experience required to show I’m suitable for the jobs I want. Desperate, I take cash-in-hand gigs, dropping off leaflets, delivering food for shabby takeaways, pulling the night shift and trudging into the flat at 3.00 a.m. It’s soul-destroying, and salary-wise nowhere near what I’ve been on. Some days I can barely scrape myself off the mattress I feel so down. I fall behind with bills, which isn’t an issue at first, juggling things around, making minimum payments to credit cards, slicing out luxuries like the gym, turning down invitations to night outs. Still, it only takes two months before things get sticky financially. And during that time, when it’s clear conciliation isn’t a possibility, the tribunal service writes to me, telling me my case will be heard but that the other side have requested a postponement to prepare their case, which has been granted. While it gives me more time to prepare, too, it also means more waiting. There’s only so long I can hang on for, and one day in a fit of despair I hit on the idea of registering with agencies under a different name, using the internal reference John wrote for me when I applied for his job. Removing the reference from the company letterhead and putting it on a blank sheet of paper with his personal address on, I know there’s little risk of them contacting him, because he and his wife spend their time abroad on cruises. The deception feels wrong but it’s necessary.
Life continues in a cycle of desperation and near-misses, of eating beans and recycling clothes and scraping together pennies from the back of the sofa. The day I face what an absolute mess I’m in comes too soon.
‘I have to tell you something,’ I turn to Jess, pulling on an oversized navy hoody ready for my pizza-delivery job. Looking unattractive is a must when you’re a woman rolling up at people’s doors unaccompanied. You never know who you’re going to face.
‘Uh-oh, sounds serious,’ she answers, head stuck in the fridge hunting for dinner ingredients.
‘It is. I don’t know how to say it, though.’ I tie the laces on the ratty trainers I bought from a charity shop after selling my expensive ones.
‘Just say it.’ She backs out and drops some cheese and ham on the side, pulling a carton of eggs from the overhead cupboard.
‘I can’t pay my half of the mortgage this month,’ I rush. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve tried everything; extending my overdraft, getting a loan, selling stuff. But I’ll give you everything I’ve got.’
‘Charley—’ She steps towards me, holding up her hands.
‘I gave you cash for the bills last week and thought I’d make enough this week,’ I rabbit, ‘but the pizza place dropped two of my shifts. They can do that because I’m only a casual worker. And—’
‘Charley, stop. Stop!’ Hugging me tight, she whispers into my ear, ‘Take it easy
. Don’t do this to yourself. I can cover it for a while, I have some savings. I have faith you’ll get a decent job soon.’
‘Thanks. But you’re my friend,’ I sniff into her neck, holding her desperately, feeling so, so sad, heart aching. ‘Not my bank.’
Pulling away, she mock punches me. ‘Too right. I won’t charge you two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven per cent interest for a start.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ I promise fiercely.
‘You will,’ she smiles, ‘because I’d hate to have to come after you and break those beautiful long legs of yours.’
Sticking my tongue at her, I grab my keys off the side. ‘Thank you, Jess. I really mean it. It’s more than—’
‘Hey, enough. Chin up, shoulders back. You have pizzas to deliver, remember. Which reminds me,’ she rifles through her rucksack, stacking her pupils’ books on the side for marking later. ‘I picked these up for you today,’ chucking a personal alarm and a torch across the kitchen. Of course, I miss them and she sighs as they clatter to the floor. ‘One day your clumsiness is really going to be a problem.’
‘Yeah. But at least I’ve always manage to control it at work.’ My face drops. ‘Not a problem at the moment, obviously.’
‘Go,’ she shoves me out the door, ‘and I want a pizza with anchovies brought home for breakfast.’
‘Yuck!’ But her request has the desired effect and I tuck my sadness away.
Over the next few weeks the balance in our relationship shifts and doesn’t feel right. Apart from when I go home for Christmas, I spend a lot of my time in the fragrant pizza delivery van contemplating my future. Jess can only keep us both afloat for another month at best and I can’t ask my parents for money, can’t admit the depth of my problems. If I move home it’s better they think I chose to, rather than knowing I had to. It might be time for me to call them. Tomorrow, I decide, Friday night after their habitual fish-and-chip supper. Heartbreaking, but necessary.
The next afternoon my friend Amy calls, saying she can get me alongside someone useful for a weekend. It’s someone who might be able to help me, who has the power to rectify the wrongs done, if I can convince them to listen and to believe that Tony is a liar and a fake. Someone who might make the tribunal claim against Ionian Casinos unnecessary.
Alex Demetrio, CEO.
Chapter Sixteen
DAY THREE
– Sunday –
Now
I drop my towel, tugging on underwear, followed by a white top with a formal grey trouser suit, pairing it with my favourite red stilettos. I’m still seething about Alex’s behaviour last night but, yanking a brush through my hair, I can’t decide if I’m angrier with him or myself. Him for being so insensitive, me for losing all brain power and fooling around with him in the first place. I hardly know him and I let him put his hand down my knickers. That’s not my thing at all. My hand stills. No, it’s not. So Alex is different.
Damn it.
Jess is right. I do like him; the guy he is when he forgets to be Mr Uptight CEO. And since that first moment on Friday, the physical attraction has been a current so strong, swimming against it has been exhausting. Last night it was go with it or risk drowning. It was well worth the pay-off physically, but look how it ended.
God. How could I have been so stupid, given how much I have to lose? I might have compromised everything with my lack of willpower.
He said I could stay. All I had to do was say thank you gracefully and keep my hands to myself. But I couldn’t manage it. When he kissed me I lost all sense of myself, my priorities, the reality of my life, Plan B. All for a guy I’ve barely known for thirty-six hours.
Shit.
