by Anna Premoli
“Ah, finally – our Maddison!” he greets me, unable to hide the tension in his voice, despite pretending to be relaxed. “Jess told me you’d be a little late because your mother was unwell…” he stammers, giving me a funny look clearly meant to communicate some secret coded message.
I stare quizzically: my mother has never been ill in her life. John is clearly lying to provide me with an alibi, and more besides – with that look, he’s obviously suggesting that I lie too. But why?
Warily, I walk over to his desk, but I still can’t work out who the mystery man sitting opposite him might be.
I start sweating like crazy and billions of disturbing scenarios immediately pop into my mind, which is already a bit pessimistic by nature. Is it one of the internal auditors? Have I really cocked up this time?
I’ve always known that I wasn’t cut out for this job, and I’d go so far as to call myself a harbinger of disaster rather than a creator of ingenious restructuring plans. It must be something to do with the time I spilt coffee on the printout of the transactions then rewrote it entirely at random. God, I’d start biting my nails from nerves if I hadn’t already almost chewed them down to the cuticles thanks to never having learned to cope with stress.
My confused thoughts are interrupted when the mysterious man finally decides to turn round: I don’t know exactly what I had been expecting, but whatever it was it was certainly nothing like this. In front of me is a guy with very dark, expressive eyes. He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit, clearly tailored, which is perfect and flawless in its austerity. He looks serious, too. For a few seconds no one says anything, while the stranger stares at me without ever breaking eye contact or even blinking. If he’s trying to intimidate me, I’d say it’s working amazingly well.
The only thing that betrays a touch of vanity is the over long black hair, extending down to the collar of his blue shirt, as perfect as everything else. There’s not even a single, tiny fold around that slender neck.
I’ve always hated characters like this. They look you up and down with that superior expression of theirs, as though no one could ever be as good as them – as though no one was worthy of even laying eyes on them.
“Ms Johnson,” he says very seriously, getting up from the chair. I’ve always been very proud of my five foot nine, and to emphasize my height I usually add a couple of inches of heel. Today, for example, I’m wearing my uncomfortable but beautiful shiny black two and a half inchers, but he’s still a couple of inches taller than me. I sense, though, that he is surprised too. He can’t take advantage of his height to intimidate me further. He scrutinizes me carefully, but I’m not quite sure whether he likes what he sees. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say he doesn’t like it at all.
“Maddison, this is Mark Kim,” says John, finally deciding to speak.
He’s uncomfortable but he has to make the introductions. The stranger offers me his hand – a large, perfect one, which makes me feel embarrassed about never having gone for a manicure in the last God-knows how long. I take it with a little hesitation: I really hope that my own hand isn’t sweaty.
He has a firm grip, just as you’d imagine. After he releases my hand, he sits back down in his chair without uttering a single syllable. Assailed by worries, I have no choice but to plop down much less gracefully in the chair next to his.
“Mark and I have spoken at length about you, Maddison,” explains my boss, not without a trace of pride, “and I’ve told him about all of your qualities.”
I blink, poorly concealing my astonishment. Qualities? Me? What’s he talking about?
I’ve obviously missed something: why would John, who knows me so well, cover up for my being late to this stranger and try and make out that I’m someone who I certainly am not? And who the hell is this Mark Kim to be making John act so weird anyway?
I’m officially panicking now and, as always happens to me in crucial moments, totally random nonsense starts emerging from my mouth. “Are you Chinese?” I ask him, before I manage to stop myself.
Mr Kim, who already gave every sign of not being what you might call a talker, seems to stiffen even further at my unexpected question. Perhaps starting with an interrogation isn’t the best way to make friends with people you don’t know.
Looking almost offended, the mystery man rolls his eyes as though my question is a ridiculous one. Okay, I might have been a bit undiplomatic, but certainly not enough to deserve the look of absolute contempt he gives me.
“No. I’m American, but I have Korean origins,” he finally deigns to answer, grudgingly. It seems that his words are an extremely rare commodity.
His voice is deep, and would even be quite charming if it weren’t for that irritable tone of his, which contains a kind of veiled threat. Who the hell is he? The killer the company sends to assassinate lazy employees?
I can tell by the expression in his eyes that he already hates me. We’ve known each other for thirty seconds, and the mutual dislike is more than evident. There’s something in the air that I can’t quite put my finger on… hmm, a storm on the way, maybe? My God, what unhappy alignment of the stars is causing all this?
John must have sensed my embarrassment because he tries to give me an explanation. “As you know, a few months ago you made yourself available to work abroad for a period, and the company has decided to take you up on it.”
It might sound like a great opportunity, but for some reason I sense that there’s a catch about to be served up on this silver platter: I’m about as willing to abandon London as the Ravens at the Tower, and my boss knows it.
“Actually, I made myself available to work in New York,” I point out with a glare which means ‘and it’s all your fault’. Being ‘available’ – as he puts it – has never been one of my strong points.
