it’s half nine. I was due at the office half an hour ago.
I dial my work number. It’s obvious I can’t go in. It’s far too late,for starters, and I’d really rather not have to face up to the fact that I’ve actually made a complete twat of myself, thank you very much. I’ll have to speak to Imogen and make some excuse.
I say I’ve got food poisoning. Not very original, I know, but the roof of my mouth honestly feels like a canary has just shat all over it and I really can’t move without thinking I’m about to barf.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come in.’ Imogen’s voice seeps down the phone line like hydrochloric acid. ‘We’ve an editorial meeting.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Katie, just make sure you’re here for once, will you?’ she spits, and slams the phone down.
‘She hung up,’ I tell Graham and Shish Kebab in astonishment, before lugging my carcass out of bed and looking for some cleanish clothes to put on.
I hate the whole twatting lot of them.
How on earth am I going to face the world?
Chapter 4
I finally crawlinto work at ten thirty-seven.
Marsha looks at me as though she knows something I don’t.
‘Imogen wants to see you immediately.’ She looks pleased as punch. ‘She’s waiting in her office.’
‘Is it about the crème brûlée piece?’
She shrugs. ‘Search me.’
‘Come in,’ barks Imogen as I teeter on the threshold of her football pitch-sized office. I’m so nervous that I temporarily forget the shame of last night, which has been rollicking around in the pit of my stomach all the way here. Instead, I twiddle my fingers in terror. God, I’m hungover. The need to race to the loo for a big alcopoo is almost overwhelming. I feel absolutely rancid.
‘You were late yesterday,’ she snaps, swivelling her powder-blue chair round and narrowing her yellow eyes at me disconcertingly.
‘Sorry.’ I try to make light of it. ‘The train came and I wasn’t there.’
Imogen shoots me a look that leaves me in absolutely no doubtthat she finds me about as funny as liver failure, before motioning for me to sit down in one of the bevy of powder-blue suede chairs opposite her kidney-shaped desk. She’s lowered mine, I note, by about four inches so she can enjoy looking down on me and watching me squirm.
‘I won’t bother offering you coffee,’ she spits. ‘I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long.’
‘Die soon,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘Which do you want first?’ she asks. ‘The good news or the bad news?’
‘Er…the good news?’ I stammer. God. I hope she’s going to be quick. I really, really need the loo.
‘OK.’ She pushes the sleeves of her immaculately cut black jacket up to her elbows and looks at me levelly. ‘The good news is that I’ve been promoted. Again. To the board this time.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, nearly adding, ‘So you haven’t worn away your tastebuds with arse-licking for nothing then.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She screws up her nose with laughter. ‘Of course I’ll have to find a replacement for Audrey.’
‘Audrey’s leaving?’
‘No.’
‘Then?’
‘She’s left. Not ten minutes ago.’
‘Why?’
‘I fired her. She was becoming unreliable. Always racing home early to get back to those snotty brats. Falling asleep in meetings. And she was forever leaking milk over the boardroom table. When she damn well knows I’m allergic to dairy products.’
Any small flicker of maternal instinct is an indication of fatal weakness, in Imogen’s opinion. According to her, it’s on a par with quiche-eating in males.
So poor old Audrey getting the boot is the bad news. But why is she telling me? Unless… Of course. She’s hoping I’ll take on Audrey’s job. As well as my own, no doubt. And probably for less money, knowing this bloody place.
Butif I am doing two jobs, there’ll have to be more money, won’t there? And if there is more, I’ll be able to afford somewhere nicer to live. Somewhere with a
I dial my work number. It’s obvious I can’t go in. It’s far too late,for starters, and I’d really rather not have to face up to the fact that I’ve actually made a complete twat of myself, thank you very much. I’ll have to speak to Imogen and make some excuse.
I say I’ve got food poisoning. Not very original, I know, but the roof of my mouth honestly feels like a canary has just shat all over it and I really can’t move without thinking I’m about to barf.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come in.’ Imogen’s voice seeps down the phone line like hydrochloric acid. ‘We’ve an editorial meeting.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Katie, just make sure you’re here for once, will you?’ she spits, and slams the phone down.
‘She hung up,’ I tell Graham and Shish Kebab in astonishment, before lugging my carcass out of bed and looking for some cleanish clothes to put on.
I hate the whole twatting lot of them.
How on earth am I going to face the world?
Chapter 4
I finally crawlinto work at ten thirty-seven.
Marsha looks at me as though she knows something I don’t.
‘Imogen wants to see you immediately.’ She looks pleased as punch. ‘She’s waiting in her office.’
‘Is it about the crème brûlée piece?’
She shrugs. ‘Search me.’
‘Come in,’ barks Imogen as I teeter on the threshold of her football pitch-sized office. I’m so nervous that I temporarily forget the shame of last night, which has been rollicking around in the pit of my stomach all the way here. Instead, I twiddle my fingers in terror. God, I’m hungover. The need to race to the loo for a big alcopoo is almost overwhelming. I feel absolutely rancid.
‘You were late yesterday,’ she snaps, swivelling her powder-blue chair round and narrowing her yellow eyes at me disconcertingly.
‘Sorry.’ I try to make light of it. ‘The train came and I wasn’t there.’
Imogen shoots me a look that leaves me in absolutely no doubtthat she finds me about as funny as liver failure, before motioning for me to sit down in one of the bevy of powder-blue suede chairs opposite her kidney-shaped desk. She’s lowered mine, I note, by about four inches so she can enjoy looking down on me and watching me squirm.
‘I won’t bother offering you coffee,’ she spits. ‘I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long.’
‘Die soon,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘Which do you want first?’ she asks. ‘The good news or the bad news?’
‘Er…the good news?’ I stammer. God. I hope she’s going to be quick. I really, really need the loo.
‘OK.’ She pushes the sleeves of her immaculately cut black jacket up to her elbows and looks at me levelly. ‘The good news is that I’ve been promoted. Again. To the board this time.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, nearly adding, ‘So you haven’t worn away your tastebuds with arse-licking for nothing then.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She screws up her nose with laughter. ‘Of course I’ll have to find a replacement for Audrey.’
‘Audrey’s leaving?’
‘No.’
‘Then?’
‘She’s left. Not ten minutes ago.’
‘Why?’
‘I fired her. She was becoming unreliable. Always racing home early to get back to those snotty brats. Falling asleep in meetings. And she was forever leaking milk over the boardroom table. When she damn well knows I’m allergic to dairy products.’
Any small flicker of maternal instinct is an indication of fatal weakness, in Imogen’s opinion. According to her, it’s on a par with quiche-eating in males.
So poor old Audrey getting the boot is the bad news. But why is she telling me? Unless… Of course. She’s hoping I’ll take on Audrey’s job. As well as my own, no doubt. And probably for less money, knowing this bloody place.
Butif I am doing two jobs, there’ll have to be more money, won’t there? And if there is more, I’ll be able to afford somewhere nicer to live. Somewhere with a
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