by Megan Goldin
I went home at night in tears. They were running me ragged with impossible deadlines and tearing me apart with criticism. I had stabbing pains in my stomach and struggled to sleep at night. I started taking sleeping tablets but they made me woozy the next day at work, which just fed into the vicious cycle.
They continued to chip away at my confidence in the weeks that followed until even I doubted the quality of my work. Everything that I did was wrong, or substandard. Often both. For the first time since I was a kid, I bit my nails so badly that I had to keep them short. I had no appetite. I lost weight and became so thin that my clothes hung on me shapelessly.
The tasks set for me became even more unrealistic. I was asked on a Friday afternoon to produce an eighty-page report by first thing Monday morning, something that I’d usually have at least a week to complete. I worked the entire weekend, barley sleeping, and met the deadline anyway.
‘Is this your report?’ Vincent said, tossing a document across the desk, the day after I’d submitted it.
I picked up the document and leafed through it. The first pages were correct. When I reached the statistical tables, however, the numbers were all wrong. The conclusion section contained glaring spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. It looked like the work of a college freshman, and a sloppy one at that.
‘It’s my report,’ I said. ‘But …’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Some of the things here were changed,’ I said. ‘Like here.’ I turned the report around so he could see me point to a full-page chart. ‘It’s not the same as the one that I submitted. The numbers are wrong. And if you look here,’ I said, pointing out another page. ‘There are things here that —’
‘Do you have any self-respect?’
‘About what?’
‘You submit sloppy work – riddled with mistakes – and then you try to tell me that it’s not yours. Take responsibility for your mistakes, Sara. It’s the minimum I would expect.’
‘These aren’t my mistakes, Vincent. Someone’s tampered with this document.’
‘Really? Someone tampered with it.’ Vincent glared at me. ‘How’s that possible?’ I couldn’t meet his eyes. I felt ridiculous saying it. Who would do such a thing? I didn’t know the answer, but I was certain this was not the work that I’d submitted.
‘Go back to your desk, Sara, and bring me your laptop,’ Vincent instructed me. ‘I want to see the original report that you submitted, as it appears on your computer.’
‘Of course.’ I was back in his office within two minutes, my laptop open. I scrolled through my email outbox and victoriously opened the attachment of the report that I’d sent the day before.
When the attachment was open, I quickly looked through the documents so I could point out to Vincent that my original was flawless. I’d reread it and checked the numbers until I was certain there were no mistakes. But now, as I scrolled through my version, I noticed that it had the same errors as the document that Vincent had shown me.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, audibly on the verge of tears. I pulled over my laptop and frantically checked my email again, as well as the documents saved on my computer.
‘Well, I understand,’ said Vincent. ‘You submitted substandard work and you lied when you were caught. It’s fortunate that Sam looked over it before submitting it to the client, otherwise we would have had an embarrassing fiasco on our hands.’
‘But I did check it,’ I said. ‘It was perfect when I submitted it.’
‘There’s nothing perfect about it,’ said Vincent, pointing at the open document on my computer. ‘This is the standard we might expect from an intern. I am issuing you with an official warning. Sara, if you make any more mistakes you will be fired.’
‘Someone must have accessed the document on my laptop,’ I muttered.
‘I’d have more respect for you if you accepted responsibility for your mistakes,’ said Vincent, his voice laced with disgust. ‘Instead you insist on lying repeatedly.’
‘Is this because of what I told you about Lucy?’
He froze at my question. I could feel white-hot anger from across the desk. ‘You can go now, Sara.’ His voice was ice.
Kevin was due back at the end of the week. I wasn’t sure that he’d recognise me. He’d been gone for almost seven weeks and I’d lost at least eight pounds. I wasn’t going to the gym anymore and rarely ran. I was so anxious that my hands trembled. I was struggling to cope and felt perpetually exhausted. I was often late to work. I couldn’t seem to get up in the morning. My hair was unruly, my lipstick smudged. I barely recognised myself in the mirror.
