Chapter 2
Michelle Redlin-Wu scrolled through her inbox and sighed. Everyone seemed to be yelling about pregnant mares’ urine. Thanks to a recent news story, PMU panic was about to ruin her day. Same old, same old – where did all this fake news come from?
She couldn’t face horse piss on an empty stomach, so she kept scrolling.
Did Stott and Speyer Pharmaceuticals make a wild yam extract?
No. Could Michelle please send over a copy of the latest HRT education sheet?
Yes. There were emails about supply-chain issues.
Key performance indicators. Squeezed in among all the business emails was a reminder: Colville Grammar School would be celebrating its one hundredth year in two weeks’ time.
As an Old Girl, she could buy tickets to the Centenary Gala at a ten per cent discount. Hurry! This offer ends soon!
‘Fuck off,’ she muttered, hitting delete.
Then she glanced around guiltily. She worked in an open-plan office with three other desks and no screen dividers, so she could have been overheard. But Beth was on a Zoom call, Diya had donned headphones and Amal had disappeared. No one was listening, thank God.
Instead of dropping F-bombs everywhere, Key Account Managers like Michelle were supposed to set an example.
They were meant to be professional. Sedate.
They changed into high heels at work and wore dark suits that didn’t show food spills.
They never upset their accounts receivable teams. Michelle kept her desk neat, her voice low and her black hair tied back with an elastic.
She wasn’t glamorous but she was reliable, staying in the background during client presentations, ready with the right data point if her boss stumbled.
The sudden chirp of her desk phone nearly gave her a heart attack.
‘Michelle Redlin-Wu.’
‘Michelle? It’s Jemima.’
Michelle racked her brain. Jemima? Didn’t ring a bell.
‘Jemima Leong? From HR?’ The voice at the other end of the line was as sweet and light as meringue.
‘Oh, hi.’ Michelle vaguely recalled Jemima from the last company Christmas bash.
Her boss had shoved them together, crying, ‘I can’t believe you two haven’t met, yet!
’ – presumably because of their surnames.
After exchanging crooked smiles, she and Jemima had discussed generic injectables for a few minutes, then parted.
‘I was wondering if you could pop up and see me,’ Jemima said. ‘Won’t take long. I’m on the fifth floor – turn right when you get out of the lift. I’m at the end.’
‘Now?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not really. I’ll be right there.’
As Michelle headed for the lifts, her phone rang.
She hauled it from her pocket and checked the screen: unknown caller.
Best ignored. The lift arrived and, stepping in, she tried to remember how long it had been since she’d last set foot in HR.
Two years? Three? Up on the fifth floor, she finally reached the door marked Staff Manager/Leong and raised her hand to knock, wondering what this could be about.
A couple of months earlier, her dad had broken his hip.
She’d used up most of her holidays feeding him, dressing him and wrestling him onto a shower seat.
It was only after returning to work that she’d applied to reclassify the leave she’d taken as ‘carer’s’ instead of ‘recreational’.
And that request was about to be denied, she concluded, because HR didn’t usually set up meetings to break good news.
They rarely bothered to do it for bad news.
‘Come,’ said Jemima.
When Michelle entered, she thought someone had mistaken a walk-in wardrobe for an office.
Perhaps Jemima had scored the space because, being so young, she was slim enough to squeeze between the desk, the two chairs and the filing cabinet.
There was a tissue box in the middle of the desk, and it caught Michelle’s attention.
Though tissue boxes were standard equipment for HR, they were usually tucked away in drawers, ready to be whisked out for bereaved and bullied staff.
Oh, shit, thought Michelle, her internal alarms triggered.
‘Nice to see you again.’ Jemima sounded like a yoga teacher, soft and mellow. ‘Please. Sit. I’m sorry to drag you up here. You must be very busy with the PMU story in the Herald . . .’
Michelle grunted as she slid into the visitor’s chair. Her gaze hopped around the room, looking for clues. There were two pink files at Jemima’s elbow. What did pink mean, in HR? Was it diversity training? Or – dear God – a performance plan?
‘I guess you deal with a lot of PMU enquiries in the Menopause Business Unit.’ Jemima leaned forward, her tone almost caressing. ‘You handle the Climacteric Control Portfolio, correct?’
Michelle stiffened. ‘Are you about to tell me there’s been a portfolio reshuffle?’
Jemima blinked and Michelle could see her rebooting.
