Margaret jumped and her eyes darted from mine to the custard creams and back again.
‘Morning, Chloe,’ she croaked.
‘Margaret, that will be all, thank you. I will continue our discussion after I have had a chance to talk to Miss Baker.’
Margaret’s comfortable Ecco shoes appeared to be nailed to the floor.
‘Margaret,’ said Russell firmly, ‘you are dismissed.’
Margaret scurried away with the plate of crumbling biscuits still in her crêpey hand, much to James’ obvious dismay.
‘You are dismissed?’ I repeated, ‘Why are you dismissing my secretary, Russell? I dismiss her when I choose to and, as a matter of fact, I never “dismiss” her like that. We’re not in the Army.’
Russell’s ruddy face coloured further and James suppressed a giggle.
‘If we were in the Army God knows we wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Russell huffed.
If you were in the Army, preferably in Basra, God knows we’d all be a lot happier, I thought to myself.
Russell was a pompous ex-public schoolboy of unquantifiable age. After failing miserably at University, he had chosen a leg up from daddy (Mr Blunt who owned the company) to a position where he could boss people around, over a leg up from grandfather into an Army officer position where he could also boss people around. Both despite the fact he lacked the brains, skills and the personality to warrant such authority.
‘What mess are we in exactly?’ I said, resting my bum cheek on the edge of the desk while Russell and James remained standing.
‘My team are maintaining their core hours on the phone. Charge rates have not fallen and margins are still up. I have fulfilled the ITTs and the spec list looks promising. All in all, despite the economic climate, we are closing business and closing it well.’
Russell shifted his stiff, shiny brogues and I sensed a nervousness about him, which was unusual for the egotistical little prick.
‘And we at Blunts appreciate all you have done, Chloe, especially in these difficult times…’
‘Why do I sense a rather enormous “but” coming?’ I interrupted.
James looked like he wanted to jump into the coffee pot and close the lid, his eyes doing the same manic dart Margaret’s had just minutes before. Either they had been experimenting with recreational drugs or they were all privy to the information I feared Russell was about to impart.
‘Chloe, this is very difficult for me to say but…’
I pressed my lips together and breathed through my nose to stop any sounds of desperation escaping from my throat while Russell dived into his pre-prepared script.
‘Recession… got to let people go… very difficult decision… thank you for your loyalty… redundancy… non-competition clause…’
My vocal chords tightened around my windpipe and I felt as if I might faint.
‘Cutting from the top… restructuring… austerity measures… blah, blah… hope you understand… I’m an overpaid, under-qualified, talentless little shit who is only keeping his job because daddy says so…’
I may have ad-libbed the last part.
My tongue was becoming numb, pressed between my teeth as I held back the desire to scream. I crossed my arms protectively around my body to a) stop my hands shaking and b) stop said hands reaching out and strangling Russell until he turned as blue as the company tie.
When Russell finally stopped barking at me like an idiotic dog, I glanced at James, who visually trembled in the corner as if waiting for a tsunami to hit.
‘So you are here to tell me that despite my continued success as the number one recruitment manager in the company, I am being let go because of the “recession”?’
I made inverted commas with my fingers. Russell cleared his throat.
‘Er yes, the recession. It’s been on the news for a few years now.’
‘I know what the bloody recession is, Russell, I’m not a moron.’
In an attempt not to laugh, James inhaled too quick and sounded as if he was snorting his tongue through his nose. Russell’s brogues shifted backwards and forwards on the carpet so fast his hair began to stand on end.
‘These are difficult times, Chloe.’
‘Indeed they are, Russell. Only I had been operating under the bizarre assumption that if I generated more clients and more profits than the other managers, which I might add, I have by over twenty percent, then my office would ride through the “recession”’ – I wagged my fingers again– ‘with our jobs intact. Do correct me if I’m wrong.’
Russell fiddled with his tie.
‘Besides many analysts say we’re heading towards recovery. House prices are starting to rise, mortgage offers are on the up, business confidence is increasing…’
‘Others predict we’re about to enter a triple dip.’
