by Lindsey Kelk
‘OK, so let’s just get straight to this.’ She sat down behind a too big desk and smiled. ‘I’ve got some difficult news.’
‘Right.’ I sat up straight and put on my ‘I’m listening’ face. Difficult news? Was she leaving? Maybe she was leaving. I really hoped she was leaving.
‘As you know, the company has gone through quite a lot of changes in the past twelve months,’ Raquel said, folding her hands in front of her and leaning her head to one side. Such a serious soul was Raquel. Probably because she fired people for a living and everyone hated her. ‘And as such, we are having to undertake some necessary measures to ensure a successful restructure.’
‘OK,’ I nodded. This was a very funny way of giving me a big hug and a key to the executive bathroom. Of course I knew there was a restructure. They were restructuring me into a corner office and a big fat pay rise. Which was much needed to pay for the ridiculously expensive Promotion Shoes that were currently rubbing the fuck out of my feet.
‘As you know,’ she repeated, ‘the original plan for the business was to move you into a creative director role, with the copy and design teams reporting directly to you.’
‘The original plan?’ I was starting to feel a fraction less giddy.
‘The original plan,’ she confirmed, never taking her eyes off me.
This didn’t sound wonderful. Why wasn’t she squealing and giving me a present? And why was she smiling? Raquel never smiled.
‘Unfortunately, due to the new restructure, we will not be moving ahead with the original plan. The creative director role you were moving into is no longer part of the planned downsizing of the company.’
Words I officially did not enjoy. Unfortunately. Restructure. Downsizing.
‘And as such, your role has been restructured out of the business.’
I was definitely ready for the hug and the present.
‘The creative director role –’ my voice did not sound nearly as steady as I would like – ‘has been restructured out of the business?’
After seven years of overtime, evenings and weekends, I was being stiffed out of my promotion by an HR demon with a gob full of business jargon and clichés.
‘Yes.’ Raquel gave me the same look you might give a small child who has just successfully worked out that cows go moo.
‘So I’m not going to be the new creative director?’
‘You are not.’
Poof. There it went. Bye bye, promotion. Hello, God knows how many more years back at my old desk. Hello, shit-ton of overtime I was going to have to do to pay for my new shoes. I stared at an Oxford University mug sitting right on the edge of her desk and fought the urge to move it out of harm’s way. Who went to Oxford and then ended up doing HR for an advertising company?
‘As you’ll see, we’ve put together a very fair redundancy package,’ Raquel continued, switching gears so fast I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. She pushed a stiff cardboard envelope across the desk towards me and tapped it twice. ‘Given the circumstances, we understand if you would like to leave immediately. I can forward your personal effects. If you could just leave your phone and security pass with me, I’ll take care of all of that.’
I looked down at the envelope and then back up at Satan’s minion.
‘I’m afraid I’m not following,’ I said as politely as possible. ‘Redundancy package?’
‘The company no longer has a position available for you.’ Raquel scratched her nose delicately. I resisted the urge to slap it. Only just. ‘At all.’
‘So when you say the creative director role has been restructured out of the business …’ I took a deep breath and tried very hard not to vomit. ‘What you are actually saying is that I have been restructured out of the business?’
‘The creative director role,’ she repeated with a nod, ‘is no longer viable in the current business plan. You are the creative director.’
‘But I haven’t even started the job. How can I have been restructured out of it?’ I was aware that my voice was starting to get uncomfortably high. I was even more aware of the fact that I was going to cry. I blinked twice and stared hard at the Oxford mug, trying to regain my composure.
‘I understand you are bound to have some questions.’ Raquel’s shark eyes had already glazed over. ‘Perhaps you’d like to schedule some time to go over them on the phone tomorrow.’
‘Or perhaps I’d like you to stop being a dick and tell me why I’m being fired?’ I shouted.
There was no stopping the tears. Between the blisters on my heels and my blind rage, there was nothing I could do to stem the sobbing. It was neither ladylike nor professional, but apparently I no longer had a profession, so who gave a toss whether or not I was being ladylike?