‘Sara.’ The receptionist called my name as I walked into the office, an hour late. ‘Vincent wants to see you in the front meeting room.’
I smoothed down my skirt and buttoned up my jacket. I wished that I’d had time to wash my hair that morning and taken more care applying my makeup. I’d done a hasty, half-hearted job because I’d overslept again. My skirt was creased. I hadn’t had a chance to iron it. I looked a mess.
I opened the door to find Vincent sitting at a table along with the human resources director. A heavy-set man sat on a chair at the back of the room. His face was inscrutable. I remember thinking that he looked awfully uncomfortable in his suit.
‘You’re late,’ said Vincent.
‘I’m sorry. I had trouble getting a taxi,’ I lied. ‘What is it that you need, Vincent?’
‘Sara,’ said the HR director. ‘As you know from your repeated discussions with Vincent, there has been a steep deterioration in the quality of your work.’ She looked me over and added pointedly, ‘And presentation.’
I flushed at her pointed comments. A frisson of fear ran through me. I couldn’t manage a response or speak up to defend myself in any way. My voice was paralysed. I was in shock. It was clear where this was going.
‘Vincent has done everything he could to help you raise the standard of your work to an acceptable level. Unfortunately, despite all his warnings, the deterioration has continued to a point that is untenable.’
‘As a result,’ said Vincent, taking over, ‘Stanhope will be terminating you effective immediately. Nick over there,’ he indicated the muscular man in the corner, ‘will take you to your desk, where you will be allowed to take anything that is personal in nature, after which he will escort you off the premises. It’s unfortunate that it’s come to this, Sara, but we’ve given you every opportunity to rectify this situation and you’ve failed time and time again.’
A loud hum filled my ears as he spoke. My legs shook uncontrollably. I had to put my hands on my thighs to stop them from shaking.
‘What about my salary?’ I asked when I realised that he had stopped talking. ‘And references?’
The HR director handed me a document. ‘The firm will pay you two months’ severance pay and an additional sum of $20 000 if you sign this agreement. It contains a non-disclosure clause. You will agree with our assessment of everything that transpired, specifically that you are being terminated due to poor performance. You will also agree that you have no further claims on the company.’
‘What if I refuse to sign it?’
‘It’s up to you, Sara,’ said Vincent. ‘However, this offer will not be repeated. If you don’t sign it, we’ll give you whatever is owed by law. I believe that’s two weeks’ salary. And nothing else. It’s a take it or leave it offer. You have two minutes to read over it and sign or we’ll take it off the table.’ Vincent looked at his watch.
‘What about references?’ I asked. ‘It’s my first job out of college. I’m going to need a reference.’
Vincent sighed. ‘I can’t in good conscience give a reference for an employee who we fired because of sloppy work and a poor work ethic.’
‘I won’t be able to get a job anywhere without one,’ I said in a panic.
‘Sign the form, Sara, and you’ll have enough money to tide you over until you get a new job. Your two minutes has started.’
I signed the document. I had no choice. When I was done, the HR director gave me a copy of the document I’d signed and an envelope with a cheque they’d already prepared.
‘Nick will show you out,’ she said, and then she and Vincent left without looking back.
I’d seen employees being fired before. I’d never imagined being one of them. My face was flushed as I followed Nick down the corridor to our desks.
Nick picked up a box that had been left in my cubicle, seemingly in advance preparation for my departure. The firm was nothing if not thorough. He placed it on my desk with a hollow thud that made me shudder.
‘You can put your personal items in the box. I need to check each item before you leave,’ he said loudly. People’s heads turned in my direction. I cringed. Whether by accident or design, Jules, Sam and Sylvie were somewhere else in the office. I don’t think I could have withstood the humiliation of going through it while they watched.
I removed a pair of spare shoes from my bottom drawer and a silk scarf, shawl and jacket from the small cabinet next to my desk. Nick tossed them all into the box except for the jacket. He put it flat on my desk and patted down each pocket before throwing it into the box. I felt like a criminal.
