Chapter 9
The Chihuahua, the Micro Dick and the Explosions
Christa
By nine thirty, I have already made three cups of tea I do not want, answered four emails that were forwarded to me with no context and a vague can you deal with this?, and smiled at Caroline twice.
That last one should count as a medical event.
Reception at Dubois & Woods is designed to look welcoming. Pale wood. Frosted glass. A plant that may or may not be real. It’s the first thing clients see and the last place anyone important ever sits.
Which is how I end up here.
I straighten a stack of leaflets no one has ever chosen willingly and shift in my chair, trying to find a position that feels professional rather than vaguely nauseous.
Tea is not helping. Tea never helps. What I want is coffee.
What I have is a growing human who has opinions about caffeine and is currently winning.
Through the glass partition, I can see them all.
The planners, the assistants, the trainees.
Laptops open. Reusable cups lined up like badges of honour.
Caroline at the centre of it all, of course.
Posture immaculate, expression serene, radiating the confidence of a woman who has never once wondered if she might be wrong.
It’s nine forty-five.
She's been in for at least two hours.
Caroline is always in early. Early to arrive. Early to judge. Early to remind everyone, without ever saying it out loud, that she is the gold standard and the rest of us are merely decorative.
My screen blinks with new messages. Urgent. All of them. None addressed to me directly, exactly. Just forwarded on by people who have decided that reception is where problems go to be quietly absorbed.
I deal with the first one. Then the second. Book a meeting room. Cancel a meeting room. Rebook the same meeting room because someone has decided the light in the other one feels aggressive.
I smirk at a man walking past who nods at me like we’re mates. We are not. He just can’t remember my name and is hoping confidence will cover it.
The phone sits silent for a moment. I savour it. Silence is rare here. It’s usually followed by someone asking me to fix something that was never broken.
My computer pings.
Ivy
Morning
Me
Morning
Ivy
How’s life on the front line?
Me
I’ve had three teas and none of them were coffee
Ivy
Tragic
Me
Send help. Or biscuits.
From the outside, I look calm. Capable. Like I know exactly what I’m doing.
Inside, I’m counting the minutes between snacks and reminding myself that I am not allowed to stab anyone, including Caroline, even a little bit.
I adjust my headset, take a steadying breath, and brace myself as the phone finally rings.
Another call. Another task. Another small piece of someone else’s nonsense sliding neatly onto my desk.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
I keep my voice light while whoever’s on the other end explains a problem that is definitely not mine.
Michael Douglas Woods strides past my desk like a man late for something extremely important, which is presumably informing a group of terrified interns that their paperclips are misaligned.
His parents named him Michael Douglas. We call him MD because nobody wants to sound like they’re doing celebrity roll call at nine in the morning.
MD stops by the small coffee table opposite reception and flicks a glance at it.
“The magazines need to be straightened.”
Not a greeting. Not a question. A decree.
I finish the call, promise to pass something on, and hang up.
“Certainly, MD,” I say pleasantly.
That satisfies him. He gives a brief nod and continues down the corridor, contribution complete.
I wait until he’s out of sight.
Then I stand, walk around the reception desk, and cross the few steps to the seating area.
The magazines are already straight.
I straighten them anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Edges aligned until they look like they’re awaiting inspection from the military.
I return to my chair and slide back behind the desk and open the messaging app.
Me
If MD asks me one more time to straighten those magazines, I’m stapling them together
Ivy
Micro Dick clearly doesn’t have anything better to do
I press my lips together to stop myself laughing out loud, because I am still at work and reputations are fragile things.
I adjust my headset, glance at the seating area. Perfect. Untouchable. Waiting patiently for its next pointless critique.
The moment barely settles before footsteps approach. Sensible heels. Purposeful. Expensive.
I look up to see Nina Dubois gliding towards reception, one arm cradling a tiny, trembling Chihuahua like it’s a couture accessory rather than a dog. Its eyes fix on me immediately. Judgemental. Unblinking. I feel assessed.
“Christa,” Nina says warmly, as if we’re old friends who brunch. “Good, you’re here.”
I place my headset on the desk and smile. Obviously. I always do.
The Chihuahua emits a sound somewhere between a sniff and a threat.
“I’ve ordered a few things for my in-laws,” Nina continues, adjusting the dog so it can better observe its kingdom. “They’re arriving at the parcel shop round the corner. Would you mind collecting them when you go on your lunch break?”
This is the point where, theoretically, I could say no.
This is also the point where, realistically, I absolutely will not.
“Of course,” I say, already nodding. Pleasant. Helpful. Entirely complicit. Who cares what it actually says in my job description.
“They’re not heavy,” she adds quickly. “Just a few boxes. Oh, and they’ll need signing for.”
Naturally they will.
“And, if it’s raining,” she goes on, “perhaps pop them in a bag? The boxes are white.”
I glance at the Chihuahua. It bares its teeth at me. Or smirks. Hard to tell.
“No problem,” I say. “I’ll pop out at lunch.”
“Wonderful,” Nina says, genuinely pleased. “You’re a lifesaver.”
