Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMMA
T he next morning, I reached my desk as Mr Gold walked through the office with a smug smile and a spring in his step.
“Good morning,” he called out to the rest of the office, and as I tried to get close to him, saying, “Mr Gold, can I talk to you in your office about that article yesterday,” he frowned, asking, “What article?”
“The one about the Berkeley Exhibition,” I stated, but he just sneered and brushed me off with a flick of his hand, telling me, “No time, Emma. I have conference calls and meetings back-to-back today. That matter is closed.”
It was closed to him.
Not me.
I went back to my desk, feeling defeated yet fired up, ready to burst through his door and scream my case, which in an ideal world, I would do, but this was no Netflix drama. I wanted to keep my job. So, I did what most of us do in a situation like this; I fired up my computer, banged the stationary about on my desk and hissed under my breath to Dan, the guy who sat opposite me, that our boss was a narcissistic asshole.
He just nodded back, not saying a word. We all thought it. No one said it. But if you could read our minds...
The first thing I did once I logged in was click on my emails. When I saw one at the top of my inbox with the subject ‘Scam? Really?’ my stomach twisted into excruciating knots, and instantly, I felt sick. With an unsteady hand, I clicked on the email to see what it said. I knew it wouldn’t be good.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Scam? Really?
Congratulations, Ms. Belmont.
You just achieved something truly staggering. You managed to make it to the top of my shit list, and before today, I didn’t even know you existed.
But after I’m finished with you, neither will anyone else...
P.S. I’ll let you into a little secret... that wasn’t fake blood. Nothing about me is fake. But you’ll find out soon enough.
S.K.A.M. (Can you guess what it stands for?)
I stared at my screen, the letters bouncing around in front of my eyes as my heart jackhammered in my chest.
Should I forward this to H.R.?
Or the police?
He was threatening me. He’d sought my email out, taken the time to approach me in this way and said, after he’d finished, no one would know I existed.
What the actual fuck?
Over an article that I didn’t fucking write.
When I’d seen that piece, when I’d gone home and spent the night drinking wine to numb my anger, which didn’t work in the slightest, and when I’d walked back into the office this morning, I felt like this had been so fucking unfair. Now, I felt like picking up my computer and flinging it at the wall.
Why me?
Why did shit have to always pile onto me?
“Are you okay, Em?” Dan asked with concern.
My face must’ve betrayed my feelings too strongly because that guy rarely spoke to me, even though he’d sat across from me for two years.
“I’ve had a shitty email,” I replied, clicking out of it and standing up from my desk. “Gold needs to hear about this.”
“He said he didn’t want to be disturbed,” Dan stated as I spun around.
“Tell someone who gives a shit,” I whispered and marched over to his door, knocking loudly twice before pushing the door open and stepping into his office.
Mr Gold was sitting at his desk with his mobile phone in his hand, laughing at something on there. He didn’t look busy. But as I walked forward, he whipped his head up, put his phone on his desk, turned face down so I couldn’t see it, and said, “I told you, I’m busy, Emma. This can wait.”
“No, it can’t.” I sat down in the leather chair opposite him, leaning forward so he’d know how urgent this was.
He sighed loudly, pulled his draw open and threw his phone into it before slamming it shut.
“One thing you have to learn in journalism, Emma,” he proclaimed. “You need a thick skin. So you didn’t like the edits I made? Big deal. Get over it. You got your byline, didn’t you? You have the promotion you’ve been asking for since you got here.”
I frowned back at him.
“For a start, I’ve had no paperwork. No new contract to sign.”
He flicked his wrist, flapping his hand in my direction again like I was a nobody. “It’s all in hand. H.R. will have it to you by the end of the week. But don’t expect any extra money.”
God forbid they pay me for the extra responsibilities. But I saved that nugget for another day. I had bigger issues at hand.
“I didn’t write any of that article. It wasn’t just edits. It was a complete rewrite.”
He huffed a smile, then gave me a stomach-churning grin.
“It got you noticed, though. Didn’t it?”
“Yes!” I snapped. “By what I can only assume is a psychotic artist who wants to use my blood for his next performance.”
Mr Gold jerked his head back slightly like he couldn’t believe what I’d just said.
“Really?” he tilted his head in question. “Why? What’s happened?”
I let out a breath and clasped my hands together in my lap to keep my nerves steady as I told him, “I had an email. A threatening email from the artist.”
Mr Gold’s eyebrows hit his non-existent hairline in surprise.
“Wow. You should print that off. It could be worth some money. Or better yet, let’s use it in an article for the next issue.”
“I’m not using it for anything other than to clear my name,” I barked back.
“What does it say?” He lifted his chin, waiting for me to respond.
I cleared my throat.
“That I’ve made the top of his shit list and that after he’s finished with me, no one will know who I am.”
Mr Gold threw his head back and laughed.
“But he knows who you are now. Damn, Emma. You’ve had an email from a famous artist. An artist who never shows his face and doesn’t speak to anyone. If I were you, I’d write back. Engage him. Can you imagine the scoop if we find out who he is? Exposing S.K.A.M. could get us that golden ticket to the big time.”
I noticed he said us not me. But that was by the by.
“I’m not engaging him. I won’t reply.”
“Why not?”
“Because he threatened me!”
“Rubbish,” Mr Gold rolled his eyes, letting out a huff of ridicule. “You should be thankful you got a response. That article really hit the spot.”
