by S J Crabb
My
Christmas
Boyfriend
By
S J Crabb
Copyrighted Material
Copyright © S J Crabb 2017
S J Crabb has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the Author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
Contents
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty one
Note from the Author
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Chapter One
I watch with fascination as the beads of sweat form on his forehead and he blinks nervously. My heart is hammering in my chest and I think I'm about to have a panic attack.
He shifts nervously in his seat and fixes me with a sympathetic look.
‘It's not good news I’m afraid, Miss. Anderson. Unfortunately, we are going to have to let you go.’
I just stare at him. Both of us now locked in a staring contest as the information sinks in. Mr. Prendergast looks as miserable as I now feel. I know he is just a scapegoat; the hatchet man dealing with the dirt in the business and delivering bad news. I almost feel sorry for him - almost!
He coughs and then stares at me, his expression telling me he wants to wrap this up quickly.
I just stutter in disbelief; my voice shaky and weak. ‘When?’
He clears his throat and shuffles some papers on his desk.
‘Today I'm afraid. You have until the end of the day to tidy up any loose ends and say your goodbyes. I suggest you make sure everything is in place and left neatly. You will be needing a good reference and we will make sure it's a good one if you handle this in a professional manner.’
I bite back an acid retort. He must be joking. Not only have I been fired from the most mediocre job I have ever had, but he also wants me to leave quietly and with dignity. It's only 9.30 and I'll have to sit at my desk for the rest of the day putting on a brave face and acting professionally when I feel anything but.
I manage to stutter, ‘Why?’
He looks at me awkwardly. ‘It's Brexit, I'm afraid. It has claimed many casualties already and I'm sure you won't be the last.’
I look at him in disbelief. He has got to be kidding—BREXIT!! We're a firm of accountants for goodness’ sake. We don't have one foreign customer and there's more work coming in than we can deal with; what a rubbish excuse.
He glances at the clock on the wall and looks at me with a brief expression of kindness. ‘I'm sorry, Annie. If it were up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. You're a good worker and I will be sorry to lose you.’
The tears well up as I register the kindness in his eyes. ‘What am I going to do now?’
He just smiles ruefully.
‘Take it on the chin and carry on. There's nothing else you can do. This is just one of those things that happen in life. Just use it to make you stronger. Dust yourself off and start job hunting. A good worker like you will soon find another job and you may be happier for it. I will always give you a good reference.’
He rummages in his desk and writes a number on a piece of paper. He colours up and blinks nervously.
‘Take my number, Annie. Despite everything I want to help. If you need a reference call me. You'll be fine, I just know it.’
I smile gratefully and take the number. Pushing my seat back, I stand on shaky legs and summon up every last shred of my dignity as I say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Prendergast. It can't have been easy for you either.’
I turn away, fighting back the tears. As I leave his dusty office my mind is racing. What the hell do I do now?
As I walk back to the office I think about my situation. This is a disaster. Why do companies always get rid of staff just before Christmas? Nobody is recruiting now so close to the festive season. After Christmas will be just as bad. I am now seriously screwed. I want to punch the wall and scream like a mad woman because I don't have a clue what to do next.
Instead, I reach the open office where we all sit and take a deep breath. My meltdown will have to wait; I need to get a grip and take stock of the situation.
As I walk in I notice nobody looks up. There aren't many of us and we all sit segregated behind our little-partitioned desks as we set about our work. My little cubbyhole is, as its name suggests, the worst position in the room, with the least amount of space. That doesn't surprise me. Most of the others have been here for years.
I, however, haven't even made it past the probationary period.
The room is silent and I realise that everybody already knows. There is an unnatural quiet in the room. Everyone has their heads down and look busy. Unlike the usual practice of looking busy while doing anything and everything rather than actual work. It would appear the only one who didn't know this was coming was me.
I'm quite glad about that. As I sink into my spinning chair and grab the desk to stop myself from shooting off across the room, I think about what to do next.
I stare at the computer screen and try to make sense of the jumbled thoughts crashing around my mind.
It's not fair! I’ve worked at Mackinlay-Sanderson for three months now. A Junior Accountant with her first step on the ladder after graduation. It wasn't the best job in the world but at least it was a start. Today my three-month probationary period is up and I was looking forward to a bit of stability in my life.
Now I'm being tossed onto the cold streets of winter to fend for myself in an unforgiving world. I don't understand why this has happened. Of everyone in the office I am the hardest worker. Most of the others just whinge and whine and do everything they can to pass the buck. I have h
elped each and every one of them out and tried to make a good impression.
