Temping is Hell

by Cathy Yardley

  Temping is Hell

  a Necessary Evil novel

  Cathy Yardley

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Cathy Wilson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams

  Cover design by Grant Gaither

  ISBN 978-1-62266-811-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2013

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Hugo Boss, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Farmville, World of Warcraft, Pinterest, Enron, Walmart, Aeron, Frappuccino, iPhone, Angry Birds, Dyson, Microsoft, Slinky, Tetris, Ho Ho, Costco, Facebook, Axe, Corona, eBay, Pantene, Ghirardelli, Reebok, Camaro, Sharpie, Tic Tac, Yoo-hoo, iPod, Pepto Bismol, Red Bull, Stolichnaya, Lindor, iPad, Snuggie, Doc Martens, Krispy Kreme, Xbox, Lexus.

  To my dear friends, in Seattle, San Diego, Oakland, and online, for helping me ride out the rough weather of the past five years. And a special hug to Havi Brooks and the Floopsters (which sounds like a band that would actually be just one guy)… much love for helping me unlock this book.

  Prologue

  Aloysius shuffled from his cramped office to the basement for his weekly random check on the workers. The fluorescent lights flickered high overhead, illuminating the cinderblock walls. Long tables were laid out in rows in the cavernous space, and thousands of pages were stacked on them like a paper fortress. Ten workers sat at each of the tables, diligently reading every sheet.

  Or at least, they were pretending diligence. Hence his “random” checks.

  Aloysius paused, mid-step, as a strange scent assaulted him.

  The workers were suddenly twice as intent on their task, avoiding his gaze. A twinge of concerned awareness skittered over his spine.

  He clenched his jaw, struggling with his bone-handled cane to hobble more quickly toward the source of the smell. It was strong, drowning the normal scents of old parchment and cold dust with a hot, liquid aroma reminiscent of tin foil and salt.

  He saw the pool of blood first, thick and red, near the end of one of the tables. Then he saw a sensible low-heeled shoe dangling from distended toes. Trailing his gaze up from the foot, he saw the runs in a nylon stocking… the hiked-up skirt…

  What was left of her torso.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling frustration and rage course through his veins.

  “All right, damn it,” he bellowed, his voice echoing against the concrete. “Which one of you ate another temp?”

  Chapter One

  Kate O’Hara had no trouble finding her new work assignment. It was a sharp slash of a skyscraper, like a forty-five-story blade stabbed into Lake Merritt’s shore. Even if she’d managed to miss that somehow, the red windows were a dead giveaway.

  The Oakland Tribune had dubbed the new Fiendish Headquarters building “Hell,” both due to the design and the company that built it. Rather than being offended, Fiendish had run with it, hanging a huge poster proclaiming WELCOME TO HELL! in a cheerful, blood-spattered font over the main entrance. Apparently it made the national news and increased sales by 4 percent.

  Just like a huge corporation, Kate thought. Call them whatever, as long as it boosted sales.

  After going through the irritating and invasive security, Kate finally made it onto the elevator. When the doors opened on the fortieth floor, she braced herself and stepped out.

  It was like she’d gotten lost in a Hugo Boss ad. Everything—the employees, the furniture, the décor—was swathed in the Fiendish signature color scheme of black, white, and red. Everything also looked sophisticated, as sleek as the building itself.

  Kate turned, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror-polished elevator doors. Her khaki skirt was wrinkled from the train ride; her sage green sweater was probably too casual. Her square glasses were already starting to slip down her nose.

  Well, at least my hair’s red, she thought with an amused shrug. She wondered if there were dress code police.

  “Kate? Kate O’Hara?”

  Kate turned, and her eyes widened as she got a good look at the woman calling her name. Whoever she was, she was moving fast on blood-red “fuck-me” stilettos, as Kate’s best friend Prue would say. The shoes perfectly matched the red miniskirt suit, cut both a bit high on the thigh and low in the chest, and the can’t-miss-it red Louis Vuitton purse. Her fourteen-carat blond hair was lacquered with enough hair spray to withstand a tornado. She had the appearance of a twenty-year-old, until you looked at her eyes, which had that bright, shrewd, sort of bitchy glint to them.

