by Lee Hayton
“Last night,” he said, taking my hands in his, “you mentioned that you might lose your role if you don’t work longer hours.”
I nodded tiredly and cast an anxious glance at the kitchen clock. The minutes until my bus were quickly counting down.
“I’ve thought of a solution to our problem. Since I haven’t got a job, I’m going to help you out with yours.”
While waiting patiently for the explanation, I stared into his eyes. Like mine, they were hazel, shot through with bright flashes of green and twinkling hues of molten brown. As his pause became too long, I shifted in my chair. Had I missed something?
“You can’t, dear,” I said hesitantly. “But thank you for the offer. Everything at work is stored on the computer. I don’t think the office would appreciate the two of us waltzing in there or me taking it home.”
I gave an amused smile, but it fell away as the tiredness building over the last few months swept over me. I yawned, my mouth opening so wide the top of my jaw clicked in and out of place.
“They won’t know I’m coming in, dear. Look at me.”
He stretched his arms out to either side, and I shook my head, puzzled. As he raised his eyebrows, expecting my understanding, I tried to oblige. I looked at my husband from top to toe. Full headdress, just like mine. Usually, it would be wrapped in the opposite direction as a sign of gender. This morning, apparently in a fit of solidarity, he’d fashioned it my way instead. Where his wisps of hair escaped the edges of the spiky cap, his soft, brown curls dotted with gray appeared strikingly similar. As we both wore our religious garments, the shirts and pants were identical. I glanced down at his black shoes, polished to a gorgeous shine as mine were. The unfurling buds of his idea brightened up my work-dulled mind.
“Don’t be silly,” I chided him gently. “You’re a man. They’ll see instantly that we’re different.”
He pulled me up into his arms, twirling me around so for a moment I felt as light as a bird. “I’m not a man,” he murmured. His eyes still twinkled with a hint of mischief, bit it couldn’t hide the deep sadness also resident there. “I’m not a man, I’m a hedgehog. No one will see any deeper than that.”
* * *
It was foolish. It was ridiculous. There was no way in the world that such a silly scheme could ever work. Nevertheless, I agreed to try it out.
While I protested that our ruse would immediately be seen through, a part of me hoped that we may be able to pull it off. I say hoped, but I also longed for the plan to fail. I’d worked at the office beside the same group of people for months. Surely, they must notice. To not do so would be a vicious insult. At the same time, I reluctantly conceded, insults were often the chosen form of communication I received.
On that first day, I splurged on a taxi in the end. The bus was long gone before we finished discussing the plan. Even with that extravagance, I still cut it close. My boss Frank gave me the old raised eyebrow trick, flagrantly checking his watch. I hung my head as though ashamed and prayed that soon he’d get his comeuppance.
As the other workers filed out that night, eager to arrive home to husbands, wives, children, or entertainment, I stayed put at my desk. Eyes down, absorbed in my work. Or to all appearances, that was what happened. In reality, I was making a list of chores that I thought my husband could easily find his way around.
We’d met in college. Attracted to each other, not because we were so much alike but because aside from surface similarities, underneath we were so different. My husband was nurturing where I was bold and indifferent. I was courageous, where he hung back for a second thought. We both studied banking and investment because finance was the only course options open to hedgehogs at the time. Perhaps the detached nature lent the classes an assurance we couldn’t integrate too far.
These days, universities have widened the offerings. Diversity is the new buzzword of higher education. When our daughter walks through those hallowed halls, half the curriculum will be ripe for the plucking. A generation after that, hopefully, every class will be on offer.
All that random future dreaming won’t help me out now. The point I should have made, rather than going down that badger hole, was that we had similar training. Our takes differed, but in finance, you can’t stray too far off course.
When my boss walked out that night, I called out to him to leave the light on. He was startled by the request. Frank apparently thought he was the last one out. After recovering from his shock, he complied and gave me a curt nod before walking out the door.
