Chapter 7
7
Words I never thought would leave my lips: I’ve had too many biscuits.
I’m not even joking. When I applied for a job here, the free biscuits appealed to me even more than the pension (and, so many things considered, it felt like better value for money too). Truthfully, I have more biscuits than even I can eat – to the point where I’m finding other uses for them these days, like launching a cookie across the office to get the attention of a colleague, or building a house of cards out of chocolate malted milks. Who needs desk toys when you can play with biscuits until you get bored, and eat them? But then, of course, you eat too many, just because they’re there, like I have today. I don’t know why exactly I thought biscuits would settle my nerves but I do know that they’ve unsettled my stomach.
The reason I’m all whipped up is because I have a problem. With Lou’s hen party and wedding moving to the very imminent future, I’m going to need to take my leave much sooner, and with the biscuit business booming, it’s hard to square the time generally – never mind last minute.
Worse still, it’s too late in the day to request it via the usual system (where it would be a pop-up that rejected me) which means I’m going to have to ask my boss, Iwan, if I can have the time (and he will have to reject me to my face).
I don’t know why I’m so naturally pessimistic – I don’t think I’ve always been this way, and it’s definitely gotten worse since… let’s just file it under: the events of last year. Perhaps it will be fine. Maybe I’ll go in there with my head held high, I’ll ask clearly and confidently, and Iwan will just say yes without a second thought. Things have been crazy while we’ve been looking for a new hire to head up the product development. The company wants to have a big shake-up, to reinvigorate the biscuit biz, and I finally think I have just the person – a recommendation from an old colleague – so maybe if that’s covered, they can do without me for a couple of weeks.
I grab my iced coffee and take a sip. My phone vibrating on my desk makes me jump – I’m that edgy today – and it causes my arm to jolt. I don’t know how I narrowly avoid pouring my drink over my keyboard but somehow I manage. Thank God – I would’ve had to try to soak it up with biscuits, given that’s basically all I have to hand.
My phone buzzes again but I’m ready for it this time. I pick it up and see a missed call and a message from a number I don’t have saved, so I open the message first.
Hi, it’s Dean. Can we meet today?
My blood runs cold. Dean? What the hell does he want? And after all this time too. I would say I’ve only just stopped thinking about him, had I not thought about him a matter of minutes ago, but I’ve basically stopped. What is this? Does he want me back? Does he think I’ll take him back? Would I…? No. No, of course I wouldn’t. In fact, I’m going to show him, right now, that he can’t just worm his way back in. Honestly, the cheek of the man, because I blocked his number for a reason. Messaging me from a new number is just so infuriating, like he’s found his way around my armour – well, he’s in for a shock, because I’m strong enough without it.
Why don’t you piss off, Dean?!
There. That ought to do it. There’s no way to read between the lines, there’s nothing to misinterpret. Just a good, old-fashioned piss off.
I go back to staring at my screen, looking at the work calendar, willing it to open up, to let me book my holidays, magically defying the laws of how it functions. Surprisingly, it doesn’t work.
‘Molly, have you got a minute?’ I hear Iwan call out.
The autopilot for my breathing switches off all of a sudden as I glance up and see him poking his head out of his office door.
‘Sure,’ I reply, all high-pitched, clearly overcompensating for the fear I’m feeling right now.
Obviously Iwan can’t read my mind, right? Or, more realistic, but still probably impossible, he can’t see that I’m trying to book holiday right now? I mean, of course he can’t, because the system won’t let me, but why do I get the feeling that I’m in trouble?
‘What’s up?’ I ask brightly, taking a seat opposite his desk.
Iwan munches a ginger biscuit before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s a very stressed-out man generally, and he suffers terribly with acid reflux, which he treats with ginger… but in the form of biscuits. I’m starting to think it might be what is causing his acid, because he gets through at least one packet a day, but I’m not going to be the one who tells him, or I’ll be needing a recruiter myself.
‘What the hell is going on with the new hire?’ he asks me.
Wow, his tone is almost angry – he never usually speaks to me like this. I know we’re under a lot of pressure, but is there any need to take it out on me?
‘I have someone, as I said, someone who seems perfect,’ I reply, keeping my composure. ‘A friend of a friend has highly recommended him, he’s looking for a new opportunity, so I got the impression he was a sure thing…’
‘Then why did you tell him to piss off?’ Iwan asks, cutting to the chase.
