ONE
To the thief who took my sandwich (egg & cress on rye)
I have one thing to say to you: we are not children here!
We are all grownups, so act like one!
Return my sandwich immediately
Or I’ll find who you are and report you to HR!!!
Rosalie from Litigations
I blink. Then read the note again.
‘Er… Rosalie... Did you really ask me down here because of... this?’
I point at the A4 piece of paper sellotaped to the fridge door. Behind me Rosalie, from Litigations, emits a squeak and nods a few times.
‘Vile, isn’t it?’ She gasps. I peer into her wild-eyed face. She looks so excited she’s crushing that red folder she is clutching to her chest. Over a note on the fridge. Boy, some people really need to get a life.
‘Right,’ I say and smile politely. ‘Yes, it’s er… very strange,’ then run out of things to say. What I want to ask is: what’s that got to do with me? I’m HR, for Christ’s sake. Not the lunch police.
‘But… but what could I possibly do in this situation?’ I ask Rosalie.
‘It’s not just the note.’ Rosalie takes a step forward and sides with me before the fridge. She leans her almond-scented blonde head over my shoulder and whispers conspiratorially in my ear. ‘There is much more!’
Oh God, I can’t take much more of this. The polite smile freezes on my face. I’m too tired. This is my seventy-second workday in a row. I’m kind of brain-dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m making all this up.
А surreal suspicion springs into my mind and makes me narrow my eyes: this is a set up! I’m in one of those “Britain’s Funniest Office Videos” or something. A TV crew is probably hiding in the kitchen cupboards as we speak and are just waiting for me to lose my marbles and start breaking things, to jump out at me and say – Smile! You are on camera. – Then I’d have to pretend I find it all really funny. I’d have to wave to my family and friends at home, while secretly wanting to squirt washing up liquid all over the floor, so the TV crew would slip and crack their sculls open.
Then my eyes fall on an oily Tupperware box in the sink. Some salad dregs are floating in it. There are a couple of mugs there as well. The top one has Get Shit Done clearly written on it. I look at the open packet of digestives spilling crumbs over the table and floor, the soup bowl with dried-out green specks on the sides, and deduce that we are probably not being filmed. They’d have tidied up before that, surely.
This is exactly what it appears to be: a petty tiff over lunch food. I relax my shoulders and look at Rosalie with amused eyes.
‘Let me guess what’s coming next,’ I say. ‘The sandwich thief stole a packet of crisps too? Throw in a can of coke and we could make it a Meal Deal.’ I giggle into my fist, but Rosalie’s creased face shrivels the smile on my lips.
‘If this matter is beneath you, Sky, I could always take it up with Mr Hamilton. I’m sure he’d love to hear about an employee dispute you couldn’t be bothered to get involved in.’ Rosalie adopts a stoic expression.
Not George! Not today, I beg silently.
George is my boss and I’m… hmm… I kind of care about him. Of what he thinks of me anyway. It’s important to me that he sees me as a lovely… professional woman. Yes, I’d like for him to see me as someone who he can lean on. From behind.
No! Why did I think that? Scratch it.
What I meant was, that I’d like for him to see me as someone who he can lean on in difficult situations. Like this one. Which I’m going to solve completely on my own.
‘Rosalie.’ I stretch my lips over my teeth hoping it’ll pass for a smile. ‘I didn’t mean to be dismissive. Theft of employees’ property is a serious matter and we would never overlook that kind of stuff.’
Her expression doesn’t change, so I throw in, ‘I’ve been having this blinding headache all morning and even an elephant dose of Nurofen wouldn’t shift it.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Rosalie says with a tone of voice that suggests she couldn’t give a rat’s ass if my brain matter leaked all over the tiled kitchen floor.
I ignore her lack of sympathy. With an upbeat tone of voice, that doesn’t match in any way my lack of enthusiasm for the problem at hand, I say, ‘Please, tell me everything. We’ll do our best to sort this out for you, Rosalie.’
Triumphantly, Rosalie plonks the red folder on the table and makes the biscuit crumbs fly in all directions. She opens it up with a flourish.
‘He wrote back!’ she declares and spears the first page in the folder with a thin index finger. Her face has become animated again.
I steal a glance at my watch. Twelve-fifteen. There goes my lunch break.