An hour later, I cautiously slipped downstairs. My heart beat in anxious rhythms in my chest. When I reached the exit unnoticed, I breathed a sigh of relief and tiptoed around the side of the building.
My husband lay in wait, his face strained with the same anxiety that I felt. With a quick hug and a kiss, I sent him in before we could both change our minds. On the last bus home, I laid my forehead against the rain-streaked glass. The cold, smooth surface was a balm against my overheated skin.
The next morning, when the alarm went, I slammed my hand down on it and snoozed a few minutes longer. The luxury of doing that, rather than the snatched sleep, made me feel like a princess. I rose out of bed in time to kiss my daughter goodbye, then tidied up the house. The way I liked it for a change, rearranging my husband’s unique patterns into how things should be.
As midday crept toward me, I caught a bus into town and waited at a coffee shop. I didn’t need any caffeine to hype me up. The wait for my husband to arrive to tell me how he had fared, gave me adrenaline enough.
We embraced in a hug until the boy behind the counter awkwardly cleared his throat. I was misty eyed as I pulled away. My husband seemed tired but not dejected. The hours of work had drained him but also revitalized a part of him too long unexercised.
“No one said a thing,” he exclaimed in answer to my initial question. “I don’t think anybody looked at me enough to notice that I wasn’t you.”
A confusing rush of pleasure mingled with a deep ache of regret. I pushed the twisted feelings down, choosing to experience only the sweet thrill of duplicity.
I sauntered into the office at midday, pretending to arrive back from my quick lunch break. As I took my seat, my breath caught and my muscles tensed, waiting for any snide comments.
There were none. No one noticed me, no one said anything. As my anxiety eased, I put my head down and got to work.
The communication osmosis of long marriage lent itself well to our ruse. My husband’s shorthand was as easy to read as a book about Dick and Jane. Again that night, as my snuffling boss walked to the door, I called out to stop him.
“Please leave the lights on. I’m still here.”
At the next switch, my love relayed that Frank had begun to arrive earlier and earlier. A show of dedication, trying to upstage me. Each time he reached the office my husband cried out, “I’m already here.”
I noticed the pattern myself after a while. In the beginning, I was so lost in thinking of the many ways our ruse could be uncovered, I didn’t pay attention. As my husband taught me what to look for, I observed the changes first hand.
Frank, my boss, was staying later and later. His eyes edged pink to begin with, shaded into a deep crimson-red. Against the ever-whitening shock of his sandy hair, he grew to resemble a crazed, albino rabbit.
No matter how late he stayed, physical needs eventually drove him out the door. Each evening when he left, I called out, “I’m still here.” Each morning when he arrived, my husband greeted him, “I’m already here.”
Soon, things around the office started to slip. Meetings were planned but not attended. Angry customers phoned at odd hours of the day. A side-benefit of offering twenty-four-hour coverage, we caught the majority of these strays. We responded to their queries, fulfilled their needs, and after a while the clients asked to be added to my portfolio.
My worries over job security eased as I moved into higher earning numbers. I regularly rang the bell to signal yet an
other fee or a successful securities sale. On the downside, my husband and I barely saw each other. Stolen kisses at midnight, a tender embrace at midday.
We maintained our relationship the same way we managed my employment. A scribbled note pinned to the cubicle wall in our religious tongue. A secret email sent to a false address so it would bounce back and surprise me during the day.
The thrill of deception was one thing. The satisfaction of performing a great job in tandem was better. My client base expanded, they invested more money. I picked up unhappy targets, dripping from overflowing assignments and found them a welcoming home in mine.
Even Frank’s boss started to notice. Once, he stopped by my desk and told me to keep up the good work. Another time, my husband mentioned he dropped into the spare seat in his cubicle for a chat. As a casual aside on leaving, he hinted a promotion might be on the cards.
“I’m still here.”
“I’m already here.”
The phrases must have buzzed in my boss’s head like a nest stuffed full of wasps. I’m here. No matter how late he stayed or how early he started. I’m here.