‘This is recruitment, not Alton bloody Towers, Russell.’
He jarred at my raised voice. I could feel my blood boiling between my ears.
‘We in Senior Management understand your disappointment, Chloe but the decision has been made. The Government is leading the way with austerity measures and we must follow suit. You will be offered a full redundancy package, without bonus I’m afraid, with immediate effect because we wouldn’t want you taking all our clients. Of course you cannot work for the competition for six months but that might allow you time to take a holiday. Go on a cruise, go skiing, visit Las Vegas…’
I looked around the room.
‘Sorry, did I take a wrong turn and stumble into Thomas Cook? I don’t want a holiday, Russell. I haven’t had a holiday for years. I don’t like them. I like work.’
James’ face flickered and I think he mouthed ‘saddo’ but I wasn’t even going to go there.
‘You’ll find another position, I have no doubt,’ Russell bustled on, ‘and once again we do thank you for your commitment to the post.’
‘We? Spare me the pre-planned corporate drivel, Russell. Did you write the speech yourself or did Daddy prepare it for you?’
Russell’s cheeks flushed pillar box red and he glanced at James for support. James offered none.
‘Now there’s no need to get personal, Miss Baker.’
‘Personal? That wasn’t even close, Russell. If you want personal, then I’ll give you personal. You’re a weasley little man who would not be in this job if it weren’t for your genes. You have less business acumen than all the people laughed out of Dragon’s Den put together. I am better than you and you know it. I have given my entire working life to this company. I’m loyal, I’m dedicated and I’m bloody good at my job. I don’t have a personal life and I haven’t had sex since… well since whenever…’
Was it tragic that I couldn’t actually remember?
‘…I am a corporate robot, Russell. I even swear at people who have just committed suicide in front of my train for making me late for fuck’s sake!’
Russell’s face swelled puce like an over-ripe plum. James clutched the wall.
‘This company owes me more than this, Russell. A recession is an excuse to clear out dead wood and I am anything but that. I am the best fucking manager there is.’
I was shouting now. James looked like he might cry. Russell’s mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.
‘For God’s sake, Russell, say something. Are you incapable of having an intelligent discussion if the answers aren’t written down for you?’
‘N…no…’
‘Then have a bloody argument will you? At least give me a decent chance to vent. Give me one good reason why I should be fired.’
‘Well, because…’
‘One good reason, Russell.’
‘It’s just… the recession… and mmph…’
‘Mmph. Recession and mmph? The recession is a buzzword that is being blamed for everything from the demise of pick ‘n’ mix shops to war in the Middle East. As far as I can see, recession is an excuse for bastards like you to do what you bloody well like because you knew I was gunning for your job and you were sc
ared.’
Russell’s eyes flickered when I leaned close enough to prod him in the chest.
‘It wasn’t my decision,’ he croaked. ‘They said you’re too expensive. Too good and too expensive. We can’t afford you.’
I watched his overfed, spoilt brat cheeks shake and for a moment I actually felt sorry for Russell Blunt. The men who were really responsible for this decision had sent the messenger because they knew I would shoot him. They also knew he would not be up to debating the issue with me and that a one-sided argument becomes something of a frustratingly damp squib. I could shout and scream and fight my corner until I won a world title belt, which was great for defining the waist but of little consequence in the corporate market. I would only be stripping the last bit of dignity I had left. I was not going to beg Russell Blunt for my job; I was worth more than that. He didn’t have the power to reverse the decision. Just as I knew how far to push a client in negotiation, I knew I had reached the end of the line. It was game over.
I wanted to wail - ‘This isn’t fair! Please don’t fire me. I don’t have anywhere else to go!’ Instead, I pressed my lips together and took a breath. Then another breath.
When I felt composed enough to speak, I looked from Russell to James and back again.
‘Too good and too expensive, you say. Well I hope the two of you are bad enough and cheap enough to ride the recession. I suspect you are. And you can tell Mr. Blunt Senior that he can stick his bloody austerity up his posterity.’