  “Hi, I’m Maggie Stillson, but you can call me Ms. Maggie.” Ms. Maggie’s smile was pageant big as she held out a hand. Kate shook it carefully, trying not to get stabbed by the long red acrylic nails. “Come on then, follow me. Tons to do. I have been crazy busy today, and I thought you’d be here earlier, so I’m running a bit behind!”

  Kate had never heard anyone drawl quickly before. “I’m sorry. I thought my assignment started at nine.”

  “Everybody at Fiendish arrives fifteen minutes early. Mr. Kestrel believes in promptness.”

  Ms. Maggie said “Mr. Kestrel” the same way Kate’s grandmother said “The Pope.”

  Kate was a little breathless by the time they finally stopped wandering through a labyrinth of hallways and corridors and got to their destination. Despite the high, jet-black fabric walls and glossy onyx computers, Kate knew a cube farm when she saw one. This eight-block setup was no exception.

  At least the other people populating the cubes looked more like normal humans instead of escapees from Prada. Curious heads popped out from the side or top of various cubicle walls, staring at her like wary meerkats.

  “Everyone? This is Kate, the newest addition to our happy little team,” Maggie announced.

  No one responded, instead disappearing quickly back into their boxes.

  Maggie waited for a beat, then sighed, turning back to Kate. “Well, I’ve gotta dash. Crazy busy, y’know!”

  “Wait,” Kate said as Maggie turned to quick-strut away. “Uh, what do you need me to do?”

  “Excuse me?” Maggie tilted her head.

  “They weren’t that specific at the temp agency,” Kate said. “I’m not sure what project I should be working on.”

  Maggie stared at her, irritation more in her eyes than in her perfectly smooth face. Kate was wondering absently about the possibility of Botox when Maggie finally spoke. “I’m in the middle of about seven different projects. I don’t have time to handhold every temp, and frankly, I was expecting you to be a little more proactive.” She shot Kate a smile of derision. “You’re a big girl, and I’m sure you’ll pick up how we work around here. Steffi? You can get Kate up to speed, right?”

  “Of course, Ms. Maggie,” a middle-aged brunette woman said.

  “Great. That’s settled. If you need anything, my office is at the end of the hall… the big one at the far end, about three lefts and a right? Well, never mind. ’Byee!”

  “Um, okay,” Kate said, watching as the woman bolted away, her heels clicking like machine-gun fire.

  “Kate, is it?” The woman Ma
ggie had spoken to stepped out from her cubicle, wearing a navy blue suit and a white blouse with a coffee stain by the third button. “Hi, I’m Steffi. I’ve been here for four weeks, so I’ve got seniority. Welcome to Hell.”

  “Is she always like that?” Kate nodded toward Maggie’s retreating figure.

  “Ms. Maggie?” Steffi snorted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “No. Usually she’s worse.”

  “Oh?” Kate murmured.

  Wonderful. Because she was afraid that working for Fiendish wouldn’t. Suck. Enough.

  Steffi shrugged. “Anyway, this is your cube: your password is ‘password’ and your login is ‘temp.’ There’s company e-mail already on it; they do check your Internet viewing logs—but don’t worry, they don’t care about that unless they think you’ll go postal.”

  “So, yes on porn, no on guns?” Kate quipped, then winced.

  Ah, crap. I said that out loud.

  It had been a while since she’d been in a corporate environment. She’d surprised everyone by managing to last for three years at her old position with her uncle’s publishing company, but that job could be hardly be called “corporate.” Unlike at her uncle’s, Fiendish Enterprises didn’t seem like a hippie-haven of off-color jokes, zodiac birthday parties, and “clothing optional” days.

  If she wanted to keep this job, even for just a few weeks, she was going to need to install a filter between her brain and her mouth pretty damned quick.