‘Who wrote back?’ I stare confused at the blood-red nail digging into the words on the page. My mind makes a lame effort to keep up, but it’s no use. I’ve pretty much been on autopilot since the weekend before last. Good job I know my way around the office by heart.
‘The thief!’ Rosalie exclaims, exasperated. ‘Look!’ She unclips the A4 piece of paper from the folder and hands it to me. ‘I found this taped to the fridge door, next to my message.’
I read slowly.
You can do zilch, Rosalie, baby.
You have no idea who I am.
I have your sandwich here. Safe, for now.
I’ll give it back, undigested, if you buy me a pizza.
The Sandwich Snatcher
This time I take a beat to respond. My first reaction is, that’s absolutely hilarious! but the last thing I want is for Rosalie to accuse me of siding with that snatcher person.
My second thought is, Vanessa would have loved this. But that’s no use either.
‘Right.’ I say with my most serious tone of voice. ‘How is that helping us, though?’
‘Ah!’ Rosalie jubilantly hands me yet another piece of paper. ‘I wrote back too!’
Before I read the next instalment of this saga I close my eyes and imagine a Cadbury Creme Egg melting in my mouth. I let the heat work on the imaginary chocolate shell first, before pressing it with my tongue to my palate and letting the creamy, gooey inside slowly slip down the back of my throat.
Mmmm… Already I feel better.
Then I read.
Sandwich Thief,
What’s WRONG with you???
Rosalie
I put the paper down. ‘Let me guess. You pinned that up on the fridge and he wrote back?’ I think I’m getting the hang of this.
‘Correct!’ Rosalie rolls her ’r’s in a self-satisfied manner.
Another piece of paper is unclipped from the folder and presented to me. It’s printed on pale yellow, thick paper this time. I lift my brows while fumbling the velvety letterhead that’s not for general use between my fingers.
‘Sorry about the paper,’ Rosalie says, a bit deflated. ‘The printer was out and this was the first one at hand.’
‘Mhm…?’ I say only half listening while reading.
Buy me a pizza, Rosalie, and I’ll show you
That there is nothing wrong with me.
Time is running out for your precious Egg and Cress.
Tick-tock, Rosalie. Tick. Tock.
The SS
I hand back the note and lift my hands up for a good face rub. This is getting to be quite a story. As I glide my palms over my eyes, I hear the unmistakable popping of stiches at the back of my suit jacket. I hastily put my hands down, brushing some crumbs off the table, pretending that’s what I meant to do all along. I’ve been eating quite a lot lately and my clothes are feeling the strain. I need to cut back on carbs and sugar. I’ve been saying that to myself for five months now.
‘…and that was the last note from him,’ Rosalie stands before me, blabbing. ‘But it gave me an idea!’
‘Let’s hear it,’ I say.
‘You know the printer’s queue? The stuff that you print comes out with stuff other people print?’ Rosalie adopts a hushed, important voice, as if we are planning to break into Broadmoor and help unjustly-imprisoned inmates escape, not merely discussing who took a sandwich from the office kitchenette.
‘Yeah, I know it.’ I match her hushed voice.
‘So, you can track down who’s printing what at different times, yeah?’
‘Yeah, go on.’ I nod, still having no clue what she’s on about.
‘I thought the queue could lead us straight to the thief’s computer!’
Dread sweeps over me. ‘Gosh, Rosalie.’ I squirm. ‘How long is this going to take? It’s just that, you know, we are a tad understaffed right now. I really can’t spare too much time to…’ “Chase pavements”, I want to add but don’t.
‘I knew you’d say that.’ Rosalie pinches her lips and a couple of strikingly symmetrical dimples appear on her cheeks. ‘So, I did it myself!’
‘Right,’ I say, meaning, “I have no clue what you’re on about now”. ‘Er… what exactly did you do yourself?’
‘I know who the thief is, Sky.’ She looks down at me, as if I’m a particularly thick five-year old.
‘Oh, right. Well done!’ I take a step back from her and bump into a chair. I was never very good at rebuffing people’s passive-aggressive behaviour. If Vanessa were here Rosalie would have been the one taking steps back and bumping into furniture. But she is not. ‘Who is it then?’