I heard James exhale like a deflating balloon as I span on my heel and marched through the double doors of the boardroom for the final time. I had not realised they had been ajar since Margaret had run for cover. A sea of open-mouthed faces bobbed in front of me, many still bearing the remnants of cream cakes. My staff had been listening to the entire exchange. I held my head high to help my tears fight gravity until I was out of sight.
Margaret was the only one brave enough to bar my path.
‘This is not right,’ she sniffed, ‘they can’t do this.’
I forced a smile as a wave of agreement coursed around the room.
‘We’ll start a petition,’ said Margaret.
‘Aye,’ my team chorused.
‘We’ll get every member of staff and client and temp and cleaner to sign it.’
‘Aye!’ they cried.
‘And Cheryl Cole, Ant and Dec and little Joe what’s-his-face off of the X-Factor!’
‘Yeah,’ they mumbled, losing track of Margaret’s direction.
‘And we’ll march it up to Head Office. Or rather down on the train to Head Office, changing at Darlington and off-peak because those peak fares are a disgrace…’
‘Mmm.’
She was not one for rousing speeches.
‘And we’ll tell them, we’ll bloody well tell them…’
I placed my hand on Margaret’s shaking shoulder and she drew breath as if it were her last.
‘Thank you, Margaret, but it’s too late.’
My secretary placed her freckled hands together as if in prayer.
‘It’s the good old recession,’ I said, trying to smile.
‘Recession,’ Nigel growled. ‘When is it ever not the recession? It’s just an excuse to let the bigwigs treat the little folk like shite.’
An uncomfortable silence descended on the office. As I said, it was an open plan, strip-lighted, non-descript space painted in company colours. It was neither plush nor cosy but, all the same, I knew I would miss it dreadfully.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could send my stuff on to me at home, Margaret,’ I said, knowing if I stayed to clear my desk I would end up crying over a hole punch.
‘Of course,’ Margaret said with tremors in her voice, ‘anything you need.’
I reached across to Margaret’s desk and lifted the last remaining morsel of soggy cake from the papier mâché remnants of the bag.
‘Right now I need cake,’ I said, forcing a laugh, ‘happy birthday to me.’
I raised the sad sponge in salute to my team and shoved it in my mouth to keep the tears at bay.
They said nothing as I lifted my jacket and bag and turned to leave my secure, routine, grown-up life to enter the world the bankers had built. Like a child leaving her friends behind to move to a new school, I felt completely and utterly lost. It was a feeling I thought I had left in my past.
CHAPTER TWO
120g plain flour
The following morning, my alarm woke me at seven fifteen and again at seven thirty. In a trance, I showered, moisturised, blow-dried my blond (I’d like to say natural but I’d be lying… I often did) chin-length hair and applied the same sensible day makeup I always wore to work. When I reached out for my freshly ironed clothes, I was surprised to find the coat hanger empty but, in the daze of my routine, I opened the wardrobe and selected a pinstripe shirt in purple tones and a navy trouser suit that made me feel especially powerful. I finished with a squirt of Coco Mademoiselle that woke me enough to propel me towards the kitchen.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee spiralled out of my pre-programmed coffee machine, our twenty-first century version of a Teasmade. I poured a large mug of sugar-free black coffee, cradled the cup at the breakfast bar and took a sip. To be honest it tasted like melted tarmac compared to a frothy Starbucks cappuccino with sugar, syrup and a dusting of chocolate, but in the name of saving liquid calories to trade for cake later in the day, it was worth it. I poured the rest into a thermal cup for my journey. Not that I was a caffeine addict but November mornings in Newcastle were not for the fainthearted. Slipping my feet into my shoes, I absorbed the news headlines almost by osmosis while staring numbly at the television. At five past eight, as always, I left the house.
