by Jo Edwards
By the end of the week I was shattered, but beginning to feel more confident about the impending audit. The Chief Nark had sent through a list of the areas they wanted to focus on, and it was primarily sales. We were good at that. The Climber was chuffed - it meant they would be prioritising her team for attention. She was the only person in the world who would view that as a positive. But she craved attention, even if it was coming from power-crazed, jobsworth midgets.
As I was sitting at my desk, trying to eat my lunch of three chocolate digestives and a skinny cappuccino, The Snake slithered her way over to me. I moved my cappuccino slightly closer to me, so her forked tongue didn’t dangle in it.
“Kate,” she said, looking all beady eyed, “it’s not really my place to say this, but I just thought you ought to know, what with the audit next week and everything.”
“What’s that then, Cynthia?” I asked, annoyed as I’d over-dunked, and lost half a biscuit.
“Well, I’m not telling tales or anything,” No, not much, “but it’s George. I just happened to walk past his desk and glance down and, well, I couldn’t believe what I saw!”
Oh God, what was it? Had he exposed himself? Surely he wasn’t fiddling with himself at his desk, in work time?
“It’s his drawers,” the Snake continued, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear her snitching on a colleague. “They’re in a complete mess. He’s got reports and bits of paper stuffed away all over the place. And,” she said, leaning in for the kill, “I saw customers’ letters in there too. Some were dated several weeks ago.”
You did have a good old look didn’t you?
“You won’t tell him I told you, will you?” continued the Snake. “I’m only telling you because I thought you ought to know. You did say that the auditors might want to look in people’s drawers. I’d hate for George to get into trouble. Well, get you into trouble.” Hmmmm.
I thanked Hissing Cyn for her vigilance, finished my biscuit and went to have a look in George’s drawers while he was at lunch. At first I thought he’d locked them, as I couldn’t pull them open, but then I realised it was because they were completely crammed full of paper. Oh my God. Cyn hadn’t been exaggerating. I sat at George’s desk and pulled out all the bits of paper. A huge pile formed in front of me. I picked up one and read it. It was a letter from a customer, complaining about the amount of time Perypils was taking to resolve his complaint. It was dated three weeks ago. Quite possibly their original complaint was also in the pile somewhere, untouched. There was all sorts - print outs, holiday requests, reports, Toffee Crisp wrappers and - what the hell? A folder with ‘Passwords’ written on the front. Don’t tell me he’d written his teams’ passwords down? I couldn’t bear to look in it.
How the hell had he let things get into this state? I picked up a couple of bits of paper, which contained a long email chain. It seemed to have involved a number of male colleagues from around the building voting on whether someone called Laura was “hot or not”. The consensus seemed to be hot, except when she was wearing her “camel-toed jeans”, whatever that meant. I didn’t know why George had printed it. But I could see from the number of times he’d contributed to the chain where his time was being spent. The audit team would have a field day if they came across this lot; what was he thinking?
The Lazy Shit returned from lunch and looked horrified to see me sitting at his desk with his crap-mountain in front of me.
“I think we need to have a word, George,” I said, slapping my hand on the top of the pile, wishing it was his arse.
“I was just coming back to go through all that,” he said quickly.
Liar liar pants on fire.
“Oh, were you really?” I said sarcastically. “I tell you what, take this pile into the meeting room - if you can carry it all that is - and I’ll come and join you in just a minute.” I wasn’t going to bawl him out in front of his team. As it was, they were all watching and listening but pretending not to.
I went back to my desk to salvage the dregs of my coffee (full of sweet soggy biscuit, yuk) and watched George struggle towards the meeting room carrying his huge pile of paper. I noticed he’d balanced his iPhone on the top of it. What was it with men and their iPhones? They seemed to have become an extended part of their anatomy. I woke up the other morning with something hard poking me in the back. No, no such luck, it was just Camilla, who was in bed between us. I followed TLS George into the meeting room.
“I know it looks like a mess,” he started, “but it’s an organised mess! I know where everything is, I can always find what I need.”
You couldn’t find your arse if it sat on your face.
“It’s not good enough, George,” I said. “I’m absolutely appalled by what I’ve found. Especially with a bloody audit starting on Monday. What on earth were you thinking? You’ve got correspondence from customers in here dating back weeks. Some are complaints, which have to be responded to within three working days. You know that.”