‘Martin McDermid!’ Rosalie proclaims with a clear voice.
‘And who’s that?’ I say.
‘How would I know?’ Rosalie throws her hands over her head in exasperation. ‘You are the HR! You have access to the system.’
Suddenly, it dawns on me. ‘So, that’s why I’m here! You want me to tell you who this Martin guy is?’
‘Eh, yeah!’ Rosalie says.
‘Come along then.’ I turn on my heels. Finally, we are getting somewhere. ‘Let’s check this out.’
We walk briskly up the stairs and down a corridor. Rosalie is trotting behind. Her ponytail swishes from shoulder to shoulder and disperses more of the almond scent she seems to have bathed in.
‘So, what do you think will happen to him?’ she says.
‘What will happen to whom?’ I ask absently. I just remembered there is a leadership training coming up on the eleventh next month. I’d invited a key note speaker that was really keen. Midway through finalising arrangements, he stopped answering my emails. I need to find out what happened to him.
‘The sandwich thief!’ Rosalie clicks her tongue.
‘Oh, yeah. That. I don’t know.’ And don’t care, actually.
‘Can you fire him?’ Rosalie asks with avid glee.
‘George can. I can’t.’
‘But you might, after the promotion?’
The promotion. At the mere mentioning of the word I feel a familiar tug at the pit of my stomach. I’m getting promoted simply because my best friend has left. I don’t want the advancements in my life to happen over the misfortunes of those nearest to me. It’s so ironic. It’s like in that song by Alanis Morissette:
“An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day.”
Same here: the only reason George has offered me to step up and become Assistant Manager is because Vanessa disappeared. And, by the look of it, is not coming back. I miss her to bits.
Anyway, I brush a strand of hair off my forehead. I’m not going to dwell on it now. I can’t spare a single thought for it, I’m that busy. Emails to answer. People to talk to. Documents to print and file away. I need to crack on.
‘So, would the thief be escorted out of the building?’ Rosalie carries on. ‘Like that bloke, Jake, who nicked the broken stuff from the techies’ cupboard?’
I can’t help noticing that Rosalie is quite an eager and bloodthirsty person. It’s unbecoming for such an almond-scented, lovely-looking creature.
‘Let’s see how things pan out, shall we?’ I quip.
Rosalie and I walk into the HR room and go straight to the nearest desktop computer. I type Martin McDermid into the employee database system.
‘Here we are,’ I say as a form pops up on the screen. A picture of a boyish, twenty-something guy fills the left-hand side. All there is to know about him loads up on the right.
‘A new employee.’ I read out. ‘Started five week ago. Works at Web Services and complex—’
Behind me Rosalie gives a high-pitched giggle.
‘What is it?’ I say baffled. I cannot keep up with the mood swings of the girl.
‘I know him,’ she says. ‘I just didn’t know his surname is McDermid.’
‘Oh, right. What else has he done? Has he stolen someone else’s lunch before? It’s not in the system.’ I scroll up and down but the file is short and unblemished.
‘No. No! He hasn’t, I think. I don’t know.’ Rosalie hugs her red file to her chest. ‘It’s just that—’
‘What?’ I ask impatiently. I’ve just logged into my email account. I’ve received thirty-two new ones in the twenty minutes I’ve been away. That’s on top of the hundreds I’ve been trying to clear out since this morning. I can’t wait for the weekend to start. I’d still be working but at least nobody would be sending me emails by the hundred.
‘Martin, has sort of invited me to go out with him.’ Rosalie smiles and sways from left to right in a girlish manner. ‘Grab a pizza, you know. That sort of thing. And I said I’d go.’
‘What are you saying?’ I look up from the screen. ‘It was all a joke? The missing lunch. The notes.’ My wasted time, I add in my mind.
‘I think so,’ Rosalie nods.
‘And you don’t want me to do anything about it?’
‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’ It’s Rosalie’s turn to step back now, wishing she wasn’t in the room.
‘Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out.’ I say, quickly going over a memo I’ve been included in regarding a bulk order of stationery. I bin it. Nothing to do with me.
‘Don’t let me keep you any longer,’ I tell Rosalie.