It was a choreographed operation that could have won me a place on Strictly Come Dancing. It was precise, robotic, perfectly timed. I could do it in my sleep. Truth by told, I was usually in a dimension between asleep and awake until the winter air hit my face. It came so naturally to me, that it was only when I was standing on the wind-whipped Metro platform clutching my coffee that my mind finally clicked into gear. The thought process went something like: Metro platform, God it’s freezing, hope this train’s not late, not like yesterday’s train… yesterday… suicide on the line… selfish bastard… did I honestly think that? … what’s wrong with me? … poor man… poor soul… maybe he lost his job… lost everything… his job… Russell… my job… fuuu….!!
The coffee cup fell from my hands and burst open at my feet almost in slow motion.
‘Fired!’ I shrieked.
‘Jesus, will you stop doing that?’ cursed the same man in the jaunty Trilby hat standing beside me.
I clutched the arm of his coat with one hand and my chest with the other. My heart clattered like the approaching Metro train against my ribs.
‘I lost my job,’ I wheezed as the man tried to extricate himself from my grasp, ‘I don’t have anywhere to go. How could I forget that? Why am I here? What am I doing? I must be going mad.’
‘I think you’ve already gone,’ said the man, wide-eyed as he wrenched himself free from the sobbing misery of a woman he had inadvisably stood beside two days in a row. Without glancing back, he threw himself onto the train.
The other passengers followed, their chorus of sympathetic clucking and bewildered tutting resounding in my ears.
‘I blame the recession,’ said one as I sank to my knees.
‘Hope she’s one of them bankers,’ said another before the doors hissed shut.
As the train slid away taking its passengers off to their purposeful jobs, I felt as if I had been excluded from a private club. My tears mixed with the cold coffee staining the platform.
‘This is a passenger announcement, I’m sorry to announce all trains will be subject to lengthy delays due to a suicide on the line…’
The previous day’s sombre announcement came rushing back into my head, pricking and pricking at my conscience until it felt like a colander thr
ough which my guilt flooded. How could I have been so cold? What had I become? When life was chugging along merrily it had been so easy to dismiss the person whose life was in crisis, who may have been made redundant, perhaps faced homelessness, and who had taken what they felt was the only way out, as Naomi had ungracefully put it, splattering themselves all over the front of the 8.15 to Monument. A sadly permanent solution to what may well have been a temporary problem but which had felt insurmountable. Only yesterday it had been so easy to think – but that would never happen to me. Yet how many people had gone to work as usual in the morning to find their factory closed or an empty cardboard box waiting to be filled on their desk? How many of my neighbours were one month’s pay away from having to sell up? I had no idea because I was always too busy working or coming and going to converse with my neighbours about anything more profound than the weather. I had heard a startling statistic about house repossessions on the news but I hadn’t bothered to commit it to memory because I had thought it simply didn’t apply to me. Yet here I was, suddenly unemployed and single to boot. Yes I had been sensible enough to put by savings for a rainy day (largely because I had been working my arse off too much to spend what I was earning), but my life as I knew it had been derailed and I hadn’t even seen the sharp bend in the tracks ahead.
‘There are easier ways to wash the floor you know.’
A smooth-skinned hand appeared in front of my face. Suddenly noticing the intense pain in my knees, I shakily accepted the hand and let myself be pulled to my feet. I tried to focus through my tears but it was like trying to peer through a rain-soaked window. He had shiny hair as black as Guinness, swept across a trouble-free brow and resting on neat black eyebrows. Underneath were the most striking green eyes I had ever seen. They seemed to glow like plutonium hotspots. His features grew distinct through the mist. I watched him tilt his head against a shoulder broad enough to sit on.
‘I was going to ask if you were OK but I can clearly see that you’re not. Unless, of course, you make a habit of kneeling on the ground whilst waiting for the train. For all I know you might be a station cleaner, but no you’re far too well dressed for that. And attractive too I might add. Not that I’m saying all cleaners are mingers but you know, going by the stereotype. Perhaps you were praying for it to come early or for two trains to come at once. Wouldn’t that be nice? Rather than waiting in this wind tunnel just hoping you get to work with your extremities intact.’
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