Chapter 15
I step out of the lift. Margaret nods toward her office, which I take to mean she’ll meet me there in a second.
I start the walk of shame across the main floor. Oh my God. Everyone’s going to stare. News of my abrupt departure has probably got around already. People wondering why I left so suddenly and who the department’s going to hire to replace me. I really wish I was wearing something normal.
I walk past Bill, Leanne, and Karim, who are making their morning tea, involved in a heated discussion about the best kind of pastry.
(Leanne votes Danish, Karim votes almond croissant.
God, they couldn’t have an original conversation if they tried.
But also, it’s clearly pain au chocolat.) I move nice and slowly, so they’ll catch sight of me and we can get the inevitable onslaught of questions out of the way, but they’re too involved in their pastry talk.
That’s odd. Did they see me? Maybe they don’t recognize me in this T-shirt? I move toward Margaret’s office.
I’ve stood outside this glass door a million times, watching Margaret sipping the tea I made her through pursed lips, or brushing a stray hair from her pristine camel garb.
Today I almost feel like I’m truly observing Margaret for the first time.
I think of her getting up in the morning, picking out one of her indistinguishable outfits, pinning her hair in its tight bun and thinking how smart it looks, complimenting herself on “running a department” even though to this day I am not entirely sure what it is that she actually does.
It’s strange, isn’t it, how when you see someone every day you can stop seeing them at all? They’re just there, more impression than human. But Margaret is a real person. A real person who really loves camel.
She spots me lurking outside and ushers me in.
I enter and wait to be told to sit down. She doesn’t invite me to sit, though, so I hover awkwardly in the corner.
“Becky,” she says. Her voice doesn’t give much away. It always sounds brittle and tense, so she could be in a really good mood for all I know.
“Margaret,” I answer apprehensively.
“What can I do for you?” she asks. “Shall I get out my checkbook?”
“Hmm?” I’m confused for a moment. Then I remember. Oh.
“How much was it? Fifty-five pounds and forty-five pence?” She bares her teeth at her little joke. “Or would you rather a Pret card?”
“Hahaha . . .” My laugh sounds unnatural. “That, er, that’s fine . . . Won’t be, er, necessary. Look, er . . . about that . . .”
Margaret raises her eyebrows and folds her arms expectantly. I realize, for the first time, how much Margaret reminds me of my mother.
WHY did I not think about what I was going to say when I got here? What did I POSSIBLY think I could say in this situation?!
“We’ve, er, we’ve worked together a long time . . . ,” I say finally. No idea where I’m going with this, but let’s roll with it. “Five years. Five years is a long time. I could have loved and lost a healthy pet guinea pig in that time.”
Margaret wrinkles her forehead.
“A whole guinea pig’s lifespan,” I continue. “We have been a team. You and I. I’ve seen many employees come and go . . . I’ve seen the company go from strength to strength . . . I’ve seen, er, many a stunning outfit . . .” I gesture to her fur camel hat.
Margaret raises a hand to silence me. She looks as physically pained by hearing my words as I am by saying them. This is why she stopped letting me pitch for new clients. “What is it that you want, Becky?”
“I want my job back, please,” I squeak.
Margaret lets out a troubled sigh. She sits back in her chair and regards me. I might be imagining it, but I think I see her expression soften just a fraction.
“I’m sorry, Becky, I can’t help you,” she says.
“Oh . . . I . . . OK.” I don’t know what I was expecting, and yet somehow I’m hurt.
How can my job, that I had for five years, have disappeared so quickly?
Poof? “Have you already hired someone else?” I needle her.
I want her to look me in the eye and admit she simply doesn’t want me back, because there’s no way they’ve hired someone new already.
“We’ve redistributed your role,” she says.
I let the words settle. They’ve redistributed my role?
They’re not even replacing me?
“What do you mean?” I goad, giving in to the self-destructive urge to torture myself. It would save my feelings not to interrogate this further, but now I have to know more. Sort of like if you see someone’s phone open and your own name on-screen. You’re not going to not look, are you?
“Jessica and Ted will be taking on a few additional responsibilities,” she clarifies. “The intern will be buying my sandwiches.”
A few additional responsibilities for Jessica and Ted and an intern buying groceries. Is that really all my presence in this place amounted to? They don’t even need a whole person to cover me?
I’m not a person. I’m a few extra responsibilities and a sandwich. I’ve never felt so insignificant.
We sit in silence for a moment. Margaret’s face is impassive, as usual.
I can’t tell what she’s thinking at all.
I know things had become strained toward the end of my time here, but it occurs to me that I’m surprised by how cold she’s being.
I guess I thought underneath it all she was a little fond of me.
“Well, it’s nice to know five years holds so little value,” I say.
I know I’d lost my way toward the end, but I was here for so long. How can that mean nothing?
“Time itself doesn’t hold value, Becky, it’s what you do with the time that counts,” she answers, like she’s Mahatma Gandhi or something.
Well, what I’ve done with my time is waste it here, at boring, meaningless We Work, You Win. And it was all erased so easily. How fragile everything seems.
“I know it feels bad right now, Becky,” she says. “But I think one day you’ll look back and see I did you a favor. I had high hopes when you first started here, but I think we both know this isn’t where you want to be.”
It isn’t, but . . . I have nowhere else to turn. I’ve never felt so low. I’m officially at rock bottom. But I suppose, if I’m really honest with myself, I can’t blame her.
“Right, well, thank you for everything, Margaret,” I say, my lip wobbling. “It’s been . . .” I choose my words carefully, wanting the last ones I say to her to at least be genuine. “A fashion inspiration.”