‘Yes. Sorry. And thank you, Sky. I really appreciate your… help.’ Rosalie is attempting to walk out of the room backwards, as if I’m the Queen and she’s not supposed to show me her back. She gives me a little wave from the door. I wave back. Before we exchange any more awkward gestures I turn around and start reading the next unread email.
Hi Sky,
We have a request from Bright Future for a comprehensive database compilation.
It should include all current employees aged 16 (do we employ them as young as that?!) to 35 for research on social and geographical movement amongst young professionals. Fill in name, age, nationality, qualifications (all educational level completed), home address, birth address, immigration status (if applicable), salary.
We are participating in this research alongside Delft Computers and Nile Tech, so there might be other info Bright Future requires along the way. I’ll be in touch.
Format of data: Excel table.
Please, email data file to [email protected]
Thanks!
Best wishes,
Laura Ryan
Marketing Manager
XIM Technics
Research. I yawn. We get this kind of requests on a regular basis. I open the HR database, fill in the required fields for the data extraction and press Enter. For a moment I stare hypnotised at the computer progress loading the data.
17%... 26%... 34%...
I snap out of it with a jolt, as if a whip has been cracked in my head. I think I might have fallen asleep with my eyes open.
‘Right,’ I say to myself. I need to crack on. I don’t have time to stare at compiling databases.
I start preparing the Freytag’s questionnaire to be sent out. It’s a simple form asking for feedback regarding individual goals in the line of work. “How effective do you feel you are in your current role?” “What hasn’t gone as well as expected?” That kind of stuff. It’s a massive task. It needs to go out to every single person in the company. The annual appraisal of employees depends on it, so I consider the Freytag’s questionnaire top priority. Unfortunately, no one else does. People ignore it completely. Half the time they don’t respond at all, so I have to pester them repeatedly. It’s hellish.
As I address the email to practically everyone in the company and start typing the email’s body, a door opens at the end of the HR room and George emerges from the management office.
I lift a hand hastily and adjust my hair to one side. I know George wouldn’t give me the time of day—he’s also very busy—but I can’t help myself. Which is superfluous. Vanessa was the pretty one in the XIM Technics HR department. I’m the work horse, I guess. But even work horses fall in love sometimes. Not that I’m in love with George or anything. I start typing again furiously.
‘I’m glad we’ve ironed that one out,’ George is saying to someone he’s seeing off. ‘I’ll let you know when I have more to report and we’ll take it from there.’
I listen to George’s voice. It has the effect of gentle fingers at the nape of my neck, caressing, seducing. I shiver. I love listening to him talk. His deep, smooth voice. His mouth as red as a smear of raspberry jam on a spoon. I’d like to lick it clean. I’ve watched it from afar for three whole years now. My heart melts like a chocolate button at the tip of my tongue every time I think of him.
‘For both our sakes I hope you get your hands on some good CVs soon, George. God knows you’ve got the budget for new recruits. It’s time we do something about it.’ George’s visitor is Jingling Malcolm, the Chief Human Resources Officer. He has a posh, nasal voice that plucks me away from my fantasy instantly.
I don’t like Jingling Malcolm. He’s a wheezy sort of guy with an angry-red, peeling forehead and the annoying habit of walking around the office while jingling change in his pocket. I have no desire to see him this morning. Good job George’s broad shoulders are blocking him from view.
Vanessa gave him the nickname Jingling Malcolm. We used to laugh at him behind his back. He’d walk into the HR room, stand behind me looking at the screen of my computer, jingle his change and asking the most obvious questions. “How do we measure the cost of sick days at XIM Technics?” Or “What I’d like to know is who really controls the temperature thermostat in HR?” It used to drive me nuts.
‘We’ll touch base again Monday morning,’ Jingling Malcolm is saying to George.
I get back to work. I don’t want George to turn around and see me staring at his back. It’d be inappropriate and a tad creepy. George is very professional. He’s never shown anything but respect towards me in my professional capacity. He values me and Vanessa as colleagues. That’s all.
Well, he used to value Vanessa. And if she were ever to come back to XIM Technics he’d value her again, I’m sure. But Vanessa left a few months ago without as much as a backward glance, so he values just me now.
The HR at XIM Technics was never a big department. Basically, it was just George, Vanessa and me. George is the boss. Vanessa dealt with internal communications. I was in charge of interviewing new recruits. We did everything together, Vanessa and I—worked, laughed, played and puked (only when drunk).
