Chapter 3
Chapter Three
S omehow, I manage to stick around in the boardroom for ten whole minutes, which is a very long time when you just want to curl up and cry. In a moment like this, you can’t stride away like a sore loser, even though that’s exactly what I want to do.
I retreat to the food table, which is the furthest place in the room from Ben as possible, where the sad little muffins that have a sign in front of them reading ‘non-dairy, gluten-free, nut-free’ are, given this day of political correctness and food allergies. Fun-free, I think, but I shove one in my mouth anyway.
Meanwhile, Ben is surrounded by a group of people, launching into a monologue, sharing his plans for the role – ad infinitum – to anyone who would listen. I roll my eyes. He thinks he’s won an Oscar. I wish someone would play the ‘wind up’ music.
I glance up and saw Ruby has become part of his adoring fan club (cult). She’s listening to Ben and flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder. Ugh.
When no one is looking I slip out of the double doors and head straight to the bathrooms, lock myself in a stall, sit on the toilet lid, and think, What the fuck just happened?
For ten minutes I let myself cry silently into a wad of toilet paper. Tony’s words keep repeating in my head. He’s described Ben as exuberant and passionate – that’s what you want in a star editor. And he’s described me as trustworthy and capable. That’s what you want in a toaster.
By the time I’ve cried myself out I feel slightly better, but I also now have a monumental headache. I flush the toilet, blot my mascara streaks away, and walk as quickly as I can down the hallway towards my office, wanting to just lose myself in a pile of work.
‘Gem!’
Damnit .
Ruby calls to me from the end of the corridor, and I resist the urge of running into my office, locking myself in there, and telling everyone I have a highly contagious disease.
She hurries towards me looking flushed, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I didn’t realise that Ben is actually quite smart. Besides being a hottie, he’s got some great ideas for the Chief role.’
I grit my teeth. ‘Great.’
She looks at me and her eyes mist over. ‘Oh, sorry! I know you wanted that job, but you have autobiographies, which I think is much cooler.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Because we both know it isn’t cooler.
She squeezes my arm. ‘If you need to talk, just Teams me.’
‘Thanks.’ I don’t want to talk. All I want is a gulp of someone’s hip flask and maybe a really long holiday. To Italy. My ultimate destination.
I close my eyes. Lots of cocktails. Pasta. Cheese. Shopping. I hear Murano glass is quite fetching… Maybe I could learn to make gnocchi from scratch with someone’s nonna . Maybe by the end she’ll love me so much she’ll be my nonna too. I’ll master the language in a month, as if I’m some genius polyglot. I’ll make bread from scratch.
I wonder what it’d be like, the Italian version of myself. Passionate. I’d learn to tell people no. I’d be feisty. Spicy. I’d yell, ‘Piss off, little man whore’ at Ben without feeling like I needed to apologise.
I like Italian Gemma so much I’m almost smiling and back to a happy place when Ruby says, ‘Oh and be careful. I think that tarot card was for you. Nothing’s happened to me today. And’ – her voice lowers – ‘bad things always come in threes.’
I give a little laugh but something in my stomach knots again. ‘Ruby, this is one little bump in my life. I don’t think it’s written in the stars or anything.’
* * *
Despite wanting to lose myself under piles of work, for most of the morning I sit staring at the blinking cursor on my page, watching the emails pile up in my inbox. I scroll through them without responding: one from a distributor, one from the graphic designer with a potential new cover, one from a literary agent pitching her next amazing author.
For the rest of the day, I do exactly zero work, can’t focus on anything. I consider putting a lock on my door and never exiting. But how would I eat? Can you eat paper and survive? I googled this. Turns out, no.
In the middle of imagining someone finding my skeleton with a wad of paper shoved in its gob, Tony knocks on the door. I take a deep breath. I got this .
‘Hey, sport,’ Tony says warmly, and immediately I know he wants something. ‘Can you join us in the foyer for James McMahon’s drinks?’
This is beginning to feel like the longest day of the year. I check the clock on my desk: five p.m.
I look up at him. ‘Could I join the drinks?’ I repeat, thinking, Could I, or do I want to? Because those answers are very different.