Seventy-four days it took. Toward the end, I even felt a bit sorry for him. Not much. A tad, a tidbit, a smidge.
On the seventy-fourth day, I arrived in the office. Refreshed from a quick cuddle with my one true love, and a solid eight-hours of sleep.
“You’ve only been gone ten minutes,” my neighbor complained. She looked at her watch with distaste. “Don’t you ever just take the full lunch hour allotted to you.”
I stared at my coworker, baffled. Never had I entertained the notion I could do such a thing.
“You’re back,” my boss said. He loomed over my desk, unshaved, his eyes glowing red from lack of sleep. “You’re already here.”
He swayed, and then his knees gave out. Frank slumped to his right, lolling against the side of my pod. He stretched out one hand to grasp my shoulder in desperation. It slid off the smooth fabric of my formal top, and he fell onto the floor. His head smacked against the hard, easy-clean tiles. The crack as it landed made me think sickly of a breaking egg.
Frank muttered nonsensically, blood flowing out in a crazy pattern from his forehead. Everyone around me was frozen. Some in horror, some in dismay, most with their eyebrows raised in curiosity.
I knelt beside him, placing a cautious hand upon his shoulder. His mutter grew in intensity, and I tilted my ear toward him. Close enough to hear his feverish speech.
“I’m already here. I’m still here. I’m already here. I’m still here.”
Frank began to beat his head against the tiles in syncopation with his aggressive whispering.
“Call an ambulance,” I shouted at my blankly staring neighbor. “He needs help.”
With one final smack, Frank hit the floor with such force he knocked himself all the way through to unconsciousness. Blood sprayed, his nose leaked sludgy crimson-streaked mucus. His bowels loosened and a puddle spread out beneath his midriff, pooling along the side of his leg.
I stayed crouched beside him, one hand resting on his back in sympathy. Guilt flooded my body as the ambulance officers arrived to cart him away.
“Go home,” the big boss told us. As though operating behind a wall of numbness, I gathered up some urgent tasks and shoved the paperwork in my handbag. “Not you,” he continued, pulling me aside.
As the other workers flowed past, my nerves lit up like fireworks on a dark night. Humming and buzzing and burning. They flooded me with anxiety until panic rose to choke my throat. I’d done something awful, permanently wrecked a good worker. Frank had the misfortune of being the wrong boss at the wrong time on the wrong side of a joke.
Except, I reassured myself it wasn’t a lighthearted prank. Three months ago, an employment juggernaut had been intent on my destruction. I’d worked hard, my husband had done the same, and we put in all those extra hours for free. If Frank had been a capable man, he’d be able to tell the difference between us. If my boss had been a fully developed human being, the ruse would have fallen at the first hurdle.
I didn’t work with gracious people, and I hadn’t fooled anyone. There was no need to. They’d all taken one look at my outfit and never bothered to glance my way again.
While fighting through a gamut of emotions to find my usual courage, I tagged along as the big boss ushered me through into his office. I concentrated on slowing down my rapid breaths as he directed me to a chair.
“Whatever happens with Frank, I think you understand that he won’t be coming back to work here. I’d like you to take his position. You’re the highest earner on the staff by a mile.”
His words were so different to the ones that I expected to hear, it took a minute for me to sort them into order. A job. Not just that, he was offering me a promotion.
“It’s about time we got some diversity in the office,” the big boss—my new boss—continued. “Things’ll never change around here if we don’t give folks like you a chance.”
I thanked him. I accepted the role. I shook his hand when he offered it across the table. Then I stood to leave, and his voice rang out as I grasped the door handle.
“It would be useful if, from now on, you followed your agreed employment timetable. Start at eight, finish at five, take an hour for lunch. It’s not good for staff morale when the boss works so many extra hours. Just look at Frank.”
I nodded gravely at the instruction and had to stop myself from skipping as I exited. A promotion. An eight-hour day. Lunch breaks long enough that I might have the chance to eat some actual food.
