by Jade West
Verity Faverley defied all fucking three of them.
She didn’t want to be here, that much was obvious; trussed up in her brand new designer fucking workwear, her stiletto-heeled shoe tapping aimlessly in the air as she stared at my presentation slides. Her expression was both pouty and glazed, and as she yawned for the third time in ten minutes it was just about time to pull her up on it.
“Am I keeping you awake, Miss Faverley? I’d strongly suggest an earlier bedtime if you’re going to be on form for nine a.m. sharp.”
Eighteen other faces in the room, and not one of them looked at her. She had that kind of aura, the one that says my daddy’s your boss, don’t fuck with me, but that really doesn’t mean shit to me. Every other person in this room was here out of merit. Every other soul in this room wanted to be here, wanted the shot, wanted to grab hold of the opportunity and make something of themselves. Every other person, I’d chosen. But not this snotty little bitch.
She shot me a look of pure disdain. “Whatever, Carl.”
I gritted my teeth. The problem with working so closely with David Faverley was that I’d inadvertently spent too long around his kids to maintain a healthy level of professional courtesy. Sebastian and Dominic, the elder two, had been similar. Hey, Carl, yo, Carl, how’s it going, Carl? But they’d learned. A few days into the internship had knocked the familiarity clean out of them, and then it had returned stronger, more genuinely, and with mutual respect.
Somehow I doubted the road would be as smooth with Verity. She was here purely because Daddy was making her be here. By all accounts because of some crappy little US trip he’d used as leverage, and it seemed that this time she believed he’d hold out on his conditions. No internship, no fucking jolly at the end of the six months.
I pointed at the current slide.
“My requirements are simple. Everyone will do their best. I don’t care where you’ve come from, I don’t care what you know, or what you’ve done, or what a couple of cruddy pieces of paper claim you’re worth. I judge on what I find, and I find effort and determination to be worth a thousand university degrees. Don’t try and coast through this programme, because I’ll know it, I’ve already seen it a thousand times over. You have a problem, you bring it up and we work through it, other than that, I expect your all when you’re on my team, and for the next six months we’re a team. Understood?”
Eighteen heads nodded, while Verity’s looked at her Gucci watch.
“Miss Faverley, is that understood?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Carl, I get it.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t fucking get it, because spoiled little bitches like Verity Faverley have never had to work for anything. She’s the youngest. The pampered princess in the ivory tower. Her mother’s little china doll.
A brat.
“We’ll be starting from the ground up, no exceptions. Everyone is on equal footing here, following the same path as the hundreds before you. You’ll start in the call centre, developing your customer service skills, your communication skills, your professionalism and your product knowledge. You’ll be learning to sell without visual cues, without a smart suit, without a company car, or flashy business cards, or a title under your belt. And then, when you’re ready, if you’re ready, you’ll get a shot at higher level account management, maybe a placement in one of the field sales divisions. Maybe you could even transfer to marketing. The world is your oyster, and we hope most of you, most of you, will stay.” I smiled at the rag-tag collection of newbies before me. “Any questions?”
A few tentative hands went up, and I addressed their queries one by one. All the regular. When will we have to make live calls? What products will we be working on? I don’t know much about the technology yet, is that a problem?
Verity had not a single one.
I gave them a smile and watched them settle, breathing out a sigh as they began to relax into day one of their new life. And then I threw them a curveball. I docked my phone on the speaker stand at the front, scrolled through songs until I found the Rocky theme. This moment would singe itself into their memory, the disbelief and the shock and the humour. Maybe sometimes the horror. This moment would begin the breakdown of their reservations, pushing them through their self-consciousness. Initiation by fire, and it had purpose here.
“Everyone sings. Everyone,” I said. “I’d better hear you, or you’ll be out on your ear on day one.” I scanned the faces, registering the first flashes of horror. I don’t know quite why it is that singing in public petrifies people so universally, but Christ it does. “Everyone will do their very best. Stand up, please.”
Nineteen people got to their feet, some shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, some grinning, some already blushing. All of them ready to give it a go, except one.
“Music is an anchor, and sales is a performance based career. Find your songs, the ones that lift you up, make you feel like you can take on the world and everyone in it. Find them and use them, often. This is mine.”
I pressed Play.
And then I led from the front, and that always surprises them most of all.
I can’t sing, not really, but I love music and I love to move. I listen to music wherever I go. On long drives to meetings, through hard workouts on the rowing machine, preparing for an important negotiation, crunching the numbers at month end. I love music and I love to dance, and I put both of those into practice in front of a room of new recruits, and they smiled and laughed a little, and slowly their voices grew louder, their expressions more open as they joined in with the tune. A roomful of people bellowed out the Rocky theme, and some of them found their groove and even did a little fist pump, and that one guy at the back stepped up to the plate and became that one guy who always throws himself right in, and he jogged on the spot and punched the air in front of him, and I liked him. I really liked him. He’d be one to watch.
