Work Wife Balance

by Jo Edwards

It was my turn to undertake a disciplinary hearing and I had to travel to Manchester to hear a persistent lateness case for them. The meeting was scheduled for 11.00 am, but I didn’t want to take any chances and had gone up the night before. In the end, I half-wished I hadn’t bothered, as trying to get The Boss to agree to a hotel stay amidst the current cost-cutting drive had been particularly painful. He’d tried to book me into a pub in the town centre that he knew did cheap rooms - they weren’t even en-suite! He eventually backed down when I suggested it would be more practical for him to do the hearing as he lived much closer. Suddenly he didn’t care which hotel I stayed at, so I picked one with a swimming pool and a fancy restaurant.

  I made good time getting to Manchester and found the hotel, which was just off the M6. The building was square and rather brooding, giving me the impression of a prison, although admittedly I’ve never actually been to one. The Vauxhall Astra I parked next to first had one of its back windows smashed in, so I reversed and parked up as far away from it as possible.

  I checked in and was given room 101 - how typical. 101 was the furthest away from reception, and I regretted bringing my suitcase, lap top, brief case, hand bag, umbrella and overcoat up all at once, but I hadn’t wanted to leave anything in the car. Perspiring heavily, I had a total hissy-fit trying to get the blasted swipe card to swipe, but it worked on the twentieth attempt and I was inside the room.

  Is there any lonelier place on earth than the inside of a (3 star) hotel room when the door shuts behind you? You’re so utterly alone and anonymous. I have a routine:

  Heavy sigh.

  Put down bags.

  Check the bathroom for cleanliness (this involves nervously peering under the toilet seat, having a good look round the bath for pubes, examining the shower curtain for general grubbiness/staining).

  Opening all the cupboards and drawers to search for a mini bar (there never is one, but I always find a trouser press - why, why, why can’t we have an iron and ironing board instead?).

  Checking the eiderdown cover for any signs of, well let’s just say, bodily fluids.

  I can never bring myself to examine the sheets or pillows, preferring instead to climb into bed in the dark so I can’t see anything and pray that the sparks from the nylon sheets won’t set my nightie alight. I also talk to myself - a lot.

  I checked the view, hoping perhaps to see a lake or mountain or even the sea from my Manchester bedroom window. I looked down on the car park, and behind it, a river of moving white lights from the motorway. A sign stuck on the windows told me to keep them closed and locked at all times. Nice. There was a constant drone from the traffic, so I turned on the telly for some covering noise and a bit of company. I am certain it is a trick of the hotel trade that no matter what you press on the TV remote control, you always seem to end up about to request adult entertainment. I couldn’t stand the shame of that on my hotel bill, so I panicked and turned the TV off again.

  It was only 5.30 pm. The whole evening stretched out before me, long and empty. With a sudden surge of I’m not sure what - madness, energy? I decided I’d go for a swim. I had bought my cossie (a chocolate brown, halterneck one-piece from Boden) although I hadn’t dreamt I would actually use it.

  The pool was quite small, but empty of anyone else - hooray! I waded in and started breast-stroking up and down, keeping my head well above water so as not to disturb my make-up or dampen my hair - I wasn’t sure what the chlorine would do to my Cinnamon Copper Pumpkin. You hear horror stories of coloured hair turning bright green.

  The first few lengths were knackering - I was gasping for breath and had to keep stopping. Was I really this unfit, or could I be suffering from some ghastly respiratory disease? But I kept going and it got better - I began to feel quite exhilarated. I wondered how many pounds I had lost already, and how much flatter my stomach would look when I got out. After about twenty lengths, three rather portly middle aged men appeared at the poolside. Oh bugger off you lot, there’s not enough room for all of us in here. There won’t be enough water left either if you all jump in at once - ha ha. Luckily they headed for the hot tub at the end of the pool. I carried on ploughing up and down, although I couldn’t help noticing that the three men were watching me quite intently. This didn’t worry me too much at first - I’ve clearly still got it! Perhaps I would make the hot list after all. I did another 10 lengths or so but they were still watching me, the pervs, and I was beginning to feel a bit self-conscious and uncomfortable. I stopped at the far end and was about to get out when I looked down and saw, to my horror, that one of my nipples was hanging out. Oh my God.

