in the plain gray building that housed our tiny two-room offices, I actually felt quite relieved to be coming into work.
The building I seemed to spend most of my life in these days had once been home to a psychiatric hospital, or mental asylum as they were called back then, until a forward-thinking architect in the 1970s had converted the then derelict building into offices. As I passed through the corridors on a daily basis, I could sympathize wholeheartedly with how the past inmates must have felt at being incarcerated here all those years ago. At least I got to leave this drab institution for a few hours at the end of every day. They would have been stuck here permanently, with no light at the end of their tunnel.
Mrs. Jameson was our part-time secretary, or Miss Moneypenny, as I secretly called her when I was trying to inject some interest into my long, boring days, and I would pretend these rather boring, tiny offices were the hub of MI6. She was already hard at work when I arrived. She smiled at me over her gold-rimmed spectacles as I opened the door.
“Morning, dear, how are we today?” she asked, looking up from her typing. “There’s an awful wind out there this morning; fair blew me away when I got off the bus.”
“Yes,” I agreed, as I hurriedly unbuttoned my coat. “It is a bit brisk. Is Dad in yet?”
“Yes, dear, he’s in already. I believe he’s on the phone just now.”
“Oh, right. Thanks, Mrs. J,” I said as I hung my coat up on the old wooden coat stand in the corner of the room. I’d hoped to get in early today and make a good impression on Dad. It might have helped soften the blow a little when I mentioned the possibility of taking up Maddie’s offer.
The office door burst open—my father had obviously finished his phone call.
“Morning, Scarlett, glad to see you made it in at last,” he said, brushing past me. He placed some papers on Mrs. Jameson’s desk. “This is the account I was telling you about, Dorothy. Can you check the invoices back from August, please?”
“I’m not late,” I said, looking at my watch. “Actually I think you’ll find I’m early, Dad.”
“That makes a change,” he mumbled as he searched through a filing cabinet.
Mrs. J rolled her eyes at me and mouthed the words “bad mood” while my father had his back to her. So I carried on through to the tiny room Dad and I shared as an office. I heard the door close behind me.
“Good weekend?” my father inquired, as he thumbed through the files he was carrying.
“Er, not too bad,” I answered cautiously. I figured this was probably not the best of times to mention Maddie’s idea. In fact, now I was back here again, I realized it was likely there never was going to be a good time. So I decided that the best plan for now was just getting on with some work. I would bide my time and wait and see if a better moment arose later.
For the rest of our Monday morning, I chased up a few unpaid invoices while Dad spoke to potential clients about the benefits of installing a popcorn machine in their refreshment areas. Then, while Dad phoned the bank to talk to them about extending our business loan, I surfed the net while pretending to type a letter. It was virtually the same as any other mind-numbing day at the office.
I’d soon exhausted all the movie websites I had bookmarked and was just about to log on to robbiewilliams.com when I noticed Dad was watching me from his desk.
Quickly I closed the Internet down.
“Scarlett?” he said slowly.
“Yep,” I said, opening the letter I was supposed to be typing again.
“Is everything all right with you lately?”
“Yeah,” I said, concentrating hard on the screen.
“Are you sure?”
I looked up from the monitor. What was going on? Dad never usually inquired about my state of mind during work hours.
“Yes.”
My father sighed. “Scarlett, I do have eyes, you know; you’ve not been your usual self lately. What’s wrong?”
I shrugged.
The building I seemed to spend most of my life in these days had once been home to a psychiatric hospital, or mental asylum as they were called back then, until a forward-thinking architect in the 1970s had converted the then derelict building into offices. As I passed through the corridors on a daily basis, I could sympathize wholeheartedly with how the past inmates must have felt at being incarcerated here all those years ago. At least I got to leave this drab institution for a few hours at the end of every day. They would have been stuck here permanently, with no light at the end of their tunnel.
Mrs. Jameson was our part-time secretary, or Miss Moneypenny, as I secretly called her when I was trying to inject some interest into my long, boring days, and I would pretend these rather boring, tiny offices were the hub of MI6. She was already hard at work when I arrived. She smiled at me over her gold-rimmed spectacles as I opened the door.
“Morning, dear, how are we today?” she asked, looking up from her typing. “There’s an awful wind out there this morning; fair blew me away when I got off the bus.”
“Yes,” I agreed, as I hurriedly unbuttoned my coat. “It is a bit brisk. Is Dad in yet?”
“Yes, dear, he’s in already. I believe he’s on the phone just now.”
“Oh, right. Thanks, Mrs. J,” I said as I hung my coat up on the old wooden coat stand in the corner of the room. I’d hoped to get in early today and make a good impression on Dad. It might have helped soften the blow a little when I mentioned the possibility of taking up Maddie’s offer.
The office door burst open—my father had obviously finished his phone call.
“Morning, Scarlett, glad to see you made it in at last,” he said, brushing past me. He placed some papers on Mrs. Jameson’s desk. “This is the account I was telling you about, Dorothy. Can you check the invoices back from August, please?”
“I’m not late,” I said, looking at my watch. “Actually I think you’ll find I’m early, Dad.”
“That makes a change,” he mumbled as he searched through a filing cabinet.
Mrs. J rolled her eyes at me and mouthed the words “bad mood” while my father had his back to her. So I carried on through to the tiny room Dad and I shared as an office. I heard the door close behind me.
“Good weekend?” my father inquired, as he thumbed through the files he was carrying.
“Er, not too bad,” I answered cautiously. I figured this was probably not the best of times to mention Maddie’s idea. In fact, now I was back here again, I realized it was likely there never was going to be a good time. So I decided that the best plan for now was just getting on with some work. I would bide my time and wait and see if a better moment arose later.
For the rest of our Monday morning, I chased up a few unpaid invoices while Dad spoke to potential clients about the benefits of installing a popcorn machine in their refreshment areas. Then, while Dad phoned the bank to talk to them about extending our business loan, I surfed the net while pretending to type a letter. It was virtually the same as any other mind-numbing day at the office.
I’d soon exhausted all the movie websites I had bookmarked and was just about to log on to robbiewilliams.com when I noticed Dad was watching me from his desk.
Quickly I closed the Internet down.
“Scarlett?” he said slowly.
“Yep,” I said, opening the letter I was supposed to be typing again.
“Is everything all right with you lately?”
“Yeah,” I said, concentrating hard on the screen.
“Are you sure?”
I looked up from the monitor. What was going on? Dad never usually inquired about my state of mind during work hours.
“Yes.”
My father sighed. “Scarlett, I do have eyes, you know; you’ve not been your usual self lately. What’s wrong?”
I shrugged.
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