by Jo Edwards
I worked through most of Saturday and Sunday, catching up with emails. The Husband was sulkily forced to go to Sainsbury’s on his own, commenting sarcastically as he went: “Remind me, are we still married? It’s so difficult to tell.” He left behind the shopping list I’d written out for him. And he forgot his bags for life.
My mother phoned me. When I answered she said “Oh hello dear. What did you want?” I told her that she’d phoned me. She told me not to be so silly. I asked where Dad was. She said he was washing the car again. He was apparently convinced their neighbours had trained the doves to use his car as target practice.
Monday morning - the day of the visit
5.00 am. Got up (exhausted) and dug out my Wonder-bra. Put on a short purple shift dress with matching jacket. The image I was hoping for was professional, but just a bit tarty.
7.00 am. Arrived at work for last minute tidying and revision of Perypils current key objectives and favourite phrases of the moment (flavours of the month). The Big Cheese wasn’t due until 10.00 am but I already felt nervous, and my bowels became very insistent at one point. Luckily there was no one else in the office that early, so I could use the loo without having to go through the rigmarole of trying to time a poo when there was no one else in the toilets, and then having to strain like mad before anyone else came in.
7.30 am. Saw that the bloody Tic Tac was still there! Facilities were really asking for it now.
8.30 am. Received a phone call from The Drain who sounded like he’d put a peg on his nose, saying he had come down with a cold and wouldn’t be in. Predictable, but probably a good thing he didn’t cross paths with The Big Cheese in case he shat himself.
8.45 am. The Climber arrived. I think she had dressed herself with the same image in mind that I had, just without the professional bit. She was wearing a very short black mini skirt and an extremely clingy sleeveless black top. She also had on sky-scraper heels so she was hobbling around like an old woman whenever she attempted to move about.
9.10 am. I threw an absolute hissy-fit with The Snake when I heard one of her advisors saying to a customer: “I’m sorry that you’ve had to complain, but we shall take it very seriously, yes, don’t you worry I’m making a note of it now.” Whilst speaking, the advisor was flicking through a magazine! What if The Big Cheese had seen that?
9.40 am. Getting really nervous now. Had another tantrum when I saw an advisor talking to a customer whilst rolling himself a cigarette. I got The Snake and TLS George together and told them they had to sort their people out, or I’d be shoving their magazines and cigarettes up their arses. They looked rather alarmed so I guessed my eyes were bulging a bit. I felt like I was having a meltdown.
10.00 No sign of The Big Cheese.
10.15. Still no sign.
10.30. Received a call from Jenny, The Big Cheese’s PA. She said she was very sorry but Kevin had got held up on an urgent conference call. She thought he would be with us at about 11.00
The Climber and I revised the agenda. We decided just to cut down the time on everything, rather than remove any items altogether.
10.45. Really needed another poo but couldn’t risk leaving the department in case he turned up early. Would have to clench.
11.05. Where is he for God’s sake? Getting seriously hacked off now. My left eye had developed a twitch.
11.15. The ego has landed. The Big Cheese made his entrance. He swaggered in looking like a prize-fighter with an entourage of five or six suited cling-ons plus his “executive” assistant, a small, ferrety little man who was clutching a note pad. I was immediately put in mind of Smithers in the Simpsons. I went forward to shake hands, saying “Hello Kevin.” As I said the word “Kevin”, a piece of spittle flew out of my mouth and landed on his tie. I was mortified. I’d gobbed on the Chief Executive! He pretended not to notice and introduced me to his cling-ons. I immediately forgot all their names and where they were from. I welcomed them and gave a brief summary of the department, and our key achievements. As I was talking, a greasy haired man in overalls wandered into the group. Everyone looked at him then looked at me. I decided to keep talking, but he interrupted me.
“What’s all this about a bleeding Tic Tac? I ‘aven’t got time for this sort of nonsense, not when the bogs need unblocking.”
I hurriedly pointed him in the direction of The Snake, saying “I think she’s the one you need” and swiftly moved the group on. I was horribly conscious of the piece of white spit which was still clinging to The Big Cheese’s navy silk tie. He spotted a quotation I’d stuck up by my desk (that morning).
