Chapter 8
Calla
“Miss Becker, could I see you in my office, please.”
My boss, Mr McAvoy, doesn’t phrase his request for me as a question, but rather a statement, sending a bolt of unease through me.
“Of course, sir,” I reply with a winning smile, watching as he turns his back to me, retreating back to his glass seventh circle of hell – I mean his office – simply expecting me to follow like a good little lap dog.
I hate that he has this authority over me.
I hate it as much as I hate bad manners and the rain.
With a passion. But I do love my job working in real estate; getting to view pretty houses that are definitely not in my tax bracket before anyone else and give clients a glimpse into their forever home.
The fancy dinners I get to attend (free bar!), paid for luncheons and flexible hours are a plus too.
Even if my boss and his nephew are a complete set of entitled twats, it’s a pretty comfortable job I have to admit, and the one I’ve been able to hold down for the longest time. I’m pretty proud of myself for that achievement.
Standing, I gather my notebook and pen, tucking them into the crook of my elbow as I smooth down my mandatory uniform black pencil skirt. I shove my chair beneath my desk and trot to follow my boss, my heels clacking loudly against the marble flooring.
“Am I getting fired?” I mouth silently to Carmen as I bypass her cubicle.
She shakes her head, trying for a vote of confidence, but honestly, I’m not so sure.
I’m good at my job, I know that.
I’m a good conversationalist – a skill which is like gold dust in this field – polite, friendly, approachable.
Talking comes to me as easily as breathing, which in turn allows me to form a foundation with my clients before I’ve even shown them around the property.
A little bit of humour to break the ice, patience, and a friendly smile, goes a long way in my opinion.
Other pros:
I’ve never been pulled up for not wearing my mandatory uniform of a blouse and pencil skirt.
I always make sure there’s never a shortage of coffee pods in the staff room (that one’s kinda for my own benefit too)
I can work an excel spreadsheet like a badass.
That last one took me by surprise too.
On the flipside, I’m sometimes late in the office. Okay, actually scratch that, most of the time I’m late getting into the office on a morning.
Today was one of those days… but at least I didn’t come in hungover! That’s a win in my books, because I’ve definitely trudged into this very office, large sunglass covering my eyes, one too many times to be socially expectable.
So, maybe I am getting fired.
Strangely, I feel a little upset at the thought, a lump filling the base of my throat.
Working real estate isn’t what I had in mind when I left school at sixteen, the world seemingly sitting at my feet, but this is where life has led me so I’m making it work as best as I can.
Heels sinking in the plush carpet covering the floor of my boss’ office, I duck under a familiar arm holding the glass door open for me with a polite, but bland, smile.
Mr McAvoy’s nephew, Thomas, grins back at me, shutting the door behind us and ushering me forward with a hand grazing my lower back.
He’s a little too friendly with the women in the office, if you catch my drift, but being the nephew of the top boss comes with perks and Thomas knows it.
I sidestep away from his sweaty palm, gracefully – or at least I attempt to look graceful – taking a seat across from Mr McAvoy’s wide mahogany desk.
My boss in question steeples his fingertips, suede elbow patches resting on the many pieces of paper covering his cluttered desk, while peering at me over the top of his rounded, slightly smudged glasses.
Thomas, of course, takes the seat beside me, rather than choosing to sit on the opposite side with his uncle. I feel his thigh ghost against mine as he pulls his chair in close, spreading his legs wide, taking up space as if he owns the damn room.
I cross my legs to avoid any more contact, swallowing down the female rage and irritation coursing through my veins at having to become smaller, just so a man with a sure-to-reseed hairline can feel comfortable.
“Miss Becker. Do you have any idea why I’ve called you into my office today?”
I wrack my brain; grabbing a soft strand of my blonde hair betwixt thumb and forefinger while I think.
Maybe they’ve found the evidence from my first office Christmas party – just three years ago – when I got much too tipsy on spiced eggnog and thimblefuls of sherry, and I thought it be a hilarious idea to photocopy images of my bare tits.