I couldn’t wait to tell my husband about how our efforts had earned us a bigger and better title. He’ll make a great boss on alternate days. I just hope it doesn’t go to our heads.
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Thank you for reading!
I hope you enjoyed this instalment in my Retold Fairy Tale series, Grimmer Fairy Tales. If you’re looking for another story, please feel free to continue reading the first chapter of “Cinderella’s Not-So-Ugly Stepsister” below.
Chapter One - Cinderella’s Not-So-Ugly Stepsister
I’m Zelda, though you may have heard differently through the ages. Rumors of my name have been greatly exaggerated. Honestly, I worry about the world sometimes. As if any woman would allow her daughter to be called ‘Drizella.’ My mother wouldn’t have named the most disgusting pig in the trough something as dismal as that.
I have a story for you. One that is perhaps as familiar to you as your own family motto. More likely it’s a tale you only think you know, and you’d be entirely wrong in that assumption.
Once upon a time . . .
But oh, how dull and how misleading. That’s the way to start a boring fairytale. One where the brave heroine arises from the shadows to marry a devastatingly handsome prince.
My story is not a fairytale. Nor, to say it plainly, is my stepsister’s. People do like to burden the simple truth with a gilded edge of lies. Especially, when the facts don’t fit their flights of imagination.
So, I’ll tell you straight and relate every detail I remember. You can shake your head and turn away—there’s no blame for doing so—but at least it’ll be a conscious choice. In these brave new times, or even the old days of yore, that’s a type of opportunity seldom given.
History condemns me as a heartless monster. Maybe not the worst person, but certainly not the best. Cinderella is set upon a pedestal as the highest woman in the land.
Neither of those preconceptions matters a jot to me.
My mother wasn’t a crown jewel of goodness, but she was nowhere near as bad as my stepfather. My stepsister didn’t end up on her hands and knees in horrifying conditions after we arrived. The poor thing was like that when we got there.
Men follow that path with their children sometimes. They’ll happily raise a soldier to fight their battles for them or a slave to fetch them every comfort. The gender gap may be sorted out where you live but in my wonderful world roles are fi
xed in place along a well-worn line.
After my father died, now that was a good man for you, my mother had no choice but to remarry. As for the money he set aside throughout his life so his daughters wouldn’t have to settle for the first limp dick on offer. That inheritance went straight to my grandfather.
What’s that? Doesn’t make sense?
No. But when did sensible thoughts ever carve themselves into the bedrock of common law?
A patriarchy can’t survive if you start settling fortunes on women. Any male-dominated society worth its salt understands that point as a founding principle. Money must, therefore, follow gender. It’s generational, to be fair. If my dad had a brother or nephew, then it would have been settled on them. But his nagging sister didn’t make the grade, especially when our aunt remained childless and unmarried.
Father’s fortune passed back to his father, increased and multiplied from when he saw it last. Once Granddad’s dead, lord knows where it will end up. Certainly, I’ve given up hope of ever laying my hands on a penny.
Where was I? I’m sure I didn’t set out telling you this tale to dwell on the deplorable state of our legal system. Oh, yes. My mother. Destitute. And daughters don’t stop wanting to be fed just because their daddy died.
For all intents and purposes, Mom tried to do a good job. There was little time to waste, and on paper, Erik Mookie was a sterling match.
Really? You didn’t know that? A ridiculous name. Perhaps being teased as a boy did something to him, because he grew up surly, vicious, and mean.
Anyway, the standard wedding bells and thrown rice followed. When my stepfather told our new stepsister to pick up each and every last grain, I laughed. I genuinely thought he must be teasing. He wasn’t. The worst thing was, to Cinderella, picking up individual grains of rice was a picnic. At least, it was when compared to the disgusting duties of her day-to-day life. Her usual tasks involved washing soiled floors or were constructed from the humiliation of scrubbing caked fluids off dirty bodies. To collect something clean and white off a polished floor was a holiday gifted from above.