  After changing, I went to the bar to drown my sorrows. I had a large vodka and tonic - very nice. It didn’t touch the sides, so I had another. I could see into the restaurant, which looked very classy and was quite empty. Normally I would stay in my room and order room service but I think the V&T’s made me brave and reckless and I went over to the restaurant. I was greeted by a dark, dapper little man of European extraction.

  “Yes Madame?”

  “I’d like a table please.”

  “Have you booked?”

  I looked pointedly around at all the unoccupied tables and chairs. “No I haven’t.”

  “You haven’t booked?” His lips pursed together, teeth were sucked in, he examined the bookings register to see if he could possibly accommodate one extra person into his empty dining room. I tried to peer over his shoulder at the register but he shifted his body to block it from view.

  “Ok,” he whirled round, “is it just for you?”

  “Yes, it’s just me.”

  “A table just for one?”

  “Yes, it’s just me.”

  “Will there be anybody else joining you?”

  “No, there will not.” No, it’s just me, on my own, with no one else to dine with. I am a sad lonely bastard, staying in a hotel on my own. Friendless, childless and probably everyone that sees me eating on my own will think that I am either some sort of weirdo lunatic with orange hair or a desperate saddo who’s on the pull. Thank you so much for pointing that out.

  Very red cheeked now, but unable to back out, I was shown to a table at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchens.

  For anyone who eats alone in a restaurant, there are rules. The first is that you should always take with you some sort of reading matter, such as a book, work notes, magazine etc. This means you can bury your head and pretend to be absorbed in something fascinating, therefore demonstrating to others that you do not feel in the least bit self-conscious and the fact that you are dining alone does not bother you in the slightest. I did not have any reading matter. I read the menu and wine list cover to cover, but after I’d ordered, these were removed, just leaving me with a cardboard label telling me about the special offers on spirits in the bar. This I read with intense scrutiny and interest over and over whilst waiting for my starter to arrive.

  The second rule is to order as many courses as your expense meal limit allows and eat very slowly. This is to elongate the experience. I got this wrong too: my plates were whisked away from me as soon as I had finished the last mouthful and the entire meal was over before I’d even managed to finish a glass of wine.

  As I slunk out of the restaurant, the three guys from the swimming pool were coming in. I did not make eye contact. I thought I heard one of them say that he felt “a bit of a tit” but I could have been mistaken. They were certainly having a good old laugh about something as I passed.

  Back in the room, I checked my mobile for texts from The Husband. There were none. I sent him one asking if he’d managed to sort the fence panels. I braved putting the telly back on and flicked miserably up and down through the channels, eventually settling on “It’s Me or the Dog” on ITV2+2+2+2. The Husband texted back “No”. That was it. One word. Got the hump because he’d had to make his own supper no doubt. What was wrong with him lately? He was so bloody moody. Possibly he was worried about his work; I think sales had been
pretty scarce lately. Everyone was skint. I turned off the light and slid between the scratchy, crackly sheets, turning up the telly to drown out the sound of the couple in 103 bonking. A new low point in my life, methinks.

  I arrived at the Manchester site the next morning to undertake the disciplinary meeting. The offence was persistent lateness and I read through the file. The colleague had been late on numerous occasions over the last eighteen months, and had already been issued with verbal and written warnings. Why she’d been given so many ‘last chances’ was anyone’s guess. She was going to need to have a good reason why she deserved another.

  I made my way to the appointed meeting room and met Tanya, one of the Manchester team managers who was going to take the notes for me. I asked her why this individual was still employed, given her dismal attendance record.

  “I think it’s because she’s such a really, really nice person” was her answer. Oh brilliant. A sound, logical business reason then.