‘Actually, you’re right. Our Market Development team thinks that it makes sense to merge three portfolios – yours, Birth Control, and our Incontinence and Pelvic Organ Prolapse portfolio – into one overarching business unit called Women’s Health. ’
You mean Women’s Ghetto. ‘And where do I fit in?’
A beat.
As Jemima licked her lips, Michelle caught her breath. It couldn’t be . . .
‘Well, the thing is, Michelle, with all this restructuring and some streamlining in other areas of the company . . .’
It was. She was being laid off. Binned. She broke into a sweat as Jemima’s voice faded and her own pulse began to thump like a hammer behind her eyes.
‘. . . too many senior staff. Which isn’t a reflection on you. Your performance has always been outstanding . . .’
The tissue box seemed to materialise under Michelle’s nose. Jemima was leaning across the desk, holding it out. ‘Tissue?’ she said, in a deeply concerned voice. As if she was sorry. So very, very sorry.
Michelle shook her head, wanting to smack the tissue box across the room. Her hand was quivering, ready to strike. She breathed in, slowly. Then out, slowly. Her vision cleared and she gripped her knees.
Jemima opened one of the pink files and started sliding documents across the desk: outcome letter, notice of termination, superannuation pamphlet.
‘. . . and because we appreciate all that you’ve done during your many, many years with the company, your severance payment will of course be generous . . .’
And that was that. At forty-nine, Michelle was too old.
She was costing Stott and Speyer too much.
She wondered if she should contact a lawyer – Ilse Eklund, for instance.
Ilse was retired, but she’d been head of the legal department in Michelle’s old job.
Ilse would know if Michelle had a leg to stand on.
Michelle’s phone pinged. Normally she wouldn’t check her texts in the middle of a meeting, but she had nothing to lose. Yanking the phone out of her pocket, she saw a message from the New South Wales Police Force. Urgent. Please call this number.
‘Shit.’ Normally she didn’t swear during meetings either; today was obviously her day for burning bridges.
As Michelle called the number, Jemima waved at her and said nervously, ‘If you’re planning to contact any legal representation, there are procedures that have to be followed—’
‘Shh!’ Michelle turned away, blurting out her name and straining to hear the voice at the other end of the line.
A Constable Jordan Naidu thanked her for calling.
‘Is it my dad?’ she asked. ‘Has something happened?’
Yes. Her father – was his name Rolf Redlin? Yes? Good. Her father had sustained a fall at home and had been taken to hospital. The police had been obliged to enter the premises by force. The door to Michelle’s flat was damaged.
‘Your downstairs neighbour said she’d arrange to get it fixed, but you should probably talk to her about that,’ the officer said.
‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God.’ Michelle nearly dropped the phone. She was on her feet now, facing the door.
‘Your dad was conscious when he left. He’s been taken to Prince of Wales. By ambulance.’
‘But what happened? Was it his hip? It’s brand new!’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. You should contact the hospital.’
‘Yes, I – yes.’ Could you get a refund on a faulty hip replacement?
‘There’s also been some water damage. Your neighbour has the details. She tried to call you earlier.’ Before signing off, Constable Naidu added, ‘Um . . . you might want to bring some clothes for your dad. He wasn’t wearing anything. Apparently, he was about to take a bath.’
Michelle felt her blood pressure spike. Her dad had been taking a bath? After all her warnings?
‘Is everything okay?’ Jemima was on her feet, her exquisite face a picture of concern.
When Michelle turned to glare at her, she stiffened.
‘No, Jemima. Everything is not okay.’ Michelle reached for the pink file. ‘Are we finished here? Do I need this?’
Handing over the paperwork, Jemima babbled, ‘I realise it’s a lot to take in, but if you need to talk to someone, we offer exit counselling—’
‘Gotta go. Family emergency.’ Tucking the file under her arm, Michelle yanked open the door and came face to face with a mountain of a security guard. He offered her a garish blue tote bag stamped with the company’s white SS logo.
‘If you could just clear out your desk before you leave . . .’ Jemima said.
Michelle stared at the bag. Really? It was going to be one of those layoffs? A leave-your-laptop, don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-on-your-way-out layoff?
She snatched the tote from Nelson – his name was on his badge – and headed for the lifts, scrolling through her recent phone calls.
The one she’d missed had probably been from her downstairs neighbour, Shirley, but she didn’t return the call until she was back in her office, stuffing her trainers and hand cream and protein balls into the tote while her colleagues looked on, bug-eyed.
‘Shirley? It’s Michelle.’
‘Michelle! Oh, my God!’
‘What happened?’