Now it’s only silly little me left behind. I’m trying to get to grips with Vanessa not being around, but it’s hard. I really hope she’ll come back. That’s why I’ve been working around the clock. And that’s why I’m still pondering over To Get Promoted or Not to Get Promoted. I want her to still have a job if she comes back.
Her abrupt disappearance left everyone in a pickle. Everyone was in a huff over it, asking me what the hell happened. The whole company knows some sort of a story of her departure, but nobody knows the truth. Including me.
George closes the door, turns on his heels and walks towards my desk with a swagger. I gulp. With every step he takes, my fingers hit the keyboard harder. My head has gone all woolly and hazy. I’ve got no idea what I’m typing. I’ll have to delete all of it later, but I have to keep my hands busy in George’s presence. Otherwise I’ll start brushing my hair with my fingers or rubbing my nose. All sorts of random things I do when I’m anxious.
‘It’s that time of the year, Sky,’ he says and smiles down at me. I have no idea what he’s on about, but I smile back. George has lively, black onyx eyes and a lopsided grin that flashes when offset against his thick, three-day old stubble. ‘I need the P45 folder to compare employees’ turnaround like to like for same time last year.’
‘Already done,’ I croak and clear my throat hastily. ‘Sorry, I’ve just sent you the statistics in an email attachment. It’ll be easier to pass around to the other heads of departments, I reckon.’
I see the corners of George’s mouth soften with gratitude that I’ve taken on some of his workload. It makes the half hour spent doing the P45 folder worthwhile. I had to come extra early today, but I like making George’s life easier.
‘You are a star, Sky,’ he says. ‘I wish you’d hurry up and accept the promotion, so we can all move on.’
I look away. I’d love to have the promotion, of course. It means more money and God only knows I need it. But…
‘I’ll give you my answer first thing Monday morning, George. I promise,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
‘All right.’ He raps his knuckles on my desk. ‘I hope you make the right decision.’
I expect him to move on after that. Behind the closed door of his office. He’s been spending a lot of time there lately, alone and, I imagine, lonely. But he still stands by my desk, tapping gently the lacquered surface with the longish nails of his right hand. George plays the guitar. As if he could get any more suave, right?
I look up at him expectantly. He looks like he’s in two minds about something.
‘Sky, I’ve got to ask you something,’ he says eventually. ‘I know we are not in that kind of a relationship but—’
There is a vulnerable expression under his ink-black mop of curls that makes me hold my breath.
Oh. My. God! He’s going to ask me out! My heart sinks. Today, of all days.
Any other day I’d be free in the evenings. I have no time, money, reason, or desire to go out these days. It’s a bottle of white wine with a microwaved dinner for me. Without exception. But today…
Today, I have to rush home by seven to interview a prospective candidate for Vanessa’s room, in our shared flat at Elsworthy Road. I’ve been paying for it myself for more than five months now. The meagre savings I had have melted away like the Arctic snow cap. Financially, I can no longer hold out for Vanessa’s return.
I look up at George’s face with its aquiline nose, pale skin and sad, droopy eyes, and curse my bad luck. Why ask me today? Why not any other day?
I’ve had this crush for years and now that he’s finally acting upon it I can’t respond. How could Fate be so cruel? I’ll own up to a little crush, but not that I’m in love. Teensy-weensy crush that sometimes involves checking if our star signs are compatible on astrology.com. The sort of things that every girl has done at one time or another about her boss, surely.
‘I’m so sorry, George.’ I say remorseful. ‘But I can’t—’
The devastation I feel inside must have spilled out all over my face, because George takes one look at me and backtracks.
‘It’s all right, Sky. I was planning on doing it myself anyway, no biggie…’ he says.
Now I’m taken aback.
‘Sorry, George, I’m not sure I follow.’ I frown.
‘I was just wondering if you could pick up my dry cleaning.’ He takes out his wallet and lays a slip from Classi Clean on my desk. ‘It’s on your way to the bus stop, so I thought it’d be no trouble. But if you are busy I’d understand.’ His puzzled expression indicates that it’s hard for him to imagine what I’d be busy with. He didn’t suppose I had any kind of life outside the office. Which, of course, I don’t.