I handed him a Moleskine notebook with gold-trimmed pages and the firm’s logo embossed on the front. It had been in the bag of gifts that we’d been given that first day of our induction.
Nick thumbed through the pages of the notebook to make sure that there was nothing related to the firm. I put a makeup bag in the box. Nick unzipped it and spilled the contents out onto my desk. He checked every item in the bag, including a spare tampon, before tossing them back into the box. I realised that he was making sure there weren’t any thumb drives with proprietary information in my belongings. Finally, I put framed photographs of Kevin and my parents in the box.
‘I’m done,’ I said softly.
‘No, you’re not,’ he corrected me. ‘I need your security pass, your laptop and your work phone.’
‘Of course,’ my voice quivered. ‘Can I back up my laptop and my phone first? It’ll only take a few minutes. I have photos and personal contact numbers on there.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not allowed to access any of the firm’s electronic devices.’
‘Some of the photos are of my father, before he died,’ I said. My voice was thick. Hot tears streamed down my face. I heard myself sniff loudly. I’d really wanted to hold it together, but realising I might lose those photos made me fall apart. ‘I don’t have them anywhere else. Please,’ I begged. ‘Let me at least email myself the photos of my dad.’
‘That’s not possible.’ His tone became frighteningly aggressive. More heads turned. I flushed bright red. ‘You’re not allowed to touch any electronics. The best I can do is ask HR if they can get IT to send you your photos. No promises, though.’
I nodded, incapable of speech.
‘Good. Now take the box and walk to reception with me,’ he said.
I picked up the box and walked to reception like a prisoner being escorted into her cell by a warden. I lowered my head so that nobody would see the humiliation on my face. Everyone was unashamedly watching me as I followed Nick down the corridor. I heard a flurry of muffled whispers behind me from those who I’d already passed.
When I reached the reception area, the receptionist stopped talking on the phone mid-sentence as I walked by.
When the elevator arrived, we stepped inside. Everyone knew what it meant for someone to be standing there in tears holding a cardboard box, a burly security guard alongside. Even if he was wearing a suit. There was a hushed silence as the elevator descended. I felt eyes burning into my back.
When we reached the lobby, Nick walked behind me, herding me all the way to the revolving glass doors that led to the street. Even then he wouldn’t let me go until I was standing on the kerb.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he said when we were outside. He clapped his hands together once as if to signal to me that it was all over. ‘Now don’t try to step foot in the building,’ he drawled. ‘If you do then we’ll take out a restraining order. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. There’s a taxi heading this way. I suggest you take it.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d prefer to walk.’
Sam stumbled backwards, away from the screen. He was still feeling the effects of the Oxycontin-induced sleep that he was woken from when the elevator lights turned on. He didn’t know exactly what was going on but, after reading the words on the screen, he knew they were snared in a trap that had been baited and sprung with perfect precision.
‘I knew it would come back to bite us,’ Sam’s voice rose into a frenzy.
‘What would come back to bite us?’ Vincent turned Sam around roughly, ignoring his injured arm. He wanted answers. ‘Why is it a declaration of war?’
‘Because of Lucy,’ said Sam, as if that should have been obvious. ‘This was one of Lucy Marshall’s favourite quotes. She was obsessed with Sun Tzu.’
Vincent was annoyed with himself for that lapse in his memory. His head was pounding, but he still should have known right away.
‘This isn’t an escape room, Vincent. We’ve been lured here as punishment for what happened to Lucy.’
Sam lowered himself to the ground and let his head fall. Ever since Lucy died, he’d been taking blow and quaaludes and a medicine cabinet worth of other pills to dull his memory. They blocked out the memories, but not the guilt.
Jules and Sylvie both gave a subtle shake of their head to warn Sam to shut his mouth. But he was too weak and tired to play their games. This was his chance to right a wrong. To do what his father would have done in the same situation.