The purpose of a business is to keep and create customers - Theodore Levitt.
“I like that,” he boomed. “Thompson! Make a note of that. Aye, we’ll bloody well use that.” Smithers scurried forward and started scribbling.
I introduced him to The Climber. As predicted, his eyes lit up, and his demeanour suddenly became more jovial. She showed him the agenda and took him off to meet Emma (young, tall, leggy) who was going to talk to him about our sales performance. I thought he might actually drool. Smithers! Fetch me a bib. The Climber did her utmost to butt into every conversation, somehow managing to personally take the credit for every success the department had ever had. I saw some of the group exchanging smirking glances. They weren’t fooled.
The visit seemed to be going well, my guys were doing a great job and there was plenty of laughter. But as the group was talking to Sam (pretty, young, girlie) about our quality figures, I noticed that just slightly out of their vision, Joe Bloody Cooper in the admin team looked like he was about to fall asleep again at his desk. For God’s sake, why today of all days? This just can’t be happening to me. Joe’s head was slowly nodding in a downwards direction. If any of them turned slightly to their right, they would see him.
I tried to catch The Climber’s eye but she was concentrating on keeping her balance in those heels whilst pushing her chest as close to The Big Cheese’s nose as possible. Keeping behind the group, I edged towards Joe. He had fallen asleep. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. I didn’t have long; Sam was beginning to wrap up her spiel. Any moment now the group would turn round, they’d see Joe. I got right beside him. Sam had finished. I raised my arm forwards then sharply jabbed my elbow back into Joe’s chest. He woke with a cry of “Whoah! What the f-” which I managed to cover with a loud “Well then! What shall we see now?” slapping my hands together and making the group jump out of their skin.
Although it wasn’t part of the agenda, The Big Cheese suddenly announced that he wanted to listen to some of our calls from customers. I had a feeling he might want to do this so I was more than ready for this request, although I made it look like I was surprised and it was spontaneous. I took him over to Lauren who had been prepped and was ready to go. She also had on the shortest skirt I’d ever seen. The Big Cheese sat next to her and I fitted him up with a headset so he could listen in to the calls. He listened to one call, then removed his headset, ready to move on. That was that then. No doubt that later, on his blog, he would write it up somewhat differently. It would probably read as though he had spent most of his day listening in, giving his readers the impression that he was a very much “hands on” Chief Executive and in touch with our customers.
It really was a whirlwind visit and when we’d done our bit he shook my hand, crushing several bones and told me it had been “great”. I didn’t know if this meant it really had been great, or whether that actually meant “it was crap but I’m not going to tell you that to your face, I’ll wait until I’ve left and then I’ll give some really shit feedback to your boss.” I took him and his entourage round to meet Cruella. She was waiting for him with a strange expression on her face. I realised she was attempting to smile; it looked like she had trapped wind. Waiting beside her were her two heavy-weights, Kim and Pat (KowPat). Rookie error Cruella! He likes young blood. I could almost hear the The Big Cheese’s libido screaming “I’m doomed!” Still, I bet she didn’t spit on
him.
Thank God it was over. I said well done and thank you to The Climber, who was removing her shoes with much relief and told the guys they could get their gonks back out again. Then I advanced on Joe Cooper.
Late in the afternoon
I was at my desk, just about to phone Joe’s resignation through to HR when I received a call from Brett The Boss. Here we go, Big Cheese feedback time. I braced myself. His opening words:
“Bloody hell Kate, what the fuck did you do to Kevin?” Oh God, it must have been worse than I thought, it was only a little bit of spit, for Christ’s sake, it was not as if he’d been water boarded.... I began to stutter something, but The Boss cut me short. “He bloody loved it! Said your girls were absolutely fantastic, and he thought that your department contained some really wonderful talent.” I bet he did. “Well done Kate, brilliant feedback.”
I almost felt like sobbing, I felt so relieved and elated. I’d had some praise, I’d actually had some praise! I rushed to tell the others, hearing the song “Walking on Sunshine” playing in my head. I felt about ten feet tall. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt on top of the world whilst at work. I pushed to the back of mind the fact that I had no right to feel so good - I had practically prostituted out my “girls” in order to get myself a pat on the back. How shameful that I’d done that. And how sad that it had worked.
