Chapter 13 December 13th
I woke up late. I don’t know how that happened.
Yes, you do.
My run was abandoned, and in a total flap, I raced around my apartment getting ready, all while marvelling at just how good my sleep was—I didn’t wake up once—at the same time relishing the gorgeous scent of my flowers.
I’m halfway to the office, an hour later than usual, when I remember something.
Christmas Jumper Day.
“Fuck.” I stop at the corner of the street, nibbling on the inside of my cheek as I glance down my black wool trench coat, seeing in my mind’s eye the black dress beneath.
I would never usually subscribe to festive activities, would never give two shits what my colleagues think when I show up in my usual black wardrobe casting my eternal doom across the merriment, but today, for some unbeknown reason to me, I’m feeling a little acquiescent.
And I need a hat and gloves, anyway.
Diverting up Oxford Street, I find the nearest open store that’ll give me what I need and grab the first jumper I can lay my hands on.
A black—bonus—chunky knitted oversized, cropped affair with an understated Christmas hat on the right breast. Perfect.
I grab my size and find myself a bobble hat and gloves—both black—and head for the checkout.
But stop halfway, thinking, looking at the matching hat and gloves. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m reversing my steps and swapping my obligatory black for the cream set.
I don’t read too much into it. I’m here buying a Christmas jumper, for fuck’s sake.
“Do you need a bag?”
“No thanks,” I say, tapping my card and wriggling out of my coat. “Can you cut the tags off for me, please?”
She laughs. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” I get into the jumper, blowing my hair out of my face, pull the hat and gloves on, and get back into my coat.
Done.
The bling, sparkle, and glitz that hits me when the elevator doors open nearly catapult me into the back wall.
It seems everyone’s made it into the office for Christmas Jumper Day, despite the snow still being ankle deep.
And they’re all currently in the corridor checking out each other’s efforts.
It’s no surprise that the chatter dies down when they spot me.
It’s no surprise that every set of eyebrows shoot up in shock when they see I’m wearing a Christmas jumper.
“Let’s not make a big deal of it,” I say, laying my coat over my arm and stepping off the elevator. “It’s just a jumper.”
“And what a wonderful jumper it is,” Thomas says, serious.
I look back over my shoulder when I hear a collection of suppressed sniggers, rolling my eyes at the culprits. All of them. “Oh, do grow up.”
My office door hits the frame with more force than I intended, and the sniggers turn into full-blown belly laughs.
I frown and look down my front, wondering what the fuck is so funny.
As far as Christmas jumpers go, this one’s on the classier side of god-awful, unlike the garish horrors adorning every one of my colleagues.
It’s me. They’re laughing at me trying to make an effort.
Indignant, I hang my coat and put my hat and gloves on the radiator, leaving my boots on—heels really won’t work with the jumper—taking a seat at my desk, irritated by the buzz outside my office.
So I rootle through my bag for my AirPods and drown it out with some RIOPY, settling down to work through my emails and bracing myself to go over the company credit card statement that’s landed.
Six hours later, I’m bursting for a wee and have redlined a dozen transactions on the statements that I have questions about.
This has got to the busiest statement to date.
And the largest. My God, Anthony and Barbara have absolutely no respect for my job, Thomas, or this company. It’s a fucking free-for-all.
My Christmas jumper and I can no longer hide.
I send the statement to the printer and take a breath, pulling my AirPods out and leaving my office.
Debbie peeks up, the corner of her lip quirking.
“What?” I ask, knowing I sound hostile. “Jesus, if I’d known my partaking in the dumb Christmas Jumper Day was going to cause such a drama, I wouldn’t have bothered. ”
Her shoulders drop on a small sigh. “Camryn, you terrify most of the people at this company.”
“I don’t talk to half the people at this company, so how can I terrify them?”
Her expression is something that could only be interpreted as really?
I shrug. “I don’t like Christmas.”
“What’s your excuse for the other eleven months of the year?”
“Ouch.”
“You know, it would be helpful if people had some context,” she says, quietly, almost reluctantly.
As she should. “Not gonna happen, Debbie,” I motion to the printer. “There should be a credit card statement for me.”
She kicks off with her feet, rolling herself to the printer, and pulls off the sheets. “What about the flowers?”
“What about them?”
“Oh my God, Camryn, crack a smile, for the love of God.” She slaps the papers down, a wave of annoyance I’ve not seen on Debbie before twisting her round face.
“Are you done?” I ask, swiping the papers up, my jaw a little tense, making Deb remember herself and wilt.