I sigh heavily. Well, they do say, last in first out, and that is certainly true in my case.
Suddenly, the phone rings making me almost jump out of my skin. I soon realise that nobody is going to answer it - as usual, so just lift the receiver and say shakily.
‘Mackinlay-Sanderson, Annie speaking, how may I help you?’
An irate voice shouts in my ear. ‘Mr. Brown here of Ransom's Hardware. Somebody was meant to get back to me about my VAT return last week and I've heard nothing. I've got the Inland Revenue breathing down my neck for money I don't have. Now, are you going to stop filing your nails or whatever else you do with your time, young lady. After all, you sure as hell aren't working on my account, so get a move on and sort this frigging mess out.’
Feeling suddenly light-headed, I just say firmly, ‘I'll just connect you to the person responsible for your account, Sir.’
He shouts. ‘I thought that was you. Don't tell me you're so useless someone else has been drafted in? I knew I should have gone with Rivers and Matthews, your company is rubbish.’
With a sudden sense of freedom, I cut him off. I don't have to deal with him or his stupid VAT returns any longer. Let someone else put up with his verbal abuse for a change.
For the first time since I heard the dreaded news I feel in control. I'm not sure what's happening but the worm has turned and I've had enough. Standing up, I look around me and smile. ‘Coffee anyone?’
All eyes turn in my direction. They look at me nervously and nod collectively.
I head off towards the dirty little kitchen, making a mental note to inform the Public Health Department of the bacteria-filled time bomb waiting to go off inside this building.
Feeling like a strange, revenge seeking, slightly maniacal, cartoon villain, I set about my task.
I grab the dirtiest mugs from the sink—the ones that are wallowing in a pool of dirty water from yesterday.
Without rinsing them I set them up and turn the kettle on. I rummage around in the back of the cupboard and pull out the coffee that has been in there since 2011. Then I grab the milk that has been festering in the fridge since last Tuesday, ignoring the new 'Milk of the Day.'
Then I proceed to make the rankest coffee possible for every last one of them.
Since I arrived three months ago, nobody has once offered to make me a drink. I have been the tea girl and general dogsbody to a group of people who have never made me feel welcome. I have listened to their inane stories and bent over backward to help them out at every given opportunity.
I am always the first in and last out and often work through my lunch. They give me the worst jobs and blame me when anything goes wrong. I always thought it was because I was new. You should earn your place in the office hierarchy, so I just accepted the situation and strived for excellence. Well, look where that got me.
Grabbing the biscuits that nobody likes from the cupboard, I walk back to the office balancing the tray.
First stop is Grace. A large woman, in her fifties who always looks at me with disdain. She lives with her cat and has every ailment going. In fact, she is a true study of medical science and I have had to listen politely to every detail of her many illnesses—I won’t miss that.
She sees me coming and quickly picks up her phone pretending to speak to anyone rather than me. She just smiles her thanks briefly as I set the germ encrusted mug in front of her.
Next stop is Jason. Office lothario and the laziest one of all. He thinks he's a real catch and flirts his way through the working day, amid a sea of innuendo and what he thinks is flattery. It just comes across as sleazy and cringy and I'm glad I won't have to put up with him anymore. I smile as I set the mug down in front of him. He smiles and licks his lips as he studies me, with what he obviously thinks is a sexy look. Probably hoping for one last shot at a fumble against the photocopier.
‘Thanks, darling, has anyone told you, you'd make someone a very sexy wife one day?’
I don't rise to him and just smile. 'Yes, my boyfriend, every day as it happens. What about you, Jason? Have you found the woman of your dreams yet, or is she still on your Christmas wish list?’
He grins. ‘I’m still looking, Annie. The trouble is, when you work with her every day and she doesn't know you exist it's hard to find someone else to measure up.’
He leans forward and stares at me creepily.
‘Why don't you agree to have lunch with me and forget about that boyfriend of yours? You won't regret it, darling, I'm considered quite a catch.’
I just smile and push down the feeling of nausea that threatens to explode all over his shiny grey suit.
‘Sorry, I'm a bit busy today. Maybe some other time.’
I move off before I dump the rest of the tray on his smug, sleazy face. I won't miss him at all.
Next stop is Malcolm. The oldest one here who appears to have nothing else but work in his life. He keeps his head down and just nods as I set the mug in front of him.
Of everyone, he is the rudest. He is short with me and the most unhelpful man I have ever met. He appears to hate the world and everyone in it. He deals out the worst jobs to the rest of us like a croupier in a Casino. He takes all of our ideas and passes them off as his own at the regular weekly brainstorming session with management.