She leans down, the dog’s tiny jumper brushing against the desk.
“Isn’t she marvellous?” Nina coos to the Chihuahua.
The Chihuahua continues to stare at me, unmoved.
Nina straightens, waves vaguely in my direction, and floats off down the corridor, dog tucked under her arm like a very small, very angry baguette.
I sit there for a moment.
Just a moment.
Then I exhale slowly through my nose and check the time.
I do not sigh. Sighing suggests dissatisfaction.
I open my notes app instead and add a bullet point.
Pick up Nina’s parcels. White boxes. Do not let them get wet. Or damaged. Or accidentally launched into traffic.
From the outside, this probably looks like teamwork. Flexibility. Going above and beyond.
From the inside, it looks like this: I am pregnant, caffeine-deprived, and apparently responsible for urban planning admin, magazine alignment, and festive gift logistics for people who own dogs that cost more than my monthly food shop.
The phone lights up again.
I put on my headset and answer it, smile perfectly in place.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
Because this is what I do.
And somewhere, quietly, under the professionalism and the compliance and the Chihuahua-based intimidation, a thought settles in again.
There must be something better out there.
The minute I end the call the phone rings again.
I answer it without looking at the display, because optimism is a character flaw.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
“CHRISTA.”
Oh God.
“Mum,” I say, instantly dropping my voice by an octave. “I’m at work.”
“Yes, I know,” she says cheerfully, which means she absolutely does not care. “I won’t keep you. I just had to call because I’ve just seen Alex.”
My stomach drops so fast it nearly takes my soul with it.
“Mum,” I say, already waving a hand at the phone like she can see me, “now is not—”
“He looks very well,” she barrels on. “Bit thinner. Still handsome. I always said that man looked good in a coat.”
“I am begging you,” I hiss, glancing down the corridor, “please do not talk about Alex.”
“And he asked after you,” she continues, undeterred. “Well, he asked how you were, which is basically the same thing. I told him you’re still at that planning place and—”
“Mum,” I say through clenched teeth, “I am just the receptionist.”
“Yes, yes,” she says. “Anyway, I thought, you know, maybe this is fate. People do find their way back to each other. Look at your Aunt Sheila and Ron.”
Aunt Sheila and Ron divorced twice.
“I am not getting back together with Alex,” I say, grinning brightly at a man walking past because professionalism is a prison. “That ship has sailed. Sank. Exploded. Took on water again for good measure.”
“Well,” my mum says, unfazed, “you were engaged. That has to count for something.”
“It counts for a panic attack,” I mutter.
“And you did always say you wanted stability,” she adds. “And he’s got that nice job now. And I know things ended badly, but—”
I glance up and see Caroline approaching reception, heels clicking with purpose, clipboard in hand.
Abort. Abort. Abort.
“Mum,” I whisper urgently, “I have to go.”
“Oh, just one more thing,” she says. “Do you think I should invite him for Sunday lunch if I see him again?”
I feel something inside me snap. Not loudly. More like a rubber band giving up.
“I’m pregnant,” I hiss.
Silence.
Actual silence.
Even the office seems to pause, like it’s leaning in.
“You’re… what?” my mum says.
“And Alex is not the dad,” I add quickly, because if I’m detonating a bomb, I might as well commit to it.
More silence.
Caroline stops at the desk, looks at me expectantly.
“I will call you this evening,” I say into the phone, enunciating every word. “We will talk. Slowly. With tea.”
“Christa,” my mum says faintly.
“This evening,” I repeat, already reaching to hang up. “Love you. Bye.”
I end the call and place the headset down with the care of someone defusing unexploded ordnance.
Caroline raises an eyebrow. “Everything alright?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling so hard my face aches. “Just family things.”
Caroline’s mouth tightens in that way it does when she smells weakness.
“Personal calls,” she says coolly, glancing pointedly at the handset, “are better taken outside work hours.”
“Of course,” I say. Bright. Composed. Entirely professional. “It won’t happen again.”
She holds my gaze for a beat, clearly enjoying the moment, then pivots and stalks off down the corridor, heels clicking like punctuation.
I wait until she’s gone. Until the glass doors stop swinging. Until my pulse drops below impending cardiac event.
Then I exhale.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like if I do it wrong, everything might explode.
My hands are shaking just enough that I notice when I click with the mouse on the messaging app.
Me
I just dropped a major bomb on my mum.
Ivy
Define major.
Me
Pregnant. Also told her Alex isn’t the dad.
Ivy
AT WORK?
Me
In front of the potted plants and Caroline.
Ivy
I’m screaming.
Me
I might in fact die.
I straighten my posture and adjust my headset.
The magazines are still perfect. The tea is still undrinkable. The world has not ended. Yet.
From the outside, everything looks normal.
From the inside, I’ve just changed the trajectory of several lives before ten thirty in the morning.
Another call lights up the phone.
I answer it, voice steady.
“Dubois & Woods, good morning.”
Because, obviously, no matter what explodes in my personal life, the reception desk must remain operational.
And that, more than anything else, tells me something has to change.