As I left the office, I saw Cruella in the car park. She had a face like thunder. I guessed her feedback hadn’t been so good. Oh well, tough tits. Round two to me.
Saturday
Panic had seriously set in. I had less than a week before the long weekend in Devon and I needed to lose a stone in weight, get a tan and buy some suitable “surfie” clothes. I went shopping with Karen and searched for shops that sold surf-type clothes for the middle-aged. It’s very difficult to know what you can get away with when you have passed the 40 year milestone. Browsing the racks, I asked myself if I was now too old to wear denim mini-skirts, ripped jeans or wet-look leggings (answers: yes, yes and hell yes). I had a vision of myself on the golden sands of Devon wearing a charming little sun dress with a matching cardy, all feminine and fragrant. We struggled with this a bit, as we couldn’t tell what was a dress and what was a tunic, and therefore needed to be worn over something. Everything was so damn short. Karen picked up a garment in Fat Face and said “Ooh, Kate, this is a nice skirt” only for the assistant to say “That’s actually a boob tube.” I’d left it too late to get decent flip flops, the only nice ones left were in size 8 and above; they would only have fitted Sasquatch. As for their bikinis, well - they were no more than tiny triangular swatches. You could only fit about three pubes inside the bikini bottoms, there wasn’t room for anything else.
“You are going to get a bikini wax aren’t you?” Karen asked anxiously. I told her no, there wasn’t time; I was going to have to take my chances with a rusty Bic.
We ended up, as usual, in Monsoon. I picked up a lovely cream and pink striped halter-neck sundress, size 12, with a matching pink cardigan. Perfect. I went to try it on. It had a zip up the side which I undid and stepped into the dress. I couldn’t get the zip back up. At first I thought it must be stuck, but it wasn’t, it didn’t even come close. Bloody back fat, where does it come from, where? It was such a lovely dress, but no way was I going to buy a bigger size, no fucking way. I slunk out of the cubicle, telling Karen “It didn’t really look right on me.” I ended up buying a pinafore-type dress that didn’t have any zips and could acccomodate, in size 12, a small family as well as yourself.
I got a few bits from Accessorize - a beach bag and some bandos (head wraps) to keep my hair out of my face on the beach. I’d have to make do with my old bikinis and flip flops, although there might be some nice shops in Devon that cater for slightly overweight geriatric surfers. Ooh, hope they do cream teas as well.
Sunday
I went to get the Sunday papers from the local shop. ‘Celeb Beach Babes’ caught my eye, a headline on the front of one of the trashy magazines. Another shrieked out at me: ‘Beer Belly and Proud of it! Look at her Curves!’ There were two pictures of Lindsay Lohan, with the banner ‘from this to this!’ In the first picture, she looked as thin as a whippet. In the second, she still looked as thin as a whippet, although very, very slightly less so. The magazine clearly saying, without actually saying, that she was now fat. She still looked quite underweight to me. How awful. Clearly if you’re not a stick-thin tooth pick you’re a fat biffer, overweight and unattractive. I flicked through the magazine. Almost the whole thing was devoted to observations on women’s weight. The biggest articles were taken up by pictures of those unfortunate celebrities who they’d managed to capture in unflattering positions, perhaps showing a miniscule protrusion of a stomach. “She’s letting it all hang out!” screamed the captions. I bet the editor was a man. But no, it was edited by a woman! How the hell does she sleep at night? Surely the only way women get as thin as that is because they’re eating nothing but lightly steamed cobwebs? It was so cruel.
I walked back from the shop with a sense of shame. I contributed to the whole image thing, spending a fortune on clothes and beauty products, seduced by advertisements to “Look younger by the weekend”, even though I know its bollocks. Did I judge a woman on how she looks? I liked to tell myself that I didn’t, but I was in denial. Was that why I couldn’t stand The Climber, because she was young and attractive and got all the male attention instead of me? I told myself no - actually it’s because she’s not very bright, she has the personality of a fence post and she simply wasn’t prepared to put in the hard graft to get up the career ladder. That considered, I felt a bit better about myself. Sod it. I wasn’t prepared to starve to death in an attempt to conform to some sadist’s ideal of what a woman should look like. If I got harpooned off the Devon coast I got harpooned. As soon as I was home I went straight to the kitchen and cracked open the Custard Creams. And I didn’t even steam them.