I swore I’d gotten rid of all the evidence, especially as seeing how long ago it had happened, but maybe not…
Or had they found out about the time I snuck a cheeky vape in the staff toilets to quell the alcohol induced headache I had going on.
It’s not like I’m a usual vape smoker, I’m just partial to a few puffs of the synthetic flavoured stuff after a few too many wines.
Regardless, my few quick drags of the bubblegum air had sent the fucking fire alarm off.
Before anybody could find out it was me, I’d shoved the tiny vape into my bra, ran out of the toilets, down the fire escape stairs and outside, joining the rest of my co-workers who we’re all shivering in the powdery snow falling from the sky. Oops.
I must admit, I’d played a good actress that day, playing along with the rest of everybody’s annoyance at the fucking fire alarm, so that nobody suspected it was my fault. I was sure I’d gotten away with it until right this bloody second.
Unless my boss had found out about the time I—
“Miss Becker?”
I pop my shoulders in a shrug, gripping the edges of my notebook and pen which sit on my lap until the paper cuts my fingers. “I have no idea why you’ve called me into your office today, Mr McAvoy.”
He hums noncommittedly, wiggling the mouse of his high-tech computer. This is it. I’m about to get my fine arse fired. Kicked out of the company. Tossed to the—
“We have a job opportunity we’d like to offer you.”
My heart drops, stomach plummeting, before my brain registers the words sitting on my boss’s barbed tongue.
“What?” I lean forward in my seat, whipping my head towards Thomas who grins back at me smugly.
“The correct term of phrase is pardon, Miss Becker.”
I swallow back my chastisement. “Pardon, Mr McAvoy. You’re not firing me?”
Unkept eyebrows threaded with silver greys frow in my direction. “Why would we be firing you?”
“No reason,” I all but coo, schooling my best ‘I’m totally innocent’ look onto my face. “So, you’re offering me a job opportunity?”
“Indeed.” Mr McAvoy nods his head, his eyes fixed on the pixilated monitor before him. I wait for further details – something, anything – but the hollow clicking computer mouse is the only sound in oppressive small space, echoing annoyingly through my ears like a gnat.
“Thomas,” my boss scoffs exasperatedly, thrusting the computer mouse into his nephew’s hands. “Put yourself to good use for once and find that blasted email, won’t you?”
Flattening my lips, I watch as Thomas rounds his uncle’s desk, doing as he’s told, without fuss, like a well-trained glorified lap dog.
Usually, when he’s out on the office floor without the supervision of his uncle, Thomas is the one bossing us staff around with that slimy look permanently etched into his facial features; the one which says I’m above you and you’ll do what I tell you or else.
Now I get where he’s learnt that behaviour from. I guess, the rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“Send it through, boy,” Mr McAvoy directs with a wave of his sunspot wrinkled hand, returning his attention back to me. “There. If my nephew can follow instructions, then the client’s brief should be sitting in your in—whatever they’re calling it these days.”
“Inbox,” Thomas dares answer, coming to stand behind me. If I move my head but an inch, my lower face is sure to press into the placket of his tailored trousers. Ew.
I mentally run through the reasons as to why I love this job – the money, the hours, the elation on my client’s faces when they step into their forever home – while I stare ahead, back ramrod straight, toes curling in my heels.
When I don’t move, Mr McAvoy waves the tips of his gold ring covered fingers in a dismissive manner. “Please return to the office, Miss Becker. You have a lot of hard work ahead of you, best to get on with it straight away.”
Blinking myself out of my daze, I find my feet, tucking my perfectly untouched notepad and pen to my chest. “T-thank you for this opportunity, Mr McAvoy.”
The old twat doesn’t even look up from his papers, instead giving me a glimpse of his balding head. “Mhm.”
So, I try again. “I won’t let you down.”
“I would hope not,” he grumbles, practically pissing all over my parade.
“Come on, Calla.” Tom makes a grab for my arm. He’s not rough, but he’s not exactly gentle either. “I’ll walk you back to your cubicle.”