I stepped between the chairs, listening to every single person, making sure all of them were singing strong, and then finally I stepped over to Verity on the end of the front row. Her face was deadpan, not even a hint of a note. I chivvied her along, a hand on the shoulder, my voice in her ear, but she did nothing, just stared at me like I was some idiotic piece of shit. My expression turned, grew stern, my gestures becoming more urgent until she rolled her eyes at me.
I stopped singing.
“Come on,” I said. “Give it a go.”
“No way,” she said. “It’s stupid.”
People around her quietened, their ears pricked.
“It’s not stupid, Verity. Stupid is trying to form relationships on the phone with a stick up your ass and inflexibility of communication.”
“It’s stupid,” she repeated. “I’m not going to make an absolute tit out of myself, not for you.”
“You’re already making an absolute tit out of yourself, Miss Faverley, I’m just asking you to sing.”
Her eyes widened and turned sour. “Fuck you, Carl. I’m not singing. No way.”
I tipped my head to the side. “Then get out.”
She folded her arms. “Sorry?”
“I said, get out.” I returned to the front and turned off the music. “You’re dismissed, Verity, you can leave.”
“But, I…”
“But nothing. You give your all, or you quit.”
“That’s ridiculous, just because I won’t sing your stupid crappy song.” Her cheeks turned pink and angry, but I didn’t back down. “We’ll see what Dad has to say about this,” she hissed.
I gestured to the door. “Be my guest, he’s in suite four-two-four.”
She scanned the crowd, and everyone dropped their eyes. “You’ll be sorry,” she snapped, and then she was gone, a whirlwind of self-entitlement stomping her way down the corridor, heels clacking like pistol shots.
I smiled at the rest of the candidates. “Equal footing, as I said. No exceptions.”
I took my phone from its dock, noting the message icon before I slipped it into
my pocket. The room felt lighter somehow, barriers coming down. There was more eye contact, brighter smiles. Good.
All good.
“Right,” I said, changing the slide. “Let’s get started.”
Tourist season turned Much Arlock into a hiker’s haven. The cafe was rammed for the lunchtime special, people nipping in for a sandwich after a morning’s walk along the Malvern Hills. I grabbed table four’s orders from the hatch and flashed Benny a smile as he wiped his brow with a dishcloth.
My resignation letter was in my pocket, but there was a sadness to the idea of handing it in. I’d been working here since I was old enough to carry a tray without spilling it. Saturdays at first, just around school, then holidays, and now four afternoons a week. The money was crap, but the job was alright. And Benny was so bloody nice.
Slowly the lunchtime rush eased off, and I wiped down tables and waited. Eventually, Benny stuck his head around the door. “You wanted to speak?”
My stomach lurched, the letter burning me. “When you get a second.”
He beckoned me over, and my legs felt stiff as I moved. I wanted to hand in my notice, and yet I didn’t. I wanted the time, and not the safety net, not the safe little wage packet this place offered me. It would make it far too easy to bail on Carl and Rick, and I didn’t want to bail, I wanted to chase the rainbow.
I handed over the envelope and Benny’s eyes fixed on me. “You have a new job?”
I nodded. “Sorry, Benny.”
“No need for sorry,” he said. “You have a degree, all grown up. It’s time.”
His smile brought a lump to my throat. “I’ve really loved it here.”
“And here’s really loved you.” He put a hand on my arm. “You must come, for toasted teacakes, often. My treat.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
He slipped the letter in his apron pocket. “This job, with your father?”
Urgh. Another one I regretted telling. I really should get better at keeping secrets. Once it slipped out, they never fucking forgot about it.
“No,” I said. “Nothing to do with that prick.”
“Pity,” he said. “Your father knows good business.” I looked at his friendly eyes, heavy browed with grey. Benny was South African, accepted by the locals slowly over the years, until he was now a piece of the Much Arlock furniture. “Where are you leaving us for?”
I tried to recall the standard line I’d made up. “I’m helping out a designer. Cheltenham.”
“I didn’t know you were into the art.” He smiled. “A designer… yes…”
“I’m not,” I laughed. “It’s the customer facing side. I’m his… assistant…”
“Ah, yes.” He grinned. “Good.”
I felt like such a fraud. “Yes, it’s good.”
He pulled out the calendar. “You finish next week?”
“Please,” I said, and then remembered the sperm donor phone call. Another fucking urgh. “And I’ll need Monday off, if I can. My father wants to talk to me.”
Benny scribbled on the rota. “Maybe your father has a good business offer.”
I checked for customers but there was only the old deaf couple by the window. “Maybe my father can go fuck himself.”
“Katie!” he blustered, but he was laughing. “You just hear him out, yes? For old Benny.”
God. Another one.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll hear him out.”
The bell above the door chimed as a party of regulars came by for coffee and cake, and our time was up.
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I really do.”
He waved it away. “Good partnership,” he said. “That’s all.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket as Benny turned back for the kitchen. I pulled it out as the table of regulars got seated.
