Chapter 2
TWO
I arrive at work at nine o’clock the next morning, as I always do. I hang up my coat, as I always do, and I’m about to sit down, as per usual, when I change my mind and knock on my manager’s door.
Peter has bushy white hair that looks like it’s been disturbed by a tornado. He is approximately seventy years old, and I can only think they built the office around him, as it’s impossible to imagine him anywhere else.
“Morning, Peter.”
“Ah… Bridget!” he says with a laugh. “And what can we do for you this fine day?”
The words are on the tip of my tongue. I know exactly what I want to say, but I’ve started to wonder whether I should lie. That would have been a great idea, but it’s too late now. “The thing is, I need a week off.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just turns on his computer monitor, moves the mouse a bit, then hmmms a few times while I try to explain why I am worthy of an unscheduled holiday.
“The thing is,” I say for the second time in the space of twenty seconds, “I’ve never been unreasonable with leave.
I always work on bank holidays, and I try to be a real team player.
But the thing is,” three and counting, “the most brilliant opportunity has come up, and I don’t think I can turn it down. ”
He finally glances at me.
“You’ve used all but two of your free days for the year. You went to see your mother in Shepton Mallet. You told me she was ill and needed a hand.”
“I did, and she was. She’s a bit better now, though she still has trouble with…” I stop talking because my mother’s sciatica isn’t what I’ve come to discuss.
“Then what’s all this talk of a week’s holiday?” His eyebrows rise above his glasses, and I feel as if I’ve committed some unforgivable crime. “You do know that it goes against company policy?”
“It’s more like ten days than a week. But I totally understand if you have to take it out of my pay.”
He folds his arms across his chest and rocks back and forth in his chair. I sit looking attentive, waiting for his next judgy comment.
“Tell me, Bridget, are you in some kind of trouble?”
I suddenly realise what he must be thinking, but before I can tell him that it isn’t the Victorian era and the local landowner hasn’t got me pregnant, he keeps talking.
“Or do you have a medical issue of your own? We here at Michaels and Mickelson are sympathetic to the needs of our employees, but you must tell me what’s wrong if you expect me to help you out.”
I’m still annoyed that the only thing he can imagine is that I’m ill or up the duff, but I maintain my saintly expression. “No, it’s nothing like that. The truth is…” Bad idea, start lying now! “The truth is that an old friend of mine has invited me to Mauritius to travel on his yacht.”
Peter is stupefied. “And are you a keen sailor? Is that the opportunity you simply can’t pass up?”
Now I’m the one laughing. I’m trying to pretend that my request is no big deal.
“Goodness me, no. The only boat I’ve ever been on is a pedalo when my family went on holiday to Bournemouth.
” I laugh a little louder, aware that I’m starting to sound unhinged.
Perhaps he’ll let me go for the sake of my sanity.
“No, the thing is…” I really have to stop saying that.
“Well, the friend who has invited me is Adesina Okojie.”
I wait for him to be amazed.
“I don’t know who that is.” Peter’s eyebrows swoop back down. “Wait… is he the Ugandan fellow who works in the Swindon office?”
“No, he’s a rock singer. Well, he’s kind of poppy too. It’s hard to describe.” I sound like I’m fifteen again.
Peter shrugs. “I can’t say the name rings a bell. But then I mainly listen to Classic FM.”
“He’s famous,” I reply, a little shocked. “His band, Adesina, had a massive hit with ‘Promises’. You must know that song.”
I can see that he’s already bored with the conversation. “As I said, I’m more a fan of Amadeus Mozart than Adesina…”
“Okojie,” I reply, losing faith in my own argument.
Why didn’t I lie? I could have said I was dying, or that my fictional grandmother in New Zealand was turning one hundred.
I don’t even mind pretending to be pregnant if it gets me off work.
On the plus side, I came within seconds of belting out the chorus to Ade’s best-known song. So at least I dodged that bullet.
I clear my throat and try to sound confident. “Anyway… never mind. The point is, he’s invited a group of our friends from university to meet him on his yacht. It could even be a superyacht for all I know.”
Peter isn’t interested in superyachts or rock stars. He’s got a caravan in Hastings and enjoys walking holidays. He’s looking at his computer again. He’s become distracted by an email or his to-do list for the day. I’m losing him. I’m losing my chance to escape.
“So is it possible?” My voice is full of casual cheer, and he just has to say yes, but I know he won’t.
He sighs and leans closer over his sun-bleached keyboard. “When is it?”
That isn’t an outright no. I can’t believe it! I just need to get over one final hurdle, and it will quite literally be plain sailing.
“I leave on the fifteenth.”
“That’s next week!” The expression on his face matches the startled puppy’s on the motivational poster on the wall just behind him. “Bridget, I really would love to say yes, but… no.”
I immediately think of three possible arguments, but having worked approximately eight metres from Peter for the last… many years, I’m pretty sure none of them will work.
There’s only one thing for it; I will beg. “I can’t miss this, Peter. Please let me go.”
That patronising smile is back on his face. He knows that he’s in charge, and there’s nothing I can do to change his mind.
“I really am sorry, Bridget, but the rules are the rules. It isn’t my fault that you’ve already used all your holiday allowance.” At least he didn’t pat my hand. I might have had to punch him if he’d patted my hand. “Why don’t you go back to your desk and forget all about it?”
What I want to do is grab his head and force it through the monitor. I want to pull the blinds down from his window and stamp on them. I want to do terrible things to his printer, but instead, I take a deep breath.
There’s nothing you can do, I silently remind myself. You are a cog in a machine.
Except, there is one thing.
“Thank you for listening to my request, Peter. I do appreciate it, and with your response in mind, I’d like to tender my resignation. I will provide it in writing by the end of the day.”
I push my chair back to leave as Peter flexes his eyebrow muscles.
“Bridget, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“If you think that I’m quitting, then yes.”
“But you’ve been working here for…” He looks back at the monitor to consult the relevant information. “… nine years.”
“And I have no wish to make that ten.” I consider keeping it professional, but this is my blaze of glory. It would be silly not to make the most of it. “For one thing, the cakes we have for anniversaries are disgusting.”
“You’re one of my most reliable workers.” He stops short of calling me a good little drone, but I know that’s what he means.
“Don’t worry, Peter. The agency will find a replacement.”
He is no longer bouncing in his chair so contentedly. “I don’t think you would be best advised to—”
I interrupt him before he can say anything more. I’m scared that he might change my mind otherwise. “Don’t worry, Peter. I’ll see out my obligatory week’s notice, and I promise to send a postcard.”
I may sound like I know what I’m doing, but I’m already worried about my mortgage and the parking space that I’ll never fill. There’s a voice up here that keeps asking, Do you really want to throw your life away for ten days in the sun?
And though I’m terrified about what will happen when I get back, I find myself repeating a mantra as I leave poor, stunned Peter behind.
I am a drone, I am a worker bee, I am a cog in a machine no more.