“And the next spot to hit could be on my forehead, right between my eyes, if something isn’t done about this.”
Mr Gold shook his head, and then started tapping away at his keyboard, focusing solely on his computer screen. I thought maybe he was trying to locate some document online to assist me, or perhaps he was typing his own email out to H.R. to ask for their recommendations in the matter. But when he said, “Just delete it, if it bothers you so much. Those creative types are always sensitive. He saw a shitty review and wanted to take it out on someone. It won’t amount to anything, though. Forget about it. I have.” And he carried on typing, his obvious disinterest telling me he clearly had no intention of helping me.
I sat for a moment, dazed. Expecting something to change.
I don’t know why.
I should’ve expected this.
But when Mr Gold announced, “I have work to do. Please leave my office.” I stood up, feeling horrified by his complete lack of empathy, but at a loss for what else I could do. Then I turned and walked right out of there.
I wanted to slam his door, but I managed to restrain myself. I slammed it in my head, though. I did a lot of things to quell my frustration in my head.
Sitting back at my desk, I started to scowl at my screen.
Should I delete it?
Was it just a fragile ego lashing out, like Mr Gold had said?
Would it all amount to nothing?
I should’ve passed it on to the IT department to look into, but part of me felt ashamed to share it with them.
I hovered the cursor over the delete button, but clicking was another thing entirely. And when it came to it, I couldn’t do it. I had to do something to put this right.
Perhaps Mr Gold was right on one thing.
Maybe I should respond to him.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Scam? Really?
I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but I had to respond to your email. I am so sorry that the article in our newspaper upset you, but I must stress that the article was not written by me. I know my name was attached to it, but I can assure you those are not my thoughts, opinions, or words.
I was honoured to witness your truly remarkable performance and found the message you portrayed to be insightful, touching, and informative. I also saw the artwork you had on display in the gallery, and it was stunning. I told some of the guests that it was my favourite piece. So, you see, I am actually a fan and admirer of your work and not a critic, as the newspaper article would have you believe.
Please accept my apologies for this mix-up.
I sincerely hope that in the future, I am fortunate enough to enjoy your work again.
Regards,
Emma Belmont
I knew I was rambling in my email, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get my point across. If it seemed gushing and little cringey, then so be it. But after clicking send, it didn’t take long for my computer to chime a response in my inbox.
Message failed to send.
Fuck.
The email he’d used didn’t accept responses. Either that, or he’d blocked me.
My email hadn’t gone through.
What was I supposed to do now?
I know I probably should’ve ignored it. Deleted it. Moved on with my day and chalked it up to an overreaction on his part. But the other part of me, the louder one that made my stomach churn and my head pound with regret, wanted to apologise and put things right. I guess I was more of a people-pleaser than I thought. Actually, scrap that. I already knew I was a people-pleaser, I just didn’t realise I was quite so neurotic.
I picked up my office phone, needing to talk to someone who’d get it. But I noticed Dan opposite, pretending not to watch me as I fussed in my seat, and I didn’t want him to eavesdrop on my conversation. So, I grabbed my phone from my bag, muttered that I needed some fresh air, and I stood up and walked out of the office, ready to make my call somewhere more private.
And no, the ladies’ toilet wasn’t the best place to discuss something private. My voice echoed off the grey tiled walls, and anyone could’ve walked in at any moment, but it was my only option, unless I stood in the pouring rain outside. Something I wasn’t willing to do. At least all the stalls were empty, for now. I’d checked each one before I’d tapped on Gracie’s number.
“Best friend at your service,” Gracie answered chirpily, and I couldn’t help but thank God she wasn’t mad about me ditching her on Friday night. “I hope this call is to tell me you met a rich artist at the gallery this weekend and he’s whisking you off to Paris to live as his muse in a rustic apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower.”
“I wish,” I replied drily. “I met an artist, but the result was a little different. Did you see the article?”
“No. I haven’t seen anything. What’s happened?”
I gave Gracie the cliffs notes on what’d happened on Friday night, and everything that’d unfolded since. She ummed and ahhed in the right places, then hissed at my description of the newspaper article. Then, when I told her about the email, she sighed.
“Babe, the last thing I want to do is agree with your pig of a boss, but maybe he’s right. That is a bit extreme. It was just one article. I bet other people have raved about it.”
“But I don’t blame him for being pissed. You should’ve seen his performance. He poured his heart and soul into it. It was the most unique thing I’d ever seen. If I’d dedicated a huge portion of my life to something, and someone else shit all over it, I’d be pissed too. He’s probably like me, he could have all the praise but the only voice he’ll hear is the one in the corner telling him he’s a failure. I don’t want to be that voice.”
“You hate upsetting people,” Gracie stated.
“I do.”
“Then go back to the gallery. You can’t email the guy to apologise, but there must be someone there who can get a message to him.” She paused, then added. “I know you, Em. You’ll have sleepless nights until you get this sorted, so sort it today. Put your mind at rest.”
She was right, of course.
“Okay, I will. Thanks, Gracie. I knew talking to you would help.”
“That’s because I always have the answers.”
I smiled, and we said our goodbyes before hanging up.
“I guess I’ll be spending my afternoon at the gallery,” I said to myself as I pushed through the door of the toilets and back into the hallway. As I did, I noticed Dan retreating into the men’s room which was directly opposite. That little sneak couldn’t help himself. I’d bet any money he was listening to my phone call. He always had to know the office gossip. He’d be hacking into my emails next.