Feeling rather like a rabbit stuck in a trap and hating every fucking second of it, I follow Tom’s stride until we’re out of the glass prison.
Extricating myself from his grip, I fix my eyes on his murky brown ones. I watch a flash of annoyance blow his pupils wide before he forces his small lips into a smile. Although, it’s more like a grimace.
“I think I can find my way back to the cubicle I’ve been working in for the past three years from here, Thomas.”
If it’s at all possible, Thomas draws himself up to stand even taller than his already six-foot frame. We’re standing so close his chest grazes my shoulder as he inhales, peering down his beaklike nose at me.
“Formality doesn’t suit you, Calla.” What the fuck does that mean? “After years of knowing each other, you should have learned to call me Tom, by now.”
We’ve hardly known each other years. A year maybe, at a push.
I’ve been working at McAvoy and Fraser for almost three years – the blissful years in which I didn’t even know Thomas McAvoy existed. Until he arrived one morning, about eleven months ago, declaring himself my boss’ nephew.
“Tom, then.” I have to force the words to fall from my tongue.
Can this conversation just be over already so I can get back to work?
A thrill of excitement runs through me at the thought of sinking my teeth – metaphorically of course – into a new client and their portfolio.
Already, I’m dreaming about their tax bracket and the different boroughs of London they will have declared their interest in finding a property within.
“Better.” He grins. I hate it. “Give me a shout if you need anything. My office door is always open for you, Calla.”
I don’t miss the double entendre dripping from his words.
I don’t think anybody within listening distance misses it either.
Holding back my own grimace, I hold Thomas’ stare for a heartbeat and then I spin on my heel, blonde hair flying out behind me.
Ignoring the heated gaze of his eyes on my arse, I tap twice on Carmen’s desk – our secret code – drop my unused notebook and pen onto my chair and hightail the rest of the way to the women’s bathrooms.
Barricading myself into the second to last stall on the left, I give it a couple of minutes before Carmen folds herself into the cubicle, too, locking the door behind both of us.
“Tom flirting with you again?” she asks, closing the toilet seat lid and perching herself atop of it.
We have to meet in the bathrooms to talk shit because I know for a fact the staff room is camera operated up to its eyeballs – Thomas probably watches the CCTV himself, lipreading to gather gossip – and we can’t talk plainly on the office floor for fear of Thomas’ brown noser dogs reporting back to him.
“Mhm.” I drop my voice to a whisper as a full body shiver wracks through me, “I wish he’d just piss off.”
“I think every single woman in the office feels the same way, girlfriend. Maybe in the whole ten-mile radius.”
Nodding, I flatten my palms to the cool wooden door of the stall and blow out a large breath. “I’m starting to think I should just shove a ring onto my finger and pretend I’ve fucked off to Gretna Green over the weekend.”
“It’s not a bad idea.” Carmen grins. “Any man would be lucky to have you. Fake or not.”
I send a grateful smile to my best friend; no matter what the occasion she somehow always knows what I need to hear.
“Well, if I can’t find a willing man, we’ll just have to elope together, Car.”
“I’d have to tell Jack first, but deal.”
“Ugh,” I groan aloud, tipping my head back to face the textured ceiling, eyes snagging on an old water stain. “Where do men get the audacity? Hm?”
“When you find the answer, be sure to let me know.”
I huff out another breath, glancing down quickly to check the time on my watch. I’ll give myself three more minutes of reprieve before I have to go back out into the wolf’s den.
“What did Mr McAvoy call you into his office for, anyway?”
“A new project. He wants me to start right away.”
Rising to her heeled feet, Carmen squeezes both of my shoulders and pulls me into a quick hug. “No time to start like the present, then. Let’s go before rumours start flying that we’re snogging in the women’s toilets.”
Unlocking the door with a click I follow her onto the office floor with a giggle. “It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, Car. Do you want me to smudge your gloss a little, so it looks believable?”