by Jo Edwards
Thursday
Bad weather had closed in, and the building was being buffeted by gales and lashed by driving rain. I got asked the question I always got asked in poor weather conditions, usually the second a snowflake flutters past the window: “Will we be sent home?” I told them if they saw a cow fly past the fourth floor window like in Twister then they could go home. There was a lot of grumbling at this point, and I could hear the admin team saying things like “the end is nigh” and making references to The Day after Tomorrow. I was dreading going home to see if my fence panels were still intact.
I received an email from Cruella which said Brett the Boss had asked her to arrange an emergency resource meeting with the managers so we could have the usual bun-fight over who gives up people to help the claims team in Bridgend. Why did he ask her and not me? Was she in charge now? It felt as if she had already won. I asked The Rock to attend for me. I couldn’t bear being answerable to Cruella just now.
The pressure was getting to everyone. The Drain came back from the canteen flushed and angry after having had a stand-up row with one of the canteen ladies over the pieces of chicken in his chicken curry. He said there were only five, and refused to pay the £2.90 unless they gave him more chicken pieces. The canteen lady refused, saying that she was only allowed to dish out five pieces to each customer. The Drain had put down his curry and walked out, saying he’d never eat in there again. I said I thought he always brought sandwiches in for his lunch. Apparently his wife was spending every evening practising for a salsa competition and wasn’t getting home until very late. When he’d suggested to her last night that she might be neglecting him and the children, he’d found a parsnip and two ping pong balls when he’d opened his lunch box. She didn’t take kindly to criticism. He went off to devise a strongly worded letter to the canteen manager.
It was dark when I got home, so I took a torch out to the garden. There were no holes where the fence should be, which was a result, but I could see that one of the panels was flapping about in the wind. Oh bugger, that would need sorting. I remembered to phone Kieron. He was very chatty, and we had a laugh about the wedding, the dreadful song choices and the festive wedding breakfast. He wanted quotes for his buildings and contents insurance so I took lots of details from him and promised to get one of my guys to give him a call with some figures. He said he hadn’t been able to work today because of the awful weather. I told him I had a wobbly fence panel.
“I could have a look at that for you if you like. Unless your husband can fix it of course, I wouldn’t like to tread on his toes.” You can tread on his dick if you like, I don’t care. I told him that would be great if he could, and we arranged for him to call round on Saturday morning. Hooray! How brilliant, I might be able to get something fixed without having to wait weeks for the Husband to do it and having to chase him over and over. Kieron might be a very useful person to know.
Friday
The Snake had a glint in her eye and a jaunty slide in her slither. She told me that Lee Halfpenny had failed the final part of his progression plan as he hadn’t met his quality targets - could we dismiss him now?
I told her to email his plan and any notes to HR and get them to arrange a final hearing. We might be getting somewhere at last.
I got caught by The Office Bore, who proceeded to tell me without stopping to draw breath about her new three-piece suite, her grand-daughter’s ballet lessons (she’s the new Darcey Bussell apparently, although I’ve seen a photo and didn’t realise Darcey was so rotund or squinted quite so badly), her friends’ bed and breakfast, her husband’s gout.... I almost screamed in her face: “Shut up shut up shut up! I couldn’t give the tiniest shit!” but stopped myself by clenching my fists and digging my fingernails into my palms. Why did no one ask me how I was feeling? I was on the brink of losing my job. Why hadn’t Brett phoned me to see if I was ok? Or texted, or emailed? It wouldn’t have killed him. Come to that, why hadn’t the Husband been in touch? I’d heard nothing from him all week, not since Monday when I’d accused him of stealing from me and sleeping with another woman. Hmmm, perhaps I shouldn’t really expect to hear from him anytime soon.
Karen wanted to meet up for a drink in the evening but I was too drained from the week. I just wanted a glass of wine, a bar of Dairy Milk and the remote control. Flopped on the sofa. Actually, this wasn’t so bad, I could get used to this. I might have to soon.