Mr Kim is trying to hide a wry smile and not succeeding terribly well. But then, he’s not trying that hard. Clearly Americans, or at least those of Korean descent, don’t know much about good manners. Has no one ever told him that in certain cases, and especially here in England, pretending is obligatory?
At this point I no longer care about making a good impression on him, so I try to incinerate him with a stare, and he seems to notice. Despite being a pain in the ass, I must admit that he’s perspicacious.
“Yes, it’s true, I know that you specifically asked to go to New York, but our US office needed legal counsels and so they chose Tom Brady. But it would have been such a shame to waste this unique opportunity, and that’s why we decided to go ahead with your transfer to the office of M & A in Seoul.” John has gathered up all his courage – courage he’d probably been wondering whether he actually possessed – and, blushing bright red, reads out my sentence.
I’m sure that I must have misheard: his words are still ringing in my ears, but my brain refuses to process them. It is as if I had been sentenced to death and guillotined in one shot.
“Where am I supposed to be going!?” I exclaim, red-faced, in a tone several octaves higher than normal. It doesn’t even sound like me.
Mark Kim has no wish to lose the chance to give me the coup de grâce, so he adds, “To Seoul – South Korea, if you weren’t sure where it was. I have come personally from our South Korea office to make your move… how shall I put it… easier.” He finishes the sentence with a sigh.
It’s clear that he’s not even trying to hide what he means, though: he’s obviously going to end up making my transfer a living hell.
This can’t be happening, it just can’t be! They must all be crazy! I don’t even know where South Korea is – or rather, I know that it’s far away and I don’t remember it being famous for shopping or for excellent food. A feeling so deeply unpleasant comes over me that it becomes hard even to breathe.
“When?” I ask, in what is barely more than a whisper.
“In a fortnight,” answers my extremely uncomfortable boss. John can see the effect the news has had on me, and hardly dares look me in the eye.
“And i
s that definite? I can’t say no?” I force myself to ask.
“I would say that, yes, it’s definite,” he says – the traitor!
For a few long moments, no-one says anything: Mr Kim has no sarcastic retort, I have lost the power of speech, and John is crushed with guilt. He is the one to break the silence. “Mark will be your boss in Seoul: he’s only just learned that you’ve had the good fortune to be selected to go with him. I know both of you well, and I am confident that you will work well together.”
I appreciate his attempt to calm the waters, but as far as I’m concerned, the goal is far from being reached.
At least the reason for our exotic looking guest’s ill-humour has been revealed: like me, he was totally in the dark about all this. Who knows what little genius he’d been promised, and now he has to make do with yours truly.
In the room, another awkward silence descends. It’s clear that too much has been said.
I’m in shock – if someone asked me to get up from the chair I’d probably collapse to the ground. I’m trying with all my might to recall anything I can remember about South Korea, but nothing’s coming to mind! I know zilch about Seoul or the Koreans, not one single, solitary thing. Not a very promising start.
“Mark, Jeffrey Wilson told me that he wanted to see you this morning to discuss some urgent matters,” says John, acting as though the Korea question is now a done deal. “I’ve asked Jess to accompany you, and after you’ve finished you can join me for lunch.”
Mark jumps to his feet, obviously thinking that it’s an excellent suggestion. The issue of my transfer is apparently closed as far as he is concerned, too. John picks up his phone and calls Jess who, efficient as ever, appears a few seconds later, following his instructions to the letter and accompanying Mr Friendly out of the office. He goes without even saying goodbye, which isn’t much of a surprise. Annoying, oh yes, but certainly not a surprise. Mark’s departure finally allows me to let out all of my resentment about the matter – another five minutes and I would have exploded, even if he had been there.
“Let me make it clear that I have absolutely no intention of going to Korea! I’ll hand in my notice first! Did you really think that I’d just pack up and move somewhere that I couldn’t even point to on a map? Somewhere halfway around the world? With that… that trained seal?”
I’m so furious I can hardly breathe. I hope this office is properly soundproofed…
John stares at me with a pained expression. “Maddy, believe me, there was nothing I could do about it. Management want a woman in the Korean office – they say the atmosphere there is, well, a bit chauvinistic and they want someone to impose a bit of a balance between the sexes. Not to mention that they really need an expert in mergers, and there is no one else on our team that meets the criteria and is available,” he explains.
Me, expert? Who does he think he’s dealing with? Has he actually managed to talk himself into thinking that I know anything about this job?
“What about Jess?” I snap back.
My boss raises his eyes. “Jessica has a husband and a son, how can I ask her to go?”
I know he’s right, but I don’t want to accept the inevitable. I’d consider the idea of getting pregnant but I’d need the raw material – a father. At the moment I’m single – extremely single – and John knows it. Let that be a warning to me: never tell your boss about your love life.
“But I don’t want to go to Korea, especially not to work for that guy…” I whisper. I’m almost begging – I hope to God I manage to make him take pity on me.
Unfortunately John doesn’t seem to want to give in. “Mark’s very bright,” he begins. “We worked together for a few months when I was in New York.”