‘You want me to pick up your dry cleaning,’ I say. I’m fighting hard to maintain a poker face. Inside, I’m hysterical: crying and laughing the same time.
Of course, he wasn’t going to ask you out, silly cow. What are you like? I lower my gaze and pat over a stack of CVs I haven’t gotten around to filing yet, into a prim pile. ‘Er… Sorry, George. Yeah. I can do that. I can totally pick up your dry cleaning. No problem at all.’
‘It’s all right if you can’t—’ George says, but the ticket is still lying prominently between us. He wants me to do this for him, I can see that.
‘But I can.’ I snatch it away before he says anything more. ‘It’d be no trouble.’
I’m nodding my head so vigorously my neck’s creaking.
‘You could bring it on Monday if it suits; I don’t need it over the weekend.’
‘Monday. Of course. I can do that.’ My neck will snap any minute now. This nodding must stop. Now I know how a Churchill dog feels at the back of a car. Poor thing.
‘If you think it’s not appropriate I’ll fetch it myself one of these days. When I can pop out of the office before seven-thirty.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I’ll pick it up, no worries.’
‘Thanks, Sky. I appreciate it.’
I watch George as he drifts away towards the management office. I look longingly after him. When he disappears from view, I open the top drawer of my desk and pick up a bag of Percy Pigs. I stuff a handful in my mouth with a quiet sigh.
The thing is, I used to imagine there was something between George and me. When Vanessa was around the three of us used to get hammered together.
I remember the first time it happened, right after Vanessa started working at XIM Technics, we went out for a pint after work. We ended up going to a karaoke bar afterwards and I left Vanessa and George there at two o’clock in the morning singing along to Anaconda. I had to go because I was feeling sick and I didn’t want to risk puking my guts in front of George. After that, nights out became a regular thing. At least once a month we’d go to the Well and Bucket for a pint.
I thought that now Vanessa was gone we’d carry on going out, but just the two of us. I thought things between us might develop. Like in that film, where two bereft spouses whose respective better halves had died in the same plane crash fall in love, while supporting each other over the loss. I hoped the loss of Vanessa would bring us closer and things would sort of develop from there. But no supporting of each other has happened since. Not once. I chew on the Percy Pigs thoughtfully.
‘But what fun is going out with your boss?’ Samantha from Marketing had asked us once, over a pint. ‘Isn’t the office Christmas party enough of a pain in the butt? You spend all night keeping some semblance of decorum and end up sober and broke. Or worse: you get hammered and embarrass yourself before people you have to see every day for the rest of the year.’
‘We had every kind of fun,’ Vanessa said and winked at me.
For a moment, an image of George and her kissing passionately in a doorway—his hand way up her skirt—jolts me upright. Was that a memory or is my paranoid imagination toying with me? Was it possible…? Would Vanessa do such a thing knowing how much I… еr, value George?
I watch her rummaging through her bag and pulling out a strawberry-red lip gloss. She makes a perfect “O” with her lips, applies a thick coat of gloss and rubs them together to spread it evenly. Her face is clean and lovely. Her hair freshly washed.
No, I shake my head. This is rubbish. I shouldn’t psyche myself into thinking stuff that never happened. Vanessa is my friend, my best friend. She’d never do anything to hurt me.
Before I know it the Percy Pigs have all found their way into my mouth. At least, they’ll be safe there from the big bad wolf. I finish the Freytag’s questionnaire email and am just about to double check it before I send it out to the world, when I hear a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ I call out.
A woman’s head pops around the door.
‘Sorry to bother you, Sky.’ It’s Sandra, Head of Sales, looking flustered. ‘Annie’s having contractions down on the sales floor and I was wondering if you could call BUPA and see if they can send someone over? She’s in her last trimester but doesn’t want to go to the A&E. Says hospitals are petri dishes for germs and she’d be fine anyway.’
‘Gosh!’ I send the questionnaire as quickly as I can and grab my Filofax. I store in it all important numbers exactly for cases like this. ‘I hope I can help.’
‘I so hate to burden you with this, when, you know, you are swamped under a double amount of work,’ Sandra is saying. We rush down the hallway toward the lifts.
‘No, no, no. Don’t be silly! Happy to help.’