Sam looked up at them with a stony face and determined eyes. It was time to tell the truth. To break the pledge they’d made as they walked together to the wake for Lucy at the Irish bar after the firm’s memorial service for Lucy.
It was Eric’s idea. He’d recognised that Jules was the weakest link. He’d taken him aside and told him that he’d seen Lucy’s salary – his uncle was on the board and through him Eric had access to everything.
‘Can you believe that Lucy earns twice as much as you?’ Eric showed Jules a screenshot of Lucy’s payslip on his phone to prove it. As he’d expected, Jules was incensed.
Jules would have done anything to get even with Lucy after that. Well, almost anything.
‘Who does Vincent think he is? Paying that loser more than you. I can’t understand what he sees in that weirdo,’ Eric said, tapping into Jules’s darkest emotions. ‘It’s an embarrassment, having someone as ugly as her on our payroll. Stanhope is an investment bank, not a shelter for schizos.’
He leaned forward and whispered his proposition into Jules’s ear. Eric did the same thing to Sylvie, offering different inducements. Corrupting those around him was Eric’s greatest skill. He’d been doing it since he was in high school, buying essays and book reports from top students so that he didn’t have to do the work himself.
‘You both thought that Lucy was collateral damage!’ Sam’s voice rose hysterically, bouncing off the elevator walls, as he looked at Sylvie and Jules. ‘That she was dispensable. That we got away with it. But we haven’t. That’s why we’re here. I always knew we would pay a terrible price for what happened.’
Sylvie and Jules stared daggers at him. The day they walked to Lucy’s wake, they all agreed never to divulge a word to Vincent. They couldn’t let him have the slightest inkling of what happened, they had too much to lose. Vincent would come after them mercilessly if he knew the truth.
They’d kept that pledge for years. They’d erased it from their memories, just as they erased Lucy. She was an irrelevant blip. They’d forgotten all about her until Sam connected the dots for them. Lucy kept an out-of-date calendar with Sun Tzu quotes by her desk. That’s where they’d seen that quote before.
‘What does Lucy Marshall have to do with u
s being here?’ Vincent’s eyes searched their faces for answers.
‘Everything,’ answered Sam. ‘Nothing,’ said Sylvie, at the same time.
‘Sam’s lost it,’ said Jules, throwing up his hands in frustration. ‘It’s the drugs. Or the fever. He’s hallucinating, he’s —’
‘I want to hear what Sam has to say.’ Vincent interrupted him. ‘Nobody has answered my question. What does our being here have to do with Lucy? What happened?’ Vincent’s question was greeted with awkward silence.
‘She died,’ said Jules. Like the smart-ass he was, thought Vincent. Jules’s wise-guy remarks were a miscalculation. It gave Vincent the excuse he needed to act. He struck like a cobra. He pulled Jules towards him by his tie and then shoved him back until he hit the glass wall behind him, crumpling to the ground.
‘What did you do to Lucy?’
‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said Jules in the whiny voice of a child. ‘Honestly, Vincent. It was all Eric Miles. He thought he owned Stanhope.’
‘Eric was an ass,’ said Vincent. ‘Tell me something I don’t know. What I don’t understand is what Eric being a prick had to do with Lucy’s death.’
Jules and Sylvie quickly glanced at each other. Vincent saw it. He put his hands in his pockets to restrain himself. It was obvious they’d been hiding this secret for years.
‘Eric hated Lucy,’ said Sam. ‘She offended him because she had the temerity to show everyone what a dumb fuck he really was.’
The others could afford to be evasive, but Sam knew he was gravely injured. He had an overwhelming urge to give the confession to Vincent he should have made years earlier. He broke the oath they’d all agreed to keep.
‘I attended a leadership meeting on your behalf while you were away. I asked Lucy to join me, in case they drilled us on financials. Eric Miles – remember he was working on that oil and gas deal with us? – he addressed the leadership team first. When they asked specific questions, he gave them fake revenue projections. He didn’t have the answers so he made up numbers on the spot. Out of thin air.’