‘Perhaps you could explain to me why I’m being “let go” when you’re supposed to be promoting me? Perhaps you could explain to me who exactly is going to lead the creative team? Perhaps you could tell me who is going to win all of your business and lead all of your campaigns and who is going to work on New Year’s Eve so you don’t lose an account for a toilet cleaner?’ I grabbed the cardboard envelope and bashed it against the desk to punctuate my every word before flinging it across the room. ‘And it was crappy toilet cleaner.’
‘No one is disputing your commitment to the job,’ Raquel said without even flinching. ‘And we will be very happy to give you a reference when you find a new situation.’
‘A new situation?’ There was a chance I was screeching. ‘This isn’t Downton fucking Abbey. I’m not a scullery maid. I’m the best creative you have here and you know it. Where’s Michael? Where is bloody Michael?’
Michael was my boss. Michael was a cock. When Michael spilled a glass of wine down my top at the Christmas party every year, I laughed it off. When Michael referred to me and my breasts as ‘his three favourite employees’ in front of a new client last summer, I let it go. When Michael tried to cop a feel under the pretence of performing the Heimlich manoeuvre when I had hiccups every time I had hiccups for seven years, I kept my mouth shut. And now where was he?
‘Mr Donovan isn’t in the office this morning,’ Raquel replied, actually sounding bored. ‘I do understand you’re upset, but really, this isn’t a personal issue. It’s just a matter of corporate restructuring.’
‘Well, I think you need to restructure your face,’ I yelled. Not my best comeback ever. ‘This is ridiculous. I run that creative team. All of the accounts are working on my ideas. All of them.’
‘This conversation really isn’t relevant to the decision that has been made.’ She stood up and opened her office door. I took this to mean I was supposed to fuck off through it. ‘Your role no longer exists within the company. I will forward all your personal belongings and the details of our very generous package to your home address and include my direct line. I’d be very happy to discuss any questions you might have once you’ve had some time to reflect. We should probably do it over the phone.’
For the want of something else to do, I grabbed the Oxford University mug from her desk and threw it, as hard as I could, onto the floor. It bounced once on the beige carpet and then sat there sadly, a tiny trickle of coffee pooling beside it.
‘Feel better for that?’ Raquel asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Not really,’ I admitted, my chin up high and arm stretched out to knock a stack of files off her desk. Stamping a sore foot, I swiped a Pritt Stick off the shelf and brazenly stuck it in my pocket.
‘I’m taking that,’ I explained with added petulance. ‘You can knock it off my generous package.’
It was strange where your mind went when you were in shock.
Seven years of work and my boss hadn’t even had the decency to come in on time to fire me himself. I’d missed weddings and birthdays and dates to meet deadlines, deliver projects, give presentations, and I’d done it all with a smile. While all my friends were out puking in the street and snogging strangers, I’d spent last New Year’s Eve sat in the meeting roo
m, throwing a stress ball at a wall for three straight hours while I attempted to come up with an innovative campaign for knock-off Toilet Duck. And I bloody well did it. My flat was full of books I’d bought but never read, DVDs that had gone unwatched and CDs I hadn’t got round to listening to. Good God, it had been so long since I’d listened to music, I still had CDs. But it hadn’t mattered before. Because this was the plan. No matter how often my two remaining friends had told me to ease up, that work wasn’t everything, I hadn’t listened. I was happy. I wasn’t missing out on my life; my job was my life. And now I had neither.
But what really stung, I realized as I rode down to my floor for the last time in the lift that always smelled ever so slightly of cat food, what really stung wasn’t the loss of the actual job, it was everything that went with it. Most importantly, it was the dream of moving into my own place and leaving my demonic flatmate behind. Because once I was in my own flat, living would really start. I’d buy fancy dinnerware and nice curtains and learn how to make sushi and buy a cool TV with an amazing audio system. And then I’d invite Charlie round for dinner and we’d end up drinking a little too much and watching a movie which would almost certainly be something starring Emma Stone, and just when she was being her most endearing for the ladies and sexy for the men, I would rest my head on his shoulder and he would realize that I was his Emma Stone and we would kiss and then we would be together for ever. But no. That couldn’t happen now. Because I didn’t have my job. So there wouldn’t be a flat. And there wouldn’t be a dinner or an Emma Stone movie night or a kiss or any happiness ever again. Poof, it was all gone.