‘Just for twenty minutes. Add your special Gemma magic touch.’ He means my Nelly Nicepants self. Obviously a deal is on the line, or something has gone sour and he needs my help with making it right.
I hate the feeling of letting him down, even though I’m exhausted. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I simply say, No, I need to go home.
When I don’t say anything, he grins and says over his shoulder as he left, ‘You’re a lifesaver.’
Twenty minutes later I regret being a lifesaver. Unfortunately, James McMahon is a delight, in the same way that Hitler was kind and compassionate.
James has already approached me twice. The first time he assumed I was the waitress and could I get him some more sandwiches, and patted his well-developed paunch. When I told him I was actually an editor, he put his meaty hand on my lower back, right where my black dress sucks me in the most, and rubbed me like a lamp holding a genie, and said, ‘ Oh, a career woman .’ For ten excruciating minutes, I made nice, flattering him, telling him I’ve read his manuscript (true) and loved it (half true) and he is a genius (utter horrible lie). Finally, I made some excuse to go and check the drinks.
The second time he approached me, his belly was overhanging his trousers as he pulled up his belt and I got a flash of pale white bulging stomach with downy grey hair. I cringed.
‘Gemma!’ He leaned towards me, spilled champagne on my shoe, didn’t apologise, and then pulled me down to whisper in foul eggy sandwich breath into my ear, ‘Where do we go after this?’
I wanted to tell him to do one, but I couldn’t. I knew the game: I had to make nice with this creep.
Before I could answer, James made a final lunge towards the diagonal neckline of my dress, as though he was trying to whisper something, but wanted to whisper it to my breasts instead.
In a state of desperation, I tipped my almost full glass of red wine across my shoulder and winced as the blood-coloured coldness ran down my right side and dribbled into my heels. I exclaimed ‘Oh, silly me!’ and hurriedly left before he could offer to mop it up himself.
That’s how I find myself in the disabled bathroom, in my bra and undies, rinsing my black dress in the sink, then holding it under the dryer, praying it would not disintegrate. I’m not used to such fine knit stuff. It has been a splurge purchase and cost half a week’s salary, because I thought a chief editor should wear semi-designer stuff at least. Except I’m not a chief editor.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection. Under the lights, my eyes are puffy, red, tired. My cheeks sunken and hollow. I feel overwhelmed and like the day just isn’t stopping – hit after hit, they keep coming. I can barely take a breath between each round. And now I’m freezing in a tiny bathroom, walls paper-thin so I can hear a guy peeing in the next bathroom over. Great.
Outside, there’s a murmur of voices as people walk down the hall.
‘Great work, champ, hole in one today.’ Tony and his never-ending sporting references.
‘Thanks. But do you think she’s on to it?’ Weasel’s voice.
My spidey senses bristled. Who’s on to what? I have a feeling this is something I want to hear. I turn off the dryer and tiptoe closer to the locked door.
‘No, she’s too busy helping out everyone around the office. She can’t say no.’
My face flames red. Could it… Are they talking about me ?
‘People-pleaser,’ Weasel says, like someone would say murderer .
‘Has to change … otherwise … we can’t…’ Tony’s voice peters out. ‘It’s over.’
It’s over. The words make me freeze.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,’ Weasel said, in his smug little voice.
The voices fade away as they walk down the corridor. I start shivering, and without thinking, I pull on my dress that’s still damp and now completely crumpled. God, were they talking about me? I run through the other women in the office. Ruby? Amy? Tamara? The marketing team. But none of them really helps the rest of the team.
I feel my stomach churn, the way it does when you just know . They could have been talking about anyone, but it was me . I know it.
What am I not on to? My work? God, am I going to be fired ? And ‘people pleaser’. The way he said it. And Weasel going to ‘take care of it’, which sounds like a bad mafia plotline.
It’s time to go home and end this hellish day. On the way out of the bathroom, I keep my eyes on the carpet, and hurry towards the lift before anyone can talk to me.
To make matters worse, when I finally get into the lift, utterly exhausted, and glance out through the closing doors, I see Weasel staring straight at me. He’s seen the whole thing: me making a complete fool of myself, and now leaving in a damp, wrinkled dress.
Bloody wonderful.