It’s official, everyone’s worked in New York except me – and apparently I’m never going to either.
“He’s smart,” continues my boss, “and he has a very keen mind. You’ll learn a lot from him.”
Adamant, I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t care how keen his mind is – he looks nasty! And how the hell can I work for someone who takes better care of their nails than I do?” I ask angrily. I realize that I’m acting like a moody teenager, but I don’t care. Right now I’d be willing to do anything to avoid going. Even chaining myself to his desk. “He looked down his nose at me like he was some kind of superior creature. And you saw how he took the piss out of me,” I say finally.
“Maddison, it’s time to grow up… and I don’t just mean professionally. Mark is one of the people I respect most in this company – he’s determined and he’s got character. I know that he’s uncompromising but he’ll also give you something in return for your efforts.”
Does John really mean that, or does he just want to get rid of me, whatever the cost? And ‘uncompromising’ might be too bland an adjective to do the gentleman justice.
What all this means is that I’ll have to slave away under a tyrannical boss who already hates me before he’s even had the chance to get to know me. So just imagine when he actually has!
I decide not to give up. “But I don’t speak the language, I only speak English! I’ll never manage to learn a word of Korean… How will I survive in a city like Seoul?” I stammer, growing increasingly flushed. I’m dangerously close to tears.
John seems to have an answer for everything today, damn him. “Seoul’s an international city, practically everyone there speaks English. And in the UK office it’s the main language.”
I don’t know what other excuses to come up with, and I feel trapped. My now former boss knows he’s almost got me.
“And the bank will pay your rent and all the expenses incurred by the move. It’s decided, you and Mark leave in a fortnight. No, even less than that, actually… you leave a week on Saturday.”
I should bloody well hope they are paying for my accommodation. I might be stupid enough to have let myself be manoeuvred into this, but there’s a limit.
John gets up from his chair, happy to have finally silenced me, and leads me out of his office with a pat on the back. “Try to get to know each other in the meantime,” he proposes. “I think you should come and have lunch with us, so you two can spend a bit of time together.”
He smiles at me, but as soon as I’m back in the corridor, his office door closes firmly. If anybody still had any doubts, I’m officially doomed.
At this point, there’s no question about it – this is the worst day of my life. And it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning. I daren’t even contemplate what other misfortunes may befall me by evening.
As I float between despondency and despair I remember that I still have to call my mother, so I walk over to my desk and let myself fall into the chair like a sack before automatically dialling the number of my parents’ house. They live just outside London, in a nice house with garden that they bought when my dad retired. The choice of house was the only thing my milquetoast father has managed to have a say in all these years. And in my humble opinion, he made a pretty good choice.
As expected, the harsh ringing doesn’t last more than a second. How the hell does she always manage to be right next to the phone? At the other end of the line I hear my mother’s loud, croaky voice: she always answers – if my dad ever tried I think he’d probably be risking a limb or something.
“Maddison! What on earth are you playing at? Your father and I have been dying to know how it went!”
Almost without realizing it, I move the receiver away from my ear – I’m really not ready to cope with so much enthusiasm. And I doubt that my father is particularly anxious to find out whether he’s destined to remain alone on mainland Britain with just my mother for company. I’m not sure he’ll be able to manage without me there to protect him.
“I called you as soon as I heard the news, Mum,” I reply, summoning up infinite amounts of patience.
“So when are you going to New York? And how long are you staying?” She sounds thrilled. And if I was actually going to New York, I would be to
o.
Who knows how she’s going to take it…
“Actually, mum, I’m not going to New York – I’m going to Seoul,” I say, throwing it out there with feigned casualness.
On the other end of the line, everything goes silent. Well that’s one satisfaction, at least: for the first time in history, she’s actually speechless. She probably doesn’t know where Seoul is and is trying to remember something about it. I’ve never been much good at geography myself, but she’s absolutely awful.
Her consternation gives me my first real smile of the day and makes me feel almost magnanimous so eventually I help her out. “Seoul is in South Korea, Mum?”
I hear a very deep sigh – almost a kind of gasp. She’s trying to mask her surprise, but the attempt is futile. What do you bet that she breaks the world record for not speaking?
“I’m leaving in two weeks,” I tell her.
Finally she manages to mumble something – she must have remembered some detail about Asia!
“Well that’s wonderful! South Korea is a major up and coming economy! Going there will certainly be an important step forward in your career!” In the background, I can hear the sound of her flicking through the pages of a book: is she looking at the encyclopaedia?
My mother has just found out that her only daughter is going to be transferred to the other side of the world and all she can think is that it’ll be good for my career? The hint of improvement in my mood, tenuous as it was, vanishes instantly.
“I’ll know all the details soon enough, but right now I have to get back to work. Talk to you later, Mum,” I say, and hang up without even waiting for an answer.
And they have the nerve to say that your family’s a crutch in times of hardship – In my case, I either have to support myself or limp on alone.