One message. One email.
Which to answer first?
I clicked the message.
Rick: I’ve got an idea. Fancy a hook up this week?
I felt it between my legs, the memory of his piercing against my clit. My cheeks were burning as another message pinged through.
Rick: I mean a chat, not a fuck. Sorry, that sounded bad!
Rick: Unless you want a fuck?
I smiled, and then there was another ping.
Rick: Ignore me. I meant a chat. A hang out. Some chill time.
The table were engrossed in the menu, even though they had the same cakes every time. I sent off a message.
Sure, I’d like that. When? I can do Wednesday. Maybe Friday.
Rick: Wednesday? Lunch? Come here. I’ll cook.
And Carl?
Rick: No Carl.
No Carl? I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried.
Ok, cool. See you then.
I took the coffee order before remembering the email. I clicked to open as I waited for the coffee to filter.
Favcom Tech. Confirmation of your interview.
What the fucking hell?
I scanned through the text. A fucking interview?! On Monday?!
So much for a fucking chat.
I fired off a text to Mum.
I’m not taking a fucking job with him.
Mum replied in a heartbeat. Just hear him out. Please?
Such a simple reply. No. Fucking. Chance.
It’s not a job. It’s an internship. Great experience.
So, she knew exactly what he was after. I could have strangled her through the handset. No!
What about Harrison Gables????
I steamed the milk, and I was pissed off. So fucking pissed off. I typed a response.
Fuck Harrison Gables, and fuck the fucking sperm donor, too.
She’d replied by the time I delivered the tray to the table, and I could have guessed what it said a mile off.
I know you don’t mean that. Please go, just to see. For me. Love you. x
Pissing hell. What was with the world? Please go, for me, for me, for me…
I took a breath.
I didn’t need him or his poxy job, and I’d tell him so. I’d tell him what I thought of his stupid Harrison Gables blackmail, too.
And then I’d tell him to go fuck himself, and at least I’d be in person to give that sperm donating sack of crap the fucking finger.
I loosened my tie and ditched my jacket over the chair, guzzling down a couple of mouthfuls of beer before Rick even asked the question.
“So, Princess Faverley?” he quizzed. “Just as good as you were expecting?”
I nodded. “The brat wouldn’t sing.”
“Ouch.”
“Quite. So, I sent her packing. She ran to Daddy, you know how it goes.”
He sucked in breath. “And what happened?”
I smiled at the memory. “He sent her back five minutes later, with an apology.”
Rick’s eyebrows shot up. “An apology? No fucking shit!”
“A token apology.”
“Did you accept it?” He grabbed himself a beer.
“After she sang the Rocky theme…” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Solo…”
Rick shook his head. “Jesus, Carl. She’s gonna hate your fucking guts.”
“She can hate my guts, I couldn’t give a toss, just as long as she learns to apply herself to the programme, or gets the fuck out of it.”
He paused, and I made him wait, didn’t say another word.
“Did you get my message?” he asked, finally.
I took a swig of beer. “Yeah, I got it.”
Rick shrugged. “So? It’s good, right?”
“That our little sugar baby wants to head over and chill on a Wednesday afternoon? She probably thinks you’re paying.”
He scowled. “Don’t ruin it. It means she’s still keen.”
“It means she’s after more cash.”
“Or more cock.” He leaned back against the kitchen island. “Can you be here?”
I stared at him. “When have I ever been here on a Wednesday aftern
oon?”
“Fine,” he said. “So, what if she wants to fuck?”
I shrugged. “Is that what you want?”
He sipped his beer. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He tipped his head. “Maybe, yeah.”
I propped myself on the worktop. “Solo?”
His cheeks pinked. “No…”
“Oh, come on, Rick. When have you ever invited one over in the week?” And he hadn’t. The idea was absurd. Together or not at all, that normally stretched to everything.
He sighed. “She’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Just… different.”
I took a breath. “She must have a magic pussy if you’re all hung up on it after one little fuck.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Of course it’s just that,” I said. “What do you think you are? Fucking soulmates?” He looked shifty. Awkward. It bothered me. I fucking hate secrets. “What is it?” I said. “Spit it out.”
He turned away, pretended to wipe something down from the sink. “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” I said. “You’re up to something.”
He groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Carl, why do you always fucking do this?” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He hovered as I reached for it. “Before you read this, know that I had to really dig, and this isn’t recent, and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Just hand it over, what did you fucking find?”
“And I’m seeing her.” He kept it above his head. “I’m seeing her Wednesday regardless, and I’m scoping it out, and I like her. I really like her.”
“Just give me the paper, Rick.” I took it from his hand, and he looked away as I unfolded it. A collection of Facebook statuses. Quizzes, and comments on other people’s tags. My eyes soaked it all in. “So, it’s done,” I said, folding it back up. “Another pointless exercise.”
He slammed his hand on the counter. “I knew you’d be like this.”