Saturday was another foul day, cold and wet and miserable. Kieron turned up and braved the rain to sort out the wobbly fence panel. I made him a coffee when he’d finished and we sat in the conservatory chatting and dunking my favourite Choco Leibniz (chocolate lesbian!) biscuits. He was such a nice guy, easy to talk to and very easy on the eye with his floppy fair hair, high cheek bones and lovely twinkly blue eyes. I half wished The Husband would turn up and fly into a jealous rage when he saw I was entertaining a good looking man in our house. Oh, who was I kidding? He probably wouldn’t have cared less. Even if we’d been rolling around naked on the sheepskin rug he’d have just stepped over us, asking “Have you seen my trainers anywhere?”
Kieron had asked me where The Husband was. I’d said “Er, he’s playing golf,” and I could tell by the way he glanced outside at the sideways rain that he wasn’t convinced. He wouldn’t take any money for fixing the panel, but instead said I could buy him a drink sometime. As he was leaving, he said he was going to see a local jazz band play at The Mill that evening. Without thinking I exclaimed: “Oh God, how ghastly for you, I just hate jazz, it always sounds to me like a load of random instruments being tuned up!” He looked a bit crest-fallen and I could have kicked myself for being so crass - he was obviously a fan and he’d been so helpful. I am a complete buffoon.
I drove over to see my parents in the afternoon. My mum opened the door looking worried.
“Oh Kate, it’s your father, he’s not well at all.” Was she confused? Did she think my father was the one that was ill and not her? I went to find my Dad. He was sat in their lounge with one of his legs propped up on the pouffe, his ankle wrapped in a bandage.
“Oh Dad, what have you done?” I cried.
“Those bloody doves!” he said, grimacing in pain. “All pecking the bloody lawn to pieces. I slipped on the steps and went arse over tit. Bloody ankle turned right over.”
“You were chasing the doves?” I asked, examining the bandage, which had been very crudely applied.
“No, I was chasing a bloody cat that was chasing the bloody doves. Sodding things, they’re a complete menace, those bloody idiots next door, couple of complete imbeciles.”
I went to get some stronger pain killers from the pharmacy. Honestly, it was probably worse than having kids.
Sunday
There was nothing for it. I had to complete the application for my own job, tomorrow was the deadline. I got set up in the study with a percolator of strong coffee gurgling away in the kitchen. At least my CV was up to date after the sales manager debacle. The most difficult part was saying why I was a suitable candidate for the role. It’s not easy to complete this for a job that you didn’t actually want. I wrote:
“I have been in this role for 12 years, and could be considered to be performing well, although my boss does not speak to me very much or give me any feedback, so I’ve had to assume that no news is good news. I don’t want to do the job anymore as it would be fair to say I’ve grown to detest the company, but I desperately need to keep in paid employment as my husband may be about to leave me high and dry and I don’t want to have to live in a bed-sit that smells of cabbage. I can’t stand the buggery bollocks bullshit spin from above, the stupid politics which I don’t understand but often fall foul of, the willy-waving Boys’ Club of which I’m obviously not a member, or the constant scape-goating in this no-blame culture. I know that in some jobs, although the role itself may be despised, its saving grace is the great people that you work with. Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those jobs. The fact that I am having to complete this application
makes me feel sick to my stomach with self-loathing and hatred. I am, however, excellent at disguising contempt, both for myself and for others, and I feel it is this skill that makes me the perfect candidate for this role in the Perypils management team.”
I left that paragraph in place whilst I got on with the rest of the form. I would, of course, be deleting it later, not quite having the balls to submit it, but it felt good to have it there. Not that I should have worried - nobody would actually be reading the bloody form.
The box-filling took all day and into the evening. I finished it about midnight and went to bed, but couldn’t sleep as my mind was still too active. Kieron had texted me to say “Thank you for introducing me to chocolate lesbians, it was my first time and I’m going to be having them more often from now on!” which had made me chuckle, but I’d heard nothing from the Husband all weekend. Was that it, were we finished? I realised I hadn’t snooped around his Facebook pages for almost a week, and shocked myself by thinking that perhaps I just didn’t care what he got up to anymore. Did I still love him? If I had to write an application for the position to remain as his wife, what would I write? Would I even want to apply?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