She gives me a grave nod. “Good luck, Becky.”
I step out of her office, thoroughly humiliated and ready to dive into my trusty toilets for refuge. Then I remember I don’t work here anymore, so that would be weird, and head for the lift instead. En route I smack right into Jess.
“Oh, hi, Becky!” She waves.
“Hi, Jess,” I say, my heart sinking at the prospect of having to put on a fake smile and endure her zest for life and genuine passion for the company when I feel like I’m about to cry.
“I like your T-shirt,” she says sincerely. “I have it in blue.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Here we go. I ready myself for probing. What happened? Are you OK? How long had you been thinking of leaving? What are your plans?
“Are you here to pick up your stuff?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I nod. She doesn’t say anything else.
Wow. Is that really all she wants to know?
I stare into her wide, round blue eyes framed by her perfectly intact ponytail.
She’s not even pretending to care that I’m leaving.
Outrageous. Does she really think I care about pictures of Leanne’s baby that looks uncannily like Bruce Forsyth?
No. Of course I fucking don’t. But I give my cursory smile, my “ooh” and “ahh,” and I try as hard as I can to refrain from referencing Strictly Come Dancing.
I play by the rules because if we don’t then society fucking collapses and we’ll all just be going around saying what we actually think and then where will we be?
God, I’m fuming.
DID I EVEN GO HERE?
“We put it in a box for you on your desk,” she continues, when I keep standing in front of her. “I think there was just a stress ball and . . . a Hijingo cap?”
My hangover cap. I won it at office Hijingo night, back when I first joined and still went out and had fun with my old team.
“Thanks,” I say, and move on.
I walk back past Bill, Leanne, and Karim, who still don’t look up from their conversation. This time I stop right in front of them and clear my throat VERY LOUDLY. They look toward me with trepidation. There’s fear in their eyes.
“Hi, Becky?” says Karim hesitantly.
“Hello,” I reply petulantly. “Hello and GOODBYE.”
I storm toward the lift, half wondering if they’ll follow me. They don’t. I remember my Hijingo cap on my desk, run over to get it, and then run back to the lift.
Tears are streaming down my face as the floors decrease in number.
Ugh. Why did I go begging for my stupid job back?
! That was so degrading and I didn’t even want it.
It’s like when you go on an awful date with someone you wouldn’t sleep with for a million pounds and a free trip to Hawaii, and then they text you saying sorry the spark wasn’t there.
I rush out of reception when I hear footsteps behind me. “Becky, stop,” sounds a raspy voice.
Usually I wouldn’t be pleased to see Ted. But right now it’s comforting that any human being on the planet notices my existence.
I turn to face him and don’t even bother to try and hide that I’ve been crying. He politely avoids staring directly at me and looks at the floor.
“We just wanted to check you’re OK,” he breathes.
“We?”
“Yes, Leanne and Karim told me you were here picking up your stuff.”
“Oh, so they did notice me, then.” I’m aware I sound like a toddler, but I can’t help it coming out that way.
“Yes, uh, they did,” Ted says.
“Right, because it didn’t seem like they did.”
“Well, uh, you’re not normally one for a chin-wag, so . . . I suppose they assumed . . . well . . .” He pauses, then carries on. “I mean, you never come to the pub or . . . I mean . . . even the Christmas party? So I guess they just assumed . . .” He trails off.
I guess they just assumed you wouldn’t care that much about saying goodbye, I finish for him in my head.
My cheeks prickle with shame as I pick up on what he’s politely trying to tell me.
This isn’t about people not noticing me; my coworkers obviously see me more clearly than I thought.
I honestly didn’t think they had registered my contempt for this place.
Humiliation burns as I think of everyone recognizing my apathy and lofty condescension.
Of course they aren’t bothered that I’m leaving.
Why would they be? Why would they rush to talk to me, when I’ve spent every day ducking out of conversations with them as quickly as humanly possible?
Ted’s right; I stopped showing up to everything I was invited to.
I just . . . I was just so bitter about feeling stuck there that engaging with it or trying to make the best of it made it worse somehow.
Margaret was right not to let me back. All my colleagues were right not to care. God knows why Ted still gives a shit that I’m leaving. He’s too sweet for his own good. If only I had died after all. Then they would have at least had to pretend I was a beloved and dependable colleague at my funeral.
I look at Ted, still staring at the floor, trying to comfort me even though I’ve been such a dickhead. “I’m sorry, Ted,” I say, and I actually mean it. “Tell the others I’m sorry about my outburst, OK?”
“Righty-ho, will do.” He salutes me. “Good luck with everything, Becky. It’s been a pleasure.”
I can’t imagine that it has, but it’s nice of him to say it.
“And, er, I cleared your internet history before IT got to it,” he whispers theatrically behind the back of his hand. “All traces of Netflix and Prime totally removed. By the way . . . what’s Xanadu?” he asks.
I laugh thinking about how to begin explaining Olivia Newton-John and Gene Kelly in the world’s most bizarre musical fantasy movie. “Uhhh . . . ,” I say.
“Don’t worry, no spoilers,” he says. “I’ll check it out. Bye, Becky.”
I watch as he heads back into the building.
It was never going to be my dream job, but for the first time in my life, I wonder, Was it really that bad there?
Would I have gotten more out of it if I had just kept trying a bit harder?
Maybe then I’d have received a leaving card at least, some friendly well-wishes and clichéd platitudes.
A hug or two. Something to commemorate five years of my life.
I stand on the street and stare up at We Work, You Win feeling, if possible, more lost than I did this morning.