  The meeting was set for 11.00. At ten past 11.00, I sent Tanya to look for the colleague. It was twenty past before she returned with a large, smiley lady who was probably around my age.

  “This is Marcy.” Tanya introduced me as they sat down.

  “Hello, how nice to meet you,” gushed Marcy. “I do like your hair.” She was clearly insane.

  “You’re late, Marcy,” I told her.

  “I know, I’m so sorry I just didn’t notice the time, I was so carried away with what I was doing. Sorry.” She beamed at me. Surely she could see the irony of being late to a disciplinary meeting for persistent lateness? Was she very stupid or did she just have no respect at all for the disciplinary process? She’d already been through several similar meetings, I suppose; perhaps she felt bullet-proof.

  I read out her offences, listing the date and time of each one, and her reasons (excuses) such as: “On the 14th March you were due to start your shift at 9.00. You arrived at work at 9.20. You gave the reason for this as you kept laddering your tights and then you got stuck behind a milk float.”

  As I read through the (long) list very methodically, her beam began to fade a little. When I reached the end, I asked her to explain why, despite being issued with a written warning, she had continued to fail to arrive at work on time.

  “Well, I’ve got five children you see...” Marcy looked at me as if she was expecting some sort of congratulations. When none were forthcoming she carried on “You know what it’s like trying to get ready for work as well as packing children off to school, and of course with five of the little monsters you can imagine what our household is like!” She gave a loud nervous laugh, which turned into multiple snorts. “No, seriously though,” she continued, the smile gone, a sad expression replacing it, “I’m so terribly sorry about the lateness and to put you to all this trouble, I know how hard you managers work.” She bowed her head and looked remorsefully up at me through her lashes. “I am a single parent you know, and it’s so very difficult to have to do everything yourself, looking after five children on my own. I can only just make ends meet and I rely so heavily on my job here to be able to look after my family. I do so love my job here, sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me going. The people are so lovely, they’re like an extended family to me.” She flashed a radiant smile in Tanya’s direction. “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t work here anymore, I rely on this job, my five children rely on this job.”

  I was so tempted to ask her how many children she had, as I didn’t think she’d mentioned it, but I stopped myself.

  “So, can I clarify Marcy - you are saying you are persistently late because you are getting your children ready for school? Is that right? Yes, you have five children, you said. Do you have anything else you wish to add by way of mitigation? I mean as a reason?”

  Marcy had her sincere face on now.

  “I just want to say again how sorry I am, and that I will always be on time from now on. I can assure you that I will never be late again.”

  I showed her the notes from previous meetings. “You’ve promised that on all the other occasions, too, Marcy, look. Yet you are still arriving late. You’ve already been given so many chances, why should you be given another one?”

  Marcy, sensing she was in a bit of difficulty now, turned her attention to Tanya.

  “I beg you for just one last chance, I promise you I will never be late again, never ever. I need this job to be able to feed and clothe my children, I don’t know what I’d do without it, without seeing all my wonderful friends that I’ve made here. I will never be late again. I know I’ve said that before, but I really mean it this time, I really do. Please give me another chance, I beg you.”

  It was almost word for word what she’d said on the last two occasions. Despite some more prompting from me, she just continued in the same vein. Eventually, I asked her to wait in another room while I considered. She looked pleadingly at Tanya as she left. I heaved a big sigh. I could see why she had not been dismissed previously; it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do to a single parent with five kids.

  I looked at Tanya and shook my head. “I’m sorry Tanya, but I really can’t see that anything will change if she’s given yet another last chance. She didn’t offer me anything really by way of defence, or that she was prepared to make any changes that would mean she could get herself to work on time. I can see from the notes that you guys have bent over backwards to support her, well, you’ve bent over double I would say to support her, but even then she’s still been late. I’m afraid my decision is going to be to dismiss her.”

  To my surprise, Tanya nodded.