Can I really go to Alex now and tell him about Tony? Ask him for his help, ask him to believe that Tony is the bad guy, ask him to settle out of court so we don’t have to go to a tribunal? He’s so cynical and mistrustful of women, surely he’ll either think I was willing to sleep with him to get him on side or that I was having a thing with my ex-assistant. Because if I would have slept with him, why wouldn’t I have slept with Tony?
I’m not going to know until I see him again, until I gauge what he thinks of me. But I’ve got to face it; I’ve potentially blown the plan, gained nothing that will help secure my future, only a sum of money that will help repay some of my debts. The whole weekend may have been for nothing.
There’s only one way to find out if that’s the case or not.
Grabbing my bag, I stick my head out my bedroom door to see if Alex is in the lounge. No sign of him. Putting my game face on, I close the door behind me and sail across the room, knocking at his bedroom door. ‘Alex? Al–ex?’ No answer. I glance at the clock above the mini-bar. We’re almost late for the first meeting. I knock again, and then a third time. ‘Alex?’ Nothing.
What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s had a heart attack from the stress and long hours? It can happen to the young as well as the old. My chest squeezes with panic, even though I absolutely should not care. Bugger it. I bang on the door with the flat of my hand then thrust it open, all but falling into the room.
I jump back, shocked, as Alex spins around from a spot by the window across the massive bedroom. He’s dressed in nothing but a pair of tight jockey shorts, talking rapidly into his phone, frowning darkly.
God, what a body. Perfection.
I go straight into reverse, backing into the lounge, but he gestures me to stay put. Huffing, I lean against the door frame, making a huge effort to focus on the view outside the window, instead of the one inside. If ever a man was built for the screen or ad campaigns it’s him. I can’t help peeping at the phenomenal body I had glimpses of last night. Super-defined, hair-roughened upper body, long muscular thighs, gorgeous toned bum in the clingy underwear … My palms are itching to touch it all. No, enough. Don’t go there. Pretend it didn’t happen.
‘Tell her no,’ Alex hisses down the phone, ‘I won’t do that.’ He pads across the room towards me. ‘I’m really late,’ he tells the caller. ‘I have to go.’
He’s too close. Inhaling his fresh clean scent is unavoidable and something goes ping in my pelvis. He sucked my nipples and gave me an orgasm less than eight hours ago. Oh boy. I try to edge out of the room again, but am stopped by Alex’s ferocious glare. Does he really have to keep me here, in sight of that body? Is this some sort of torture for slamming the door in his face? Because it’s working. I’m biting my lip to stop from drooling. Focusing on the ceiling helps, along with singing a little ditty in my head dum de dum dee dee.
‘Then call her bluff,’ Alex bites, his tone dragging my gaze to his face, which has grown pale, dark stubble visible in contrast. He expels a harsh breath. ‘Well, we’ll see won’t we? Speak later. Bye.’ Throwing the phone onto the bedside table, he rushes over to the mirrored wardrobe. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, ‘I don’t usually run late.’ He grabs a suit and shirt off hangers.
‘It’s fine. Is, ah, everything okay?’ I shouldn’t care, but he looks so stressed I feel sorry for him.
‘Huh?’ He gives me a black, glowering look – Heathcliff, eat your heart out – and shakes his head. ‘No!’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I mean, thanks, but don’t worry about it. It’s personal. Therefore not your problem.’
Ouch, if that isn’t a knock-back I don’t know what is. Me slamming the door in his face hasn’t caused him any regret. If it had, he’d be willing to confide in me. Then I remind myself of the cold facts. He’s not my friend, he’s my boss. Grow up, Charley, he doesn’t owe you anything. He doesn’t have to tell you anything. And you shouldn’t want to know. Not if you’re still sticking with the plan.
‘In that case,’ I say stiffly, ‘can I wait in the lounge please?’
‘No, stay. Run through the schedule, remind me who we’re seeing when.’
‘I’d rather not, when you’re—’ pointing at his bare chest.
He glances over at me. ‘Please, we haven’t got time for this.’ He looks pained. H
auling on his trousers, he zips and buttons them. ‘Just tell me.’
‘Fine.’ Taking a deep breath, I turn my back and recite the meeting times from my notepad over one shoulder.
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you done now?’ I ask, stuffing the pad back into my bag.
‘Almost.’
Craning my neck, I peer over my shoulder. His shoes are on and his shirt is three-quarters done up. ‘Thank god for that,’ I mumble.
‘Pardon?’ He looks up, fingers on the last button.
‘Nothing.’ I clear my throat, eyes fixed on the bed he slept in last night, after he did naughty things to me and – stop it.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I croak. Nothing a full memory wipe wouldn’t cure.
‘Charley?’ Alex straightens his tie knot, pulls the suit jacket on. ‘About last night—’
‘We need to go. We’re already late for the first meeting,’ I rattle, looking over his shoulder, scared he’ll read too much in my face.
‘I know,’ he mutters, shoving his phone in his pocket, ‘and with a blinding hangover I’m hardly looking forward to work, but this will only take thirty seconds.’
‘Thirty seconds we don’t have. Let’s go.’ He doesn’t look hung-over. Tired yes, with the bags under his eyes, but otherwise he looks as polished as usual. Marching into the lounge, I hear him follow.
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. I just had to check.’ He slaps a hand against the door above my head, whispers in my ear, making my heart pound.
Anger rockets. I give the door an almighty tug and he releases it. ‘I don’t want to talk about this now, Alex.’
‘There are reasons I have to be careful.’
I step into the hallway and turn to him, the insensitive way he acted spinning back on me. ‘You’re right. You said. You have a rep to protect, right? Who knows who might get the wrong idea, leak it to the press? The CEO and the Temporary PA,’ I add ironic quote marks with crooked double fingers, ‘imagine that on the front page of the tabloids.’
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 38