“It doesn’t mean they’ve not been responded to,” said George, getting defensive. “It’s just that I haven’t got round to filing the letters away.”
“George, don’t you bloody bullshit me! You’ve got yourself in a total mess. And what’s this folder that says ‘Passwords’ on it? Do you know what would happen to us if the auditors found out we’d been writing down passwords? No, don’t try and feed me any more of your claptrap, I don’t want to know. Just get shot of it prompto. How the hell have you let things get into this state? What’s going wrong?”
“Nothing’s going wrong. I just need to do some filing, that’s all.” He had his sulky face on. “I’ve been so busy doing other things, you know, coaching the team and stuff, it’s difficult to find the time to do everything.”
I brandished the “hot or not” email at him.
“Well you’re finding time for this kind of childish crap,” I snapped. “Look how many times you’ve responded in this email chain! You’re making time for this at the expense of your other duties.” He looked at it sullenly. “Not to mention the fact that its content is inappropriate, George. You are a team manager - that means you’re part of the management team now. You shouldn’t be encouraging this sort of stuff, it’s totally unprofessional.”
“What’s going to happen to me?” he muttered, looking down at the floor.
Well, good question, I should really report you to HR but I expect all they’ll do is tell me that I have to be very, very angry with you.
I sighed. “Well, for starters you’ve got to sort this lot out. Today.” He looked at me in horror.
“But I’m playing football at six...”
“I mean it George,” I continued, “You’re not leaving to kick a bloody ball around until it’s all done. Sorted, filed, whatever. The audit team will be here on Monday so you need to get a move on. I’ll send Martin in to help you. Give him any customer correspondence, his team can start on those. Any complaints you’ll have to take round to Clare for her team to deal with, which is what you should have done with them in the first place.”
He went white at the mention of Cruella.
“No, please don’t send me to Clare! She’ll murder me. Can’t you speak to her?”
“No I can’t!” Because I’m shit-scared of her too. “This is your mess George, you’ve got to take responsibility for it.” I softened a little. It was Cruella after all. “You’ll have to make up some excuse. Tell her a batch of letters went missing or something, and you’ve just discovered them. You’ll think of something.” You’re good at telling fibs.
As I left the room, I scooped up his iPhone. “I’ll take this George, just so you don’t get distracted.” He looked about to protest, but saw my face and thought better of it. I went to find Martin The Drain. I felt very disappointed in myself for wanting to know if I was considered hot or not amongst the Perypils male colleague population. I really shouldn’t care about things like that. Karren Brady from The Apprentice wouldn’t care ab
out things like that, she would consider it beneath her. I’d read an article on her the other day. What a woman. I must try and be more like her - well groomed, calm, businesslike. She had two young kids as well, how did she manage everything? It was a shame about her football obsession but nobody’s completely perfect. But I wanted to be hot though, I couldn’t help it. Was 42 too old to have one last shot at babedom? Surely not. Damn, why had I just eaten three chocolate biscuits? My waist band was digging into me. I went for a quick stride around the building to burn off the calories and the rage. Really must try harder.
The Weekend
I spent Saturday on the sofa with my laptop, deleting and forwarding my way through work emails. The Husband was out for the day - gym in the morning, golf course in the afternoon. He couldn’t understand why, with all the exercise he was doing, he wasn’t losing any weight. I muttered something inane about metabolism and kept my head down. How many calories were in those ready meals? Bloody thousands probably. Just how many had I consumed over the last few weeks? It was frightening to think about it. Everything I put on now felt tight and uncomfortable. I disgusted myself. Eat fewer calories and take more (some) exercise, that’s all I had to do. I could do it; it just required determination and some self-control. I would start tomorrow. I would transform myself over the next few weeks into a honed, slim-waisted, glossy-haired goddess, full of boundless energy. I must start a list, or perhaps make a pledge to myself. That sounded more dynamic than making a list. Yes, I would make a pledge today in preparation, and start the new regime tomorrow.
I typed the pledge onto a word document:
I will eat less: biscuits, chocolate, cheese, bread, crisps, ice cream, potatoes, pop tarts. I will stick to the recommended 1200 calories per day.
I will drink less alcohol - I will stick to the recommended 14 units per week. (Must keep count.)
I will eat more: lean white meat (chicken & turkey without the skin), peppers, leafy greens and pulses (full of iron for energy), oily fish and super fruits. Note - need to find out what these are. I will eat the recommended five portions of fruit and veg per day.