Having never been fired, let go or otherwise excused before in my life, I wasn’t sure what the correct protocol was. For the first time, I was thankful everyone else in the office were such lazy bastards. There was no one to see me snivelling and shoving my belongings into a reusable Tesco shopper, except for a terrified-looking intern and the graphic designer who everyone knew sniffed Bostick in the toilets. The company was going under and I was being let go, but the glue-sniffer kept his job. It was perfect.
I picked up my stapler and stared at it for a moment. I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t have a plan. Whether it was setting up the girl’s football team in junior school because I had declared the PE teacher sexist, turning a profit on the refreshment stand at the village panto, or making sure I was sitting next to Jason Hutchins on the year ten bus trip to Alton Towers, I always had a plan. And the Cloverhill Panthers had come third from last in our local division, watering down the Ribena at the panto until it was basically pink piss had made exactly four pounds and seventeen pence, and for two precious hours and thirteen minutes, Jason Hutchins had been all mine. I always had a plan and that plan always worked. I dropped the stapler in my bag and walked out the door.
After a ten-minute wander down Theobalds Road, I found myself in Bloomsbury Square, shopping bag in one hand, dignity in the other. Hobbling over to an empty bench, I kicked off my new shoes without worrying what the British summertime mud would do to the gorgeous nude suede and stared vacantly at two dogs running up and down the park. They always looked happy, I thought, as I pulled all the pins out of my elaborate updo one by one. Dogs were always happy. Dogs didn’t have a plan. Dogs hadn’t been climbing up a career ladder for the last seven years. Dogs hadn’t been hopelessly in love with their best friend for the last ten. Well, I couldn’t hand on heart say that was definitely true, but it seemed unlikely.
I rifled around in my Tesco bag looking for something to spur on an emotion that wasn’t pathetic. All that was in there was my stolen stapler, three framed photos, a brand-new box of Special K cereal bars and about seventeen different pens. (Lots of highlighters. I liked a highlighter.) That was it. Seven years and I’d erased all evidence of my very existence from the office in one half-full environmentally-friendly shopping bag.
I pulled the photos out, one by one, and laid them on my black-clad knee. The first was of me and Amy, little-girl versions of me and my best friend, dressed up as princesses and hugging desperately for the camera. The next one was a more formal shot of me, my sisters, my mum and my grandmother, looking considerably less chipper. We weren’t huggers, the Brookeses. Someone basically had to die to convince my mother to go further than a stern pat on the shoulder. When my first granddad had passed away, she had ruffled my hair. It was intense. The third and final photo was of me and Amy again, this time all grown-up and joined by Charlie, my co-worker, best boy friend and the man I had been in love with for the past decade. The three of us were slouched on a sofa in some random Parisian hotel in front of a huge mirror with another one behind us. My face was obscured by the camera that had gone everywhere with me that summer, but my denim cut-offs and stripy T-shirt echoed endlessly in the reflections of the two mirrors. Charlie and Amy’s reflected faces smiled back at me. Amy was on my left, deep in her Amélie phase, black hair cropped close to her head and legs stretched out, draped across me and Charlie. To my right, the love of my life rested his head on my shoulder and held a lit cigarette off to the side, so as not to drop the ash on my bare skin. Even though you couldn’t tell by the photo, I remembered I was smiling. We were the three musketeers. Rock, paper, scissors. Amy was the scissors, Charlie was the paper and I was the rock. I was always the rock.
Slowly but surely, I felt my breathing return to normal and the tension in my shoulders ease ever so slightly. Just in time for me to realize someone was sitting beside me on the bench.
‘Morning.’ An incredibly average-looking man with a shaved head and a black bomber jacket gave me a sideways nod.