‘I… I what?’
I don’t understand.
‘You told him to piss off – why?’
‘I didn’t,’ I insist. ‘I haven’t even met him yet… I…’
I don’t even know what to say.
Iwan takes another bite of a biscuit before rubbing his temples.
‘Then why have I just had a call from someone named Dean Rickitt who says he messaged our recruiter about a potential position, only to be told to piss off?’ he asks. ‘He just called me, saying it had just happened.’
The blood surging through my veins runs cold. Oh, God. Ohhh, God. What the hell is wrong with me? I see a message from someone called Dean and I instantly assume it’s my ex, begging me to take him back? I don’t think it gets much more pathetic than that, does it?
‘Ah,’ I say simply.
‘So you did ?’ Iwan replies in disbelief.
‘I can explain,’ I insist. ‘It was a mistake – a stupid mistake. I went through a bad break-up, relatively recently, and his name was Dean, so when I saw his message about meeting up I just assumed it was from him and… and I’m sorry. I’ll call him up, I’ll explain, I’ll apologise.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ he tells me with a sigh.
‘Please don’t sack me, it was a silly mistake,’ I plead.
My God, I cannot lose my job right now, it’s all I have left. I never wanted my work to be my world but throwing myself into it this year is going a long way to keeping me focused.
‘Molly, relax,’ Iwan insists. ‘It’s too late because Dean says he’s not interested any more. You’re not going to lose your job. If it were anyone else sitting here, it might be a possibility, but you’re one of my best employees.’
That’s some comfort, but not much, and I know things could be worse but he’s not exactly going to approve my last-minute holiday now, is he?
‘You’re good at what you do,’ he continues. ‘Maybe even too good.’
‘Too good?’ I reply, even more worried now.
‘You’ve been working so hard, and it sounds like you’ve been through a lot – have you ever stopped to consider you might need some time away from the job?’ he asks.
‘Iwan, my job means a lot to me, I can’t lose it,’ I say, truly unable to hide the panic in my voice.
‘Molly, I told you, you’re not going to lose your job,’ he reminds me. ‘When was the last time you took any leave?’
‘I took a day, last month?—’
‘For a funeral,’ he interrupts me. ‘When was the last time you had a break?’
My silence speaks volumes.
‘I think what you need to do – not just for you, but for the company – is take some time off,’ he tells me. ‘Just a week or two, get yourself sorted out, and then come back ready to find us the person for the job. You’re no use to me this stressed out – would you like a biscuit?’
‘No, thanks,’ I say to the biscuit. ‘So, you want me to take some time off?’
‘Yes, use some of your holiday,’ he says. ‘Sooner, rather than later, because I need you back and I need you at one hundred per cent. I know, the voices in your head are telling you to say no, you want to keep working, you want to prove yourself – but prove yourself by taking a break, sorting your head out, and then give me my best employee back. All right?’
‘Can I take next week and the week after?’ I ask.
He raises his eyebrows, as though he didn’t expect it to be that easy to get me to take a break. I mean, I didn’t expect it to be that easy to get the time off. It’s funny how things work out sometimes.
‘Yes, of course,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it sorted in the system. Just figure it all out, okay?’
‘I will, I promise,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you. And, again, I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, be better,’ he insists.
It’s hard to hide the smile from my face because this couldn’t have worked out better for me. Obviously I’m mortified about my mistake, so I don’t want him to think I’m not, or that this was all a ploy to get some holiday.
‘I will, I’ll find someone even better than Dean,’ I tell him.
‘Dean the chef or Dean your ex?’ Iwan jokes.
‘Dean the chef, obviously,’ I reply quickly.
‘Well, don’t neglect the other position either,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve cut you some slack – I never cut people slack – don’t make me regret it. I rarely give a second chance, I never give a third one.’
I nod, my jaw tight as I take in his words.
He’s right, he rarely cuts anyone any slack, so it means a lot that he’s giving me a second chance here. Telling a potential employee to piss off is a huge, huge deal. Absolutely not acceptable, even if it was a mistake.
I’ll take the time off, I’ll take the holiday, but I won’t take my eye off the prize. I don’t care if I have to work every day that I’m in Spain, I will find Iwan the perfect chef to oversee the redevelopment of our products. Like my life depends on it.