March
Subject: RE: One more thing
Dear Brian,
I’m sorry it has taken so long to get in touch.
As I’m sure you can imagine, things have been crazy.
I don’t know if you’ve ever lost a family member, but here’s some advice from one stranger to another: don’t do it.
Not only is it a real bummer when a loved one passes away, it also turns out it’s an endless headache of obligations and peacekeeping.
But let’s move on. I didn’t write to you to complain about the shit show that is my life.
Instead, I wanted to thank you for the kindness you showed towards a stranger. Your mother has taught you well, and she has my gratitude.
When Susan passed, my entire world exploded. My once (somewhat) reliable husband died with her, leaving only his shell behind.
The change in him was completely unexpected, and yet I feel stupid for not expecting it. He’s never really handled stress well.
I remember on our wedding day, he couldn’t find his tie and had a complete meltdown. Maybe I should have done a runner then and saved myself the stress of planning his mother’s funeral.
I jest, of course.
Although why the job was left to me, I’ll never know. Susan didn’t like me.
Jerry’s father doesn’t like me. Hell, at this point, I’m not even sure Jerry likes me!
Again, I jest.
In contrast, however, my sister-in-law’s husband is a well-loved member of the family.
Had he planned the funeral, I don’t think he would have got half the pushback I did. He certainly wouldn’t have been kicked out of the family car.
But I couldn’t possibly inconvenience him since he’s so busy and important.
Them’s the breaks, I guess.
Thank you also for the gift you left me. I’ve never been to a spa before, would you believe? So not only is your gift incredibly thoughtful, but it’s going to be a new experience for me.
Any recommendations on treatments I should get?
I’ve had a quick nosey at their website. Not sure anything could get me to stick my feet into a pool to let a bunch of little fish peck away at the dead skin, but everything else sounds top-notch.
I promise, I’ll get myself booked in soon.
Once the dust has settled here, I’ll be more than ready to get pampered.
Seriously, Brian. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
I think the vicar, ‘call me Tony’, had far too much fun in his role as co-conspirator.
Honestly, you would have thought he was handing over state secrets from MI5 the way he went about getting me on my own.
He pulled the envelope from his robe, eyes darting this way and that to make sure we weren’t seen.
It was quite impressive, actually.
Man of the cloth turned super spy. I expect he’ll be hanging up his white collar in no time, choosing instead to devote himself to the secret service instead of God. Tough break for our Lord and saviour, really.
The funeral went about as well as you might expect, given that you were privy to the emails exchanged between my husband’s family (very reluctant to claim them as my own!).
The car seat that they all insisted I give up went empty because they couldn’t decide who should take it. They must have been arguing for a while because I was at the church at least twenty minutes before them, and I was running late.
Five minutes in, I spotted a red dress. Right after that, two distant cousins showed up, each very loudly complaining that funerals were ghastly and they only wanted information on Susan’s assets.
I took a step back there and then and let them fight it out amongst themselves. If I wasn’t considered family for the car, I certainly wasn’t family to mediate the shit storm that was that funeral.
It was pretty mortifying, actually, the way they all went on.
‘Call me Tony’ looked distraught. It was only when the pallbearers cleared their throats in unison, straining under the weight of the coffin, that the service finally began.
You were right about Susan being well-loved, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to make her family behave on the day of her funeral.
It’s funny because we didn’t get along. I was never good enough for her baby, and like the Mama’s boy he is, I couldn’t match up with perfection.
Our washing machine broke early in our marriage, leaving these weird stains all over our clothes, and in particular, his favourite shirt.
I tried everything to get those stains out. I scrubbed, rewashed, bleached and scrubbed some more. When that didn’t work, I bought the exact same shirt and played it off as a victory.
Not that he cared.
Susan could manage her house with her eyes shut. She never made a mistake. Oh, how the two of them laughed at poor, stupid Jesy.
Whatever.
Over the years, I learned to live with it, and she learned she couldn’t get under my skin. We co-existed with no love lost between us.
Still, no matter my feelings about her, you’ve got to step up when your spouse needs you, haven’t you? It’s like marriage law. Thou must support thy husband when his bitch of a mother passes.
I’m sure that’s in the wedding vows, no?
I have no idea why I’ve just told you all of this; I certainly didn’t intend to. I was only replying to say thank you. But this has been somewhat therapeutic, and once I started typing, it was quite difficult to stop.