  Fortunately, Steffi barked out a laugh. “You’ll do fine, kiddo. Keep that sense of humor.”

  “Wait a sec,” Kate said, frowning as Steffi started to retreat to her own cubicle. “Maggie said you were going to tell me what I’ll be working on.”

  “Executive staff has their own set of secretaries and temps who take care of the travel arrangements and meeting schedules and things. We only work for Maggie on her ‘special projects.’ For now, just do what we do.”

  “Which is… what, exactly?”

  “Look busy,” Steffi answered.

  Kate blinked, counting the cubicles. “And she needs a staff of eight to do that?”

  Steffi sighed. “Here’s the thing. Maggie’s got some relationship with the big boss—nobody’s sure what it is.”

  “Ah.”

  Kate thought of Maggie’s skin-tight red suit, the “this-body-for-rent” hooker strut. Yeah, she could imagine what the “relationship” was—and probably what Maggie’s unofficial job description covered.

  “Maggie is supposed to be Mr. Kestrel’s personal assistant, or secretary, or whatever,” Steffi continued, her voice conspiratorially quiet. “But she only takes on jobs that are either easy and make her look good or are hard and convoluted and nobody expects results. If we do a good job, she takes the credit. When the shit hits the fan, she just blames one of us. And sometimes, when she’s bored, she fires someone.”

  “Wow,” Kate murmured. “Sounds…”

  “Crazy busy, without the busy bit,” Steffi agreed. “On the other hand, I once got paid for eight hours of Farmville. I kid you not.” With that, Steffi wandered back to her cube, disappearing behind the black partition.

  “Oh, joy.” Kate had known she would hate working here. She knew it.

  She glanced up and down the hallway. It sounded like one of the temps was playing World of Warcraft; another was having an animated conversation with a wedding planner about centerpieces. Glancing around a corner, she saw yet another one scrolling through Pinterest. Kate ducked into her cubicle, picked up her cell phone, and hit speed dial.

  “Jung at Heart,” a serene voice answered. “Come for the enlightenment, stay for the espresso.”

  “Prue,” Kate said quietly. “I am in hell.”

  Prue started laughing. “They can’t all be cute little publishing companies like Think Up, girl. Besides, you’re just temping, right?”

  “It’s not funny. This is bad.” Kate grimaced, then dropped her voice to an almost inaudible hiss. “The woman who hired me is a beauty queen with a mean streak. To top it off, it’s frickin’ Fiendish. If Enron and Walmart got drunk in Vegas and had an evil corporate love child, Fiendish would be their rebellious teenage son.”

  “When did you start?”

  Kate glanced at her cell phone clock. “Um… about five minutes ago.”

  “Oh, honey,” Prue said, and while there was sympathy, there was also a hint of impatience. “You know what my grandma always says?”

  “Zen Japanese grandma, or Louisiana grandma?”

  “Nan Temper,” Prue clarified. “She says if you don’t try, you can’t bitch.”

  “I like your Zen grandma better. Nan scares the hell out of me.”

  “And that’s just the stuff you know about her,” Prue said. “It sucks that your uncle’s company went under. It really sucks that you’re working in Hell. But you’ve just got to stay positive.”

  “I’m in a scapegoat holding pen, waiting for a screwup to take credit for,” Kate pointed out. “Or just until the boss lady decides to play peasant skeet and fire one of us randomly. Where’s the bright side on that one?”

  “So why’d you take the job, anyway?”

  Kate groaned, leaning back against her Aeron chair. “In this economy? This is the first temp job the agency could get me in the past month. If I don’t get some cash in soon, my cell phone’s going to get shut off.” She bit her lip. “And… well, you know I had to move home.”

  “Ah, shit.” Prue’s voice lost all impatience. “Right. Sorry, chica.”

  “Yeah, so’m I,” Kate said. “It’s going to take a little while to get my reserves back up and move out.” And God, did she need to move out. “You’re right, Prue; I need to stay positive. I mean, I can just suck it up and stick it out here for a month or two. I’ve worked for lawyers. This can’t be worse than that, right?”

