Date Wednesday 4 January Time 5.05pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I booked out this privacy meeting booth so I could spend some time reflecting and thinking in peace – obviously I’ve got my laptop in front of my journal if anyone looks in, so it seems like I’m working.
But I’m not working because I’ve been here all day and I can’t be bothered now; it’s not like anything important ever happens on the first day back.
Frankly it’s ridiculous, given they’re always talking about wellbeing in the workplace, that no one more senior has suggested a staged return to work after Christmas – something sensible like ten to three would work.
I’ve certainly been ready to go home since three.
It wasn’t the ideal start to the day: I slept through my alarm and then woke up with a headache and a dry mouth.
It’s the biodiverse wine of course – I mean when you actually think about it, you’re putting your life in someone else’s (probably unwashed) hands when you go the biodynamic route as they’re not subject to the same regulations you get with chemicals and stuff.
In fact, the more you look into it, the more you realise you’re effectively subjecting yourself to something that could be moonshine.
I should have exercised greater caution with the Friulano: I’m lucky I haven’t gone blind.
I certainly shan’t be finishing off the second bottle I opened last night, and will mention to Astrid and Aziz they may want to stick to proper sulphite-rich wine from now on.
I stood behind a woman with a huge ponytail on the tube and every time the train slowed down, she whipped her head round to peer anxiously out the window and check the station, thus flicking me right in the face.
It wouldn’t have been so bad but she’d evidently just had a haircut, as the ends were blunt and uniform, plus she’d used straighteners, so the whole situation was genuinely hazardous and extremely abrasive.
And then when I arrived at the building, my ID card didn’t swipe properly and joy of joys, it was Lydia on security, who hates me for some reason.
This morning, Lydia was on her phone, texting, and she didn’t even attempt to hide the fact.
When I tried to ask her for help, she just held up her left hand, in my face, cutting me off mid-syllable, and said, ‘Wait.’ But then when the Head of Foreign Rights came in, after me, and without his card, she immediately stopped texting and used her special card to open the gate and waved him through with a ‘good morning’ and a smile!
So I loudly said, ‘Excuse me, I’ve been waiting for a while and I really need to get into the office but my card’s not working. ’
And she took it from me, without even glancing at me, and studied the card and said, ‘You’ve got the wrong name on the card; it won’t work.’
‘No, it’s the right name so could you swipe me through?’
And, then she did look at me. ‘No, it’s wrong. It says Alice. You’re Alison.’
‘I’m not.’
And she turned away in irritation, pursed her lips and tapped on her computer and said, ‘Yes, you’re Alison – it says on my system. Can’t let you through now. It’s a security risk.’
‘But I work here. I have done for three years. You know me?’
Lydia folded her arms and shook her head.
Just then, Drunk Stephen appeared at the lifts carrying a package which he handed to Lydia for a courier. And Lydia was all smarmy and nice to him, so I said, ‘Stephen, can you tell Lydia my name is Alice, not Alison, so she’ll let me in? I’m already late for work.’
And Drunk Stephen said, ‘Yeah, you really are – you’ve missed the 9.30 team catch-up.’
Lydia stopped smiling. ‘Her card says Alice. Can’t let her through. Got to be the right name.’
And Drunk Stephen looked at me, and then Lydia.
Then he shook his head at me like I was a proper nuisance.
‘Alison, Alison, Alison,’ he said. ‘Always making trouble.’ He turned back to Lydia and raised his eyebrows in solidarity with her.
‘Lydia, any chance you’d just swipe Alison through for now, and we’ll contact HR and get the typos sorted? ’
Lydia drummed her fingers sullenly. ‘I’m putting myself on the line for you, Stephen,’ she said, before swiping me through.
I had to spend the whole stomach-lurching lift journey up to the seventeenth floor listening to Drunk Stephen giving me graphic details about sex with New Steven, whilst enduring more mocking about Decorator Dave and this latest wrong-name fiasco, with him hilariously and repeatedly calling me Alison.
Okay, the lift journey is in reality only seconds but I wasn’t in the mood this morning and as I said to Drunk Stephen, given the adverse effects of biodynamic wine production on my system, and the fact that the lift makes me feel a bit pukey at the best of times, he’d better be a bit more careful about stressing me.
And that if he told anyone at work about Decorator Dave, I’d wear espadrilles into the office every single day.
Drunk Stephen swallowed. He finds espadrilles really offensive. ‘Canvas?’ he checked.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Wicker.’