Monday
It was that time again – half-yearly performance reviews. What a total pain in the bum. At least it was a proper chance to sit down with TLS George and review his performance. He saw it somewhat differently to me, rating his own performance as: “Alright, I fink.” I told him I thought it was below average, which seemed to surprise him. He said everything had been fine when he was working for Clare last year. Well, obviously not that fine - she binned you off onto me.
I reviewed all the expectations of his role with him, and agreed (I told him) what he needed to do to perform to the required standards. I drew up a progress plan that documented what was required of him. Progress plans are promoted by Perypils managers as “supportive tools designed to keep our colleagues on track”. Of course they are viewed by colleagues as anything but; instead they are seen as the first step to try and boot them out the door.
I captured everything TLS George needed to do to improve his performance on his plan and he reviewed it with dismay.
“How am I supposed to achieve all that?” he wailed.
“Well, you won’t will you? That’s because you only got the job because you’re young and good-looking and bullshitted your way through the interview, and some poor gullible sap fell for it. You don’t have the skills or capability to do this role, and when Cruella realised that, she simply shunted you elsewhere to avoid the inconvenience of having to manage you. So now you’re my problem. Ideally, of course, I would spend time coaching and developing you, but that’s not going to happen is it, not when I spend all day in one pointless meeting after another and then all night trying to keep up with endless stupid emails. Perish the thought I’d have time to spend with my people, I’m only a people-manager after all...”
I didn’t say that to him, of course, just in case he was recording our conversation on his iPhone - he was definitely fiddling with something under the desk. Instead, I told him he would be fully supported and we’d review the plan regularly to make sure he was on track (although I wasn’t sure
how, I didn’t have a gap in my diary for at least six weeks). He was a bit sulky, but he had his two week holiday coming up - Majorca or Minorca, he didn’t know which one, he thought they were one and the same - so at least he could “have a break away from it all”. I felt like asking him how he could tell if he was on holiday or not, seeing as he did sod all, but I refrained.
There was one good thing resulting from TLS George’s underperformance issues - it always cheered up The Drain when someone was doing worse than he was. He could almost be described as chirpy. Every cloud...
I wondered when The Boss would be in touch to arrange my own half-yearly review. I placed a bet with Big Andy. He went for November - next year. I went for never-ever.
I booked a last minute appointment at the beauty salon on Thursday evening. I’d never had a spray tan before, so I was feeling a bit apprehensive, having seen Ross’s tanning experience on Friends. I didn’t want to look like I’d been Tangoed. I was wearing a very old bikini under the loosest clothes I could find and a lovely young lady called Tina, who was wearing a white coat (how appropriate is that?) led me into a small room. It contained what looked like a tin of fence creosote with a spray gun attached to it. I tried to read what it said on the tin, thinking if it said “Radioactive Sunset” I would be out of there like the Road Runner.
Tina sprayed me all over, which felt tickly and cold, and she assured me that it wouldn’t look too dark on my pale skin as the tan “naturally adjusted itself” to suit the skin tone. Must be bloody clever then. It didn’t take long; I put on my loose clothing, paid the £35 and walked back to my car like John Wayne - I didn’t want my thighs rubbing together; they still felt very sticky. I got home and examined myself in the bedroom mirror. I liked it! It looked natural (ish) and I looked healthy for once, my eyes looked whiter, not all pink and tired like they usually did. I showed The Husband, who said: “You stink. I suppose that will come off all over the sheets.” Charming. I noticed he was wearing some coloured strips of material round his wrist that I hadn’t seen before - he’d bought himself some ‘surfing’ bracelets! I couldn’t let him see I was laughing, he’d get the right hump. I couldn’t help thinking that whatever beauty treatments we had and no matter what we chose to wear, we would never be able to disguise that fact that we were a couple of forty-something, mortgage-weary, office-bound farts who’d been let out on day release to go to the seaside. God help the good people of Devon.
Chapter Sixteen