If you’ve read this far, congratulations. Buy yourself a lollipop and grab a gold star. I’ll send you my therapy bill.
I hope you’re well, Brian, and thank you again.
Jesy
Brian
“Darrell, how are we looking on that coffee?”
It’s not Darrell’s job to get me coffee. A fact we’re both aware of. But considering the crisis we’ve woken to, neither of us are interested in playing who outranks who today (and since I outrank him, I usually win anyway).
It’s barely 8AM and, technically speaking, the office doesn’t open for another hour. But thanks to a small bug in our game, the discount we’d applied to a booster pack was null and void, and people were snapping up thousands of packs for the grand price of ￡0.
“Here you are, mate,” Darrell says, turning my handle to face me before taking a seat. “Bloody disaster, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not how I like to start my Monday morning, no.”
My fingers drum against the desk as I wait for the laptop to boot, glancing out of the window at the Lancaster traffic. “At least we’re not stuck in that,” I say, nodding in the direction of the window. Darrell follows my gaze and grimaces.
“I dunno, mate. We’re out thousands of pounds. I think I’d rather be stuck out there.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr Glass-Half-Empty?” I glance at the screen as it blares to life. Ignoring Darrell’s lamenting, I open the engine that powers our little game. “Good news or bad news?”
“Shit, it’s all bad, isn’t it?”
I raise an eyebrow, not sure if he’s fucking with me. “No. That’s why I said good news was an option.”
“Just give me the bad,” he says. “I’m ready to upload my CV to Indeed and cut my losses.”
“Fuck me, you’re dramatic this morning,” I say, rummaging through my desk. “Here. Have a KitKat.”
“It’s eight in the morning, Brian.”
“Perfect time for some serotonin,” I reply. “Eat the damn chocolate and stop trying to quit your job.”
“I still have a job then?” he asks, biting into all four fingers like a monster.
“You still have a job,” I confirm. “Although I’m questioning your place here after watching you maul that KitKat. One finger at a time, everyone knows that.”
“It’s not the time for your stupid humour, Brian,” he says with a sigh. “Just tell me the damage.”
“Fuck you,” I reply pleasantly. “The good news is, this is an easy fix, and it will be done within half an hour. During that time, we can pop the servers down for maintenance and call it a job well done.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” Darrell says, sitting up a little more. “So, what’s the bad news?”
“We’re still out thousands.” I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “Unless we want to be the company that charges customers for our mistakes.”
“Are you sure we don’t want to be that company?” he asks, running his hand over his jaw. “We can handle a bit of bad press.”
I nod. “We can. What we can’t handle is our entire player base abandoning the game because we used them as cash cows.”
Darrell sighs. “When you’re right, you’re right.” He stifles a yawn, reaching for his coffee. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
I thank him, update the servers, and push the maintenance notice live on our socials. Only then do I take my first sip of coffee and open my inbox. Right there at the top of the list, delivered only three minutes ago, is a name I’m becoming increasingly familiar with.
Jesy Pattinson.
I was wondering if I was going to hear from her. Any sane person would have ignored and blocked me.
The fact that she didn’t makes her infinitely more interesting. I read through her rambles, enjoying my coffee as I let her words wash over me. By the time I’m finished, I’m tense with anger.
Over a stranger, no less.
No one deserves to be treated the way Jesy is seemingly treated. I sigh and lean forward; fingers poised over the keyboard. The right words are inside me somewhere.
I’ve just got to find them.
1 Mar | From: Brian Trainer | To: Jesy Pattinson
Subject: RE: One more thing
Dear Jesy,
It was great to see your name in my inbox, if not a surprise.
Your timing is impeccable. There’s been a minor crisis at the office, and guess who has to shoulder most of the work? I mean, that’s how it should be, I am the boss. But what’s the point in being in charge if I can’t make people do things for me, right?
Either way, you’ve brightened up a rather dreary morning, so thank you.
You had fun at the funeral, huh? I don’t see how you couldn’t have. I would have found a group of supposed adults arguing over the colour of someone’s dress highly amusing.
You do see how you deserve better than this family, right? Is that out of line for me to say?
Probably. But hey, what can you do? You have no idea who I am or where I live. So, fuck it, I’ll say exactly what’s on my mind, and you can’t stop me.