I will purchase a pedometer and walk the recommended 10,000 steps per day.
I typed “I will drink less coffee” but then deleted it. There had to be something left to live for.
I walked very briskly to the shop (counted steps - 612 one way) to buy a paper. Gorgeous women beamed out at me from the fronts of the magazines. Twiggy, LuLu, Lorraine Kelly - they looked amazing, so radiant. I was younger than them but they looked so much better than I did, it couldn’t all be down to air brushing, could it? It’s possible they had had expensive surgery but none of them had that startled-cat-that’s-just-been-kicked-up-the-arse look about them. I had to make more of an effort to look like they did. But my morning ‘beauty’ routine already took a considerable amount of time to perform, and a staggering array of products. I used to get away with a quick flick of mascara and a smear of lip gloss but now my routine went: cleanser, miracle skin perfector tinted moisturiser, balanced tone foundation, radiant touch Touche Éclat, t-zone shine control pore minimiser, bronzer, blusher, cheek-bone illuminator, more bronzer. And that’s before the eye make-up, and lip liner plus lip stick, not to mention the agonies of the eye lash curler. The whole routine took longer and longer. If I applied any more products to my face my knees would buckle under the weight. The Husband just makes do with soap and water in the morning, a quick splash and dash. Still, at least I don’t have to shave every day like he does. Not yet, anyway.
Monday morning - the day of the audit.
I arrived at work at 7.00 am after a poor night’s sleep, dressed in my best charcoal-grey power suit. I didn’t know what time the auditors would arrive and I felt very jumpy. I couldn’t settle into any real work. The Drain phoned in sick at eight thirty. He said he “literally couldn’t get off the toilet”, so I terminated the call very quickly for fear of hearing something I didn’t want to. Trust him to let me down. I made TLS George show me his drawers, so to speak, which were now empty. The Snake looked a little disappointed that he’d managed to get everything sorted away in time, although apparently Clare had gone off the deep end when George had presented her with a stack of out-of-date customer complaints. He’d told her they’d been “lost in the post room” and she’d gone storming down there to have it out with the poor unfortunate post manager who, of course, didn’t know anything about it. He was so scared of Cruella he’d apparently just cowered in the corner, stammering “Please don’t hurt me”. I didn’t feel good about the wrong person getting the blame, but I couldn’t cope with Cruella’s wrath just at the moment. Lucky us to work in such a no-blame culture! At least, that’s what it says on one of the Perypils posters in the corridor.
At nine o’clock I was watching the doors anxiously, waiting for the team to descend. My palms felt sweaty. The Rock came over to my desk, looking nervous. “What’s up Jan?” I asked.
“Um, well, it’s Danny and Ben. They had a bit of a late night last night, well I think it was probably an all day session, they had some friends round. Anyway, when they woke up this morning they found that their friends had drawn big moustaches on them in marker pen. They can’t get it off.” Oh for God’s sake. I went to take a look at the two lads. They were both on calls, but I could clearly see great big handle-bar moustaches drawn onto their faces. They looked absolutely ridiculous. Any other day I might have chuckled, but not today.
“Jesus Christ, Jan,” I hissed, “What did I say about first impressions? The first people the auditors are going to see when they walk in here is the bloody Bandito brothers! Get them off the phones and into the toilets. They’ve got to scrub that off.”
“They’ve already tried, it won’t come off.”
“Then I suggest you fetch a scouring pad from the canteen and try that. If not, go to B&Q for some sandpaper. Just get it off. Now!”
The Rock hurried off and disappeared with the lads for some time. When they returned, both Danny and Ben’s faces were scrubbed red raw. The moustaches were still visible, but much fainter. The Rock moved them to the back of the team and instructed them to keep their heads down. They sheepishly obeyed.
“Amazing what a bit of vinegar and a cheese grater will do,” she murmured as she walked past me.
The audit team arrived at nine thirty. They strolled into the department, four men of below-average build, but inflated by their own self-importance, armed with expensive-looking laptop bags and wearing smart suits and smug smiles. They came over to my desk to introduce themselves. Their leader, Chief Nark, looked the oldest at about forty five; small, with big ears and wide set eyes. I was put in mind of Gizmo from the Gremlins. He shook my hand and I told him a bit about the department. While I was talking, he took out his iPhone and started to read a text message. You rude bastard.
“Oh, I’