“Yes.”
“Good. I have a job to do.” I march onward, armed, and pass Crystal’s desk, my attention on Thomas’s office.
“Oh, oh, he’s in a private meeting,” she calls out urgently as I burst through his door.
“We need to talk.”
“Camryn,” he says, rising from his chair as I wave the papers in my hand at him. “What’s that?”
“The latest business card statement.”
“Can it wait?” He motions to the corner of his office, where Barbara and Anthony are reclined on the black leather couch, sipping coffees.
Ah, the wife and son. The Board. Perfect. “Actually, this concerns you two as well,” I say, helping myself to a seat.
“Oh.” Thomas retakes his chair, showing the ceiling his palms when his wife gives him a sharp look. Of course, Barbara is bejewelled in red sequins. She looks like an angry zit, and Anthony looks like he wants to launch me into outer space, as usual.
“There are a few things on here I need more information on.” I flick to the second page. “Like this transaction for ten thousand five hundred pounds on November first to Royal Caribbean.”
“How much?” Thomas blurts, as Anthony starts squirming in his seat, diverting his eyes from mine.
“Ten thousand five hundred,” I confirm, my pen poised and ready, my expectant look pointed at Thomas, making him look across to his son and wife.
“Any offers?” he asks.
Anthony clears his throat. “That was me,” he says quietly.
“Pardon?” I turn my ear toward them.
“It was me,” he says, louder this time, doing a terrible job of hiding his scowl. “I have a meeting in Miami in January.”
“Yes, I can see the return flights here,” I say, pointing down at my lap where the statement covers my knees. “Fifteen thousand to British Airways. Oh, and of course the seven and a half thousand for four nights at a beach front villa in Miami.”
Thomas’s eyes look they’re about to pop out of his head, the glutaral sound that rises sounding scarily like he’s choking. “How much?”
“That’s for two people first class,” I say, wondering if I need to get him a drink of water.
“Two people?” He looks back to Anthony, as do I, waiting.
Poor guy looks like he could sink into the creases on the leather couch. “Me and Leah.”
“You paid for Leah’s ticket on your company card?”
“And for their accommodation and cruise,” I remind him. “All in all, give or take a few quid, twenty-five thousand.”
“Jesus Christ.”
I dump the papers on the desk, acutely aware that Thomas’s wife is remaining very still and exceedingly quiet where she is.
I won’t hit Thomas with the transaction mid-November for a doctor on Harley Street.
“Thomas, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.
I cannot make your company accounts pretty if money is being spent with zero regard.
No investor will gloss over the fact that the business cards are being abused and used for personal gain, not to mention the fact that Inland Revenue will deem this tax evasion. ”
“So fucking dramatic,” Anthony mumbles.
“Thomas, there’s over eighty-five thousand that shouldn’t be claimed as business expenses on these statements.
” Anthony has the gall to roll his eyes.
Arsehole. “I can’t work with this,” I say straight, not biting to Anthony, or he’ll likely have no head.
I really don’t feel like I can be taken seriously when I’m sitting here in a fucking Christmas jumper, but here I am.
In a Christmas jumper. It’s bad enough dealing with my boss’s desire to reward subpar performances with bonuses, but at least his intentions are admirable—even if he shouldn’t be so frivolous at such a crucial time.
Thomas shakes his head, as my phone vibrates on my lap. I look down and see a preview of a message from Dec, and my skin becomes all tingly. “I’ll leave it with you,” I say, handing over the statements with all the highlighted transactions, making my escape before any more bombs go off.
“Nice jumper,” Anthony calls with spite as I close the door behind me.
“Oh fuck off,” I mutter.
Crystal looks up, eyes wide.
“Not you.” I force a smile, breathe out, and open Dec’s message.
My world shows some semblance of rightness once again.
Bar. Half hour.
My teeth sink into my lip, restricting my smile, as I send a thumbs up.
“Nice jumper,” Crystal says as I pass her desk.
“Thanks.” I stop dead in my tracks when I hear Thomas’s voice rise, followed by Anthony’s. Crystal immediately loses all interest in my jumper, her eyes darting to Thomas’s door. “Family politics,” I say. “I’d go get yourself a coffee.”
She’s up like a shot, joining me on my walk back to my end of the floor. Crystal dips into the kitchen as Meredith comes out, cupping her mug with both hands. “Camryn,” she says, stopping. “I just wanted to—”
“Please don’t mention the jumper.”
She smiles. “I wanted to thank you for stepping in.”