  Prue snickered. “Atta girl.”

  “The trick’ll just be making sure I last the six to eight weeks, that’s all.”

  “Well, who knows? Maybe you’ll prove yourself and get promoted,” Prue teased, tongue in cheek. “You’ll make gobs of money, buy your own place. Hire an illegal immigrant to dog-sit your teacup poodle when you go on your yacht around San Francisco.”

  “And somehow still manage to topple the warped bureaucracy of the capitalist pig-dogs from within,” Kate agreed as Prue hooted. “Gotta run, my Berkeley is showing. Hang out tonight?”

  “After my late Tarot client,” Prue agreed. “Give me a call.”

  Kate hung up, then squared her shoulders and stood. She just had to show she was valuable, that’s all. Then she could rack up the paychecks for a few weeks and get the hell out of Hell.

  The question was, how to get through to the scatter-brained “Ms. Maggie” that Kate was worth keeping on?

  Obviously the woman was an opportunist. The key to staying on the job, then, was to give Maggie what she wanted—something to impress Mr. Thomas Kestrel, big chief mucky-muck. Kate could offer to do something that Maggie could then take credit for. Kate grimaced. Her uncle Felix was sort of the same way, until, despite her best efforts, he’d finally driven the company into the ground. So she had some experience with that dynamic.

  Ms. Maggie wanted proactive? All right. I’ll show you proactive.

  After about twenty minutes of wrong turns and several asked directions, Kate finally managed to find Maggie’s office. She knocked, quietly at first, then with a bit more force.

  “What?” Maggie snapped.

  “Um, Maggie?” she said, opening the door. “I mean, Ms. Maggie?”

  Kate paused as she took in the office. It was big and, like everything else she’d seen here, it was luxurious—more like a lawyer’s office, with plenty of leather bound books on the shelves and an exotic flower arrangement on a low credenza. The desk itself, on the other hand, looked like the coffee table at a frat house, with papers and empty to-go containers everywhere. Maggie was apparently enjoying a sizeable breakfast burrito and a huge Frappuccino. She was
also staring intently at a cherry red iPhone—Kate suspected between the suit, the expensive-ass purse, and the phone, she must be using red as a signature color. At first, Kate thought Maggie might be texting or checking some news or something. Then, the telltale cry of an Angry Bird emerged.

  Kate waited until Maggie lost the level, muttering to herself, before clearing her throat.

  “What… oh, Kate, right?” Maggie asked, looking irritated as she shut off her phone. “I was just checking messages. Something wrong? Because I’m pretty sure I said come find me only if there’s an emergency.”

  Actually, you didn’t.

  But that didn’t matter. She was thinking positive! Proving she was valuable! Being proactive!

  Not gagging while I do all that!

  “Um, I don’t know if the temp agency sent over my resume,” Kate said.

  “Of course they did.” Maggie said, shutting the power down on her computer screen. “You worked at some little bookstore or something, right?”

  “Publishing company,” Kate corrected. “It was small, though, so I wore a lot of hats. I did some production, some ad trafficking, lots of computer work. I, ah, also did plenty of administrative stuff—special projects, file organization, work-flow systems.”

  Maggie’s look said, And I care, why?

  “I thought… if you had any projects that you wanted extra help with,” Kate said slowly, “difficult projects, or anything you wanted to finish up, I could pitch in.”

  Instead of leaping on the opportunity, Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Ambitious, aren’t you?”

  “Not really,” Kate said, laughing. She’d been called many things, but ambitious had never made the cut. “Believe me, I’m not bucking to move up the ladder. I just—”

  “No, I see.” Maggie studied her for a moment longer. “What, exactly, do you think you can do well, Kate?”

  Crap. Mistake. Maybe Maggie wasn’t smart enough to realize that Kate was trying to help her out. Or she was too paranoid to want someone competent around her. Or both.