Subsequently, he is in charge and has risen through the ranks with little effort on his behalf. Another one I won't miss in the slightest.
Finally, I get to Verity. Middle-aged and into eighties power dressing. She is the only woman I know who still has a perm and she still has shoulder pads in her suits. Her make-up has never changed, and she wears the highest stilettos and teeters around the office trying to look professional.
She is abrupt and cold and speaks in a put-on professional voice. Everyone is, 'Dear', or, 'Love' and as far as I know she has never married. She has always treated me like an idiot and looks at me as though I'm a bad smell under her nose.
Smiling sweetly, I place the mug on her desk.
‘Here you go, Verity. This should keep you going through those endless spreadsheets.’
She doesn't even smile and just nods her thanks. Cold bitch!
I resume my seat and place the mug of germs in my desk drawer. That should fester nicely by the time anyone finds it.
Now it's time to wrap this up and tie up the loose ends as instructed. The first job is to sort out my computer files.
I drag all my important ones into a file named 'Trash.' I know I shouldn't, but I appear to have lost any sense of morality as the anger takes hold. Brexit indeed. I know what this is. My three-month probationary period is up and they would have to raise my salary. They obviously do this all the time, because to my knowledge I am just another young recruit in a long line, who doesn't make it past three months. They use and abuse us and then let us go, making room for the next victim. The others are protected given the length of time they have worked here. New recruits are disposable and weak with the law firmly not on their side.
Well, I am not going quietly. Maybe they will think again next time they take someone on. It's time to make a stand.
Once the files have been hidden and coded I set about comprising my global email to:
'All Staff.'
My fellow colleagues.
It is with great sadness I must inform you that I will be leaving today.
Unfortunately, Brexit has claimed yet another victim and I am off to discover the world outside these four walls.
I have enjoyed getting to know you all and will think of you fondly.
Mr. Prendergast—You are a kind and decent man. You don't deserve the rubbish they throw at you and should really consider a new job. Of everyone here you work the hardest and will be the one I’ll miss the most—even though you fired me!
Grace—what can I say? You are a medical miracle and I will miss your endless tales about the state of your health. It was fascinating to hear the detaile
d descriptions of your many illnesses and you really are a brave soul. At least you have your cat Freddy to go home to every night. I will miss your tales of the little guy and his furball afflictions. Not to mention, the tales of his escapades throughout the day as you watch him on your cat cam via your phone. You must feel pleased that you have managed to find no information about my life, while divulging absolutely every last bit of information about your own - a true skill!
Jason—I will miss your constant attempts to get me on a date while you stare at my chest. I am sure you’ll move on quickly to my replacement who may be more susceptible to your questionable charms. I’m not sure how long it will be before they find out that you do no work and just continue with your quest to discover the solution to the Rubik's cube. Btw, I mastered that in secondary school, maybe you should move onto something a little less challenging?
Malcolm—Always full of the joys of Spring and one that we can all go to for friendly words of advice and encouragement. Oops, sorry, I mixed you up with someone else I once worked for.
I have enjoyed watching you at our weekly brainstorming meetings as you take everyone's ideas and then head upstairs to management and pass them off as your own. Such an admirable skill, worthy of the promotion you seek to the coveted third-floor management suite. Carry on passing out the worst jobs to the rest of the staff while keeping the best ones for yourself, safe in the knowledge that everyone talks about you behind your back.
Verity—So professional and a real role model. In fact, everything I don't aspire to be and hope never to see again. The last three months have been such fun watching you stagger around the office in your 80s-fashion, looking down your nose at the rest of us from your 6" stilettos. Word of advice—Mason's Department Store has a fabulous personal shopper who could even drag you into the 21st century. Money well spent in my opinion.
Lastly management. Mr. Mackinlay and Mr. Sanderson. Two men who sit in their ivory tower reaping the rewards of everyone else's hard work. Making such interesting decisions, such as the one that cancelled the use of the word 'Christmas' and replaced it with 'Winter Season'. How our customers must have applauded your sensitivity to the other faiths on your annual, 'Winter Seasons' card. Oh, and not to mention your wife's charity that benefitted from your ban on sending each other Christmas cards. They must have been so grateful for the £2.50 raised. Just a heads up, while you sit upstairs congratulating yourselves on your charitable ways, the rest of your staff are organising their Christmas get together at the Pheasant. Don't feel bad that you're not invited, you probably wouldn't want to mix with the peasants, anyway.