  “I agree,” she said, “We can’t keep on giving her a last chance, it’s become a bit of a joke. My team places bets now each morning as to what time she’s going to turn up. It’s embarrassing. She’s a lovely lady, and I feel very sorry for her, because of her situation, but she hasn’t left us with any choice. We can’t give her special treatment; it’s not fair on everyone else.”

  We discussed it between ourselves for a bit longer, but it really was a no-brainer. I couldn’t put the moment off any longer, and asked Marcy to come back into the room.

  She sat down, clasping her hands to her chest.

  “Marcy,” I began. “I’ve listened to everything you’ve had to say. Unfortunately, you have not offered sufficient reasoning to explain your continued persistent lateness, nor convinced me that you can make material changes to warrant another warning being issued to you. I’ve based this on your previous promises and subsequent behaviours-”

  “No!” wailed Marcy, cutting across me. “I will change, I won’t be late again ever. Not ever! Give me another chance, please, don’t do this to my children, it’s not their fault, they’re innocent. Please don’t do this!”

  “Marcy, you’ve already had a last chance and you were late again. Several times. You need a job which offers you flexible working, and as you know, we’re not able to do that. I’m very sorry, but my decision is to let you go.”

  I’ve always wondered what it must be like to witness a split personality transition, maybe Dr Jekyll turning into Mr Hyde. I felt like Jenny Agutter in American Werewolf in London when she gasps “David!” Gone was the jolly, bubbly lady and the apologetic pleader. Marcy’s face darkened and her eyes narrowed into slits.

  “So, you are going to let my children starve are you?” she hissed at me. “Shame on you. How can you live with yourself? Are you going to come to my house tonight and explain to my kids that they are going to go hungry? Are you going to tell them that I can’t afford clothes for them anymore? No, you’ll just go back to your cosy house and your cosy life and you don’t care what you do to people like me.” She was taking this well. She stood up, but hadn’t finished. “I’m going to bring my children to the door of this building and wait for you to come out. You can explain to five children what you’ve done to them, five father-less children, tell them how you expect us to live now. I will leave them outside - you can feed the
m. You can feel what it’s like!”

  She stormed out of the room. I wished I could just let her go, but of course I couldn’t. I had to follow her to her desk, which was slap bang in the middle of the department and make sure she signed out of all the computer systems (which took an excruciating amount of time) and take her desk keys back from her. All eyes were on us. She wasn’t going quietly; slamming drawers, wailing to her colleagues that she was being victimised, thrown out for nothing, treated appallingly... the whole room had fallen silent. I then had to walk her out of the department and escort her from the building. It’s never, ever going to be a pleasant task, but at least most people choose to go with dignity. Not so Marcy. She spat on the ground outside, her parting shot to me: “Don’t think this is the end - you haven’t seen the last of me!”

  God. I drove back to Cheltenham feeling like a shit. I hated this job. I’d made the only decision I could make, hadn’t I? Had it been the right one? There was nothing to feel good about, nothing at all. It would have been nice to talk to someone about it, for some support, but who was there? The Boss wouldn’t be interested, he’d just say it comes with the territory. Which, of course, it does. That doesn’t stop you being human though. Why was there never any support for managers? Why was it acceptable for my own manager to go for weeks on end without speaking to me? I wouldn’t ever treat my guys like that. Not that they gave me any choice in the matter; the buggers never left me alone.

  I was feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t want to do this stupid job anymore. Perhaps the time had come to consider a career in something else. But what? I could have a look on some of those job websites that are always being advertised. Knowing my luck I’d leave Perypils and end up working somewhere with Marcy! But there’s got to be something more rewarding than this. Somewhere less toxic.

  I got back to the office just after four, feeling drained but prepared to face the hundred or so pointless emails that would have built up during the day. I hadn’t even removed my coat when The Snake was at my desk sniping that she’d had to look after The Climber’s team as well as her own as The Climber had gone missing for most of the day. It wasn’t fair, she was never where she’s supposed to be blah, blah, bloody blah. Oh shut up can’t you, I couldn’t give a shiny shite. I really don’t think I can do this anymore.

  Chapter Twelve