‘Morning,’ I replied, carefully placing the photographs back in my bag. No reason not to be polite. This was my life now, after all. Just sitting around, talking to the other non-workers-slash-vagrants in London’s parks while I lived vicariously through the dog ownership of others. I wondered if the Tesco near Russell Square sold White Lightning. It felt like the day was missing a bottle of White Lightning.
‘Don’t make a scene,’ the man said, moving down the bench towards me and looking straight ahead. ‘Give me your wallet and your phone.’
‘Sorry?’ I wasn’t quite sure I’d heard him properly. Was I being mugged? After seven years in London, was I actually being mugged? Not bloody likely.
‘Phone and wallet. Now.’ He pulled a small Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and gave me as scary a look as he could muster. ‘Don’t make me make you.’
Still not quite with it, I tilted my head to one side and stared. I couldn’t help but think he’d be scarier with hair. He looked like an overgrown baby.
‘I haven’t got a phone,’ I replied. This was actually happening. I was being mugged by a giant baby in a bomber jacket. ‘And you can’t have my wallet. There’s nothing in it anyway and it was a present.’
‘Everyone’s got a phone.’ He sounded a bit taken aback. ‘Give it to me now.’
‘No, really.’ I opened up my handbag and tipped it upside down, emptying the contents out onto the bench between us. Three lipsticks, a powder compact, my keys, more tampons than anyone could ever feasibly need and even more pens clattered against the wooden slats. I picked up my wallet and stuck it between my knees. I meant what I said ? I’d already told him he couldn’t have that and I wasn’t about to go back on my word to a criminal. ‘See? No phone. I just got fired. They took my phone. Have not got one.’
‘You haven’t got a phone at all?’ The would-be mugger was visibly shocked. ‘That’s bollocks, that is.’
‘It really, really is,’ I agreed.
We sat in silence for a moment.
‘Haven’t got a job either,’ I said as I started scooping up my belongings and dropping them back in the bag. It seemed he wasn’t nearly as interested in highlighters as I was. Probably didn’t have much call for them in his game. ‘Phone’s not such a problem.’
‘Me neither,’ he replied, grabbing a couple of tampons and popping them into my handbag for me. ‘Ha
d one. Lost it. Fucking Tories, innit?’
‘I suppose the recession has been hard for everyone,’ I sympathized. ‘It’s a tough time.’
‘Do you need to call anyone?’ the big baby asked. The man dug his hand into his non-knifey pocket and produced a brand-new iPhone. ‘You can use my phone if you want.’
‘Actually, that would be amazing,’ I said, readily accepting the handset but ignoring the controversial cover design. Pretty sure they didn’t sell Swastika iPhone cases in Carphone Warehouse. This was definitely home-made. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a bit of privacy.’ He nodded curtly, stood up and wandered a couple of feet away. I watched as a worried-looking middle-aged lady in a waxed jacket and an Alice band took a very sharp and sudden detour. I looked away as he followed her.
‘Hello?’
‘Amy.’ I would never answer the phone to an unknown number. Amy always would. ‘It’s me.’
‘What phone are you on? What’s going on? Did they give you a new phone. Did you get an iPhone? Have you got Siri? Can I ask him a question?’
‘It’s not my phone.’ I cut her off before she could come up with anything filthy to ask the omniscient Siri. ‘Are you at work?’
‘Yeah.’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Until five.’
‘Oh. I got the sack and I thought you might want to get very, very drunk.’
‘STELLA!’ I snapped my head away from the handset as Amy bellowed at her boss without moving the phone away from her mouth. ‘I’ve got a migraine. I’m going home. All right?’
‘I don’t think you can shout that loudly if you’ve got a migraine,’ I pointed out.
‘Be at yours in half an hour,’ Amy replied, ignoring me. ‘Don’t kill yourself before then, OK?’
‘OK,’ I said. It hadn’t actually occurred to me before she brought it up, but the Thames was awfully close by and it would save me from having to sign on. I didn’t actually know where the job centre was. Maybe my new friend could tell me. Or maybe I should just kill myself. Amy had hung up before I could ask her opinion and I noticed the phone’s owner hovering nearby. I hung up, smiled and held it out to him.