He gasped. ‘That’s so low.’
But as I said to Drunk Stephen, needs must.
So frankly, it was an ordeal even getting to my desk.
And then I only had time to get my laptop out and log on, before rushing off to the bathrooms, because it was a whole division briefing with Guy Carmichael at 10.
30 and I wanted to touch up my make-up first. Yaz was her usual self – ‘Off already, Alice?’ she called after me, ‘You’ve just arrived!
Going to do your make-up, I suppose?’ She’s like a prefect, with her pen pot and little disinfectant wipes and disapproval.
I turned back momentarily and leant on her desk. ‘Actually, I’ve got a messed-up stomach.’ I stared at her. ‘Probably caught it from my nephews.’ I saw her gaze flick to my hand on her desk and then back to me.
‘So quite contagious?’ she said.
I picked up a pen from her pot and bit it pensively. ‘Super contagious.’
She definitely flinched. Then I put the pen back in her pot with the others and stirred it around. At least if she’s busy wiping her pens, she can back off keeping tabs on me.
But things did improve: someone had left a load of doughnuts in the kitchenette, which I helped myself to, and whilst I was texting Drunk Stephen to tell him about the doughnuts, Charlotte came in.
Obviously, I’ve been desperate to find out what’s been going on between her and Guy Carmichael, but it’s not like we’re friends, so I couldn’t text just to ask her directly.
This, however, was the perfect opportunity.
‘Hey, Charlotte,’ I said, as she strode in and started filling her water bottle at the water station. ‘You look amazing.’
She did. She was wearing that crocheted body con dress like she was about to hit Ibiza’s clubs: there was a lot of skin on display.
It reminded me a bit of the Balmain dress Ebba was wearing on New Year’s Eve.
I fleetingly imagined Matthew’s hands on Ebba’s skin and then immediately shoved the thought aside.
Charlotte may not be a Swedish model but was still totally pulling off that dress; she’s absolutely ripped because of all those hours she spends at GlowCycle.
Not an obvious choice of outfit for a cold January day in the workplace but I suppose she is shagging the boss.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ She flipped her hair to the side. ‘Just threw the first thing on really.’
Like hell she did.
‘Well, I imagine Guy won’t be able to keep his hands off you when he sees you!’ I said, casually.
‘Yeah, probably.’ She turned to face away from me.
‘So how’s it going with you two?’ I persisted.
‘Oh yeah. It’s not.’
She screwed her bottle lid on firmly.
‘Really?’ I tried not to look too excited. ‘I thought you liked him?’
‘It was just a bit of fun. But, like I told Guy, I’m not looking for anything serious at my age.’
Well, that’s a change of heart. She told me at the summer author do that she’s been on the hunt since twenty-five. According to her mother, once Charlotte hit thirty, she’d be seeing a steep decline in her cachet as no man wants to trade in one old crone of a wife for another.
‘ I’m still in my prime,’ continued Charlotte. ‘No offence, Alice.’
‘None taken,’ I lied, standing aside to let Charlotte sashay out of the kitchenette.
Drunk Stephen arrived for doughnuts just as she left – ‘Dressing to kill, Charlotte,’ he said, whistling in admiration as she passed him.
Perfect timing. As soon as she’d gone, I told him what she said.
Drunk Stephen’s eyes opened wide. He checked carefully that no one else was near. ‘Yeah, so he totally dumped her.’
I gasped in delight.
‘But she’s his type! Young, pretty, hot body… ? I thought she had it in the bag?’
‘Clearly so did she. Big mistake. It’s one thing having a type; it’s another admitting publicly that you have a type.’ He leant closer. ‘Word on the street is that she posted a picture of them together a couple of days in, and that was it.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘I wonder what his problem was?’
‘Er, he’s married?’ Drunk Stephen looked at me like I was being stupid. ‘And her boss?’
‘Everyone knows he and his wife are separated though.’
‘If you’re still married, then it’s still an affair .’ Drunk Stephen looked around furtively before adding, ‘And Anika in PR said that apparently Charlotte asked him, like literally mid-blow-job, if she could make their relationship official on her account.’
‘Oh god, I hope that’s true!’
‘Damn, I’ve eaten two of these doughnuts now,’ said Drunk Stephen, ‘but I’m burning calories with the anticipation – I’ve never been so excited for a divisional in my life! I can’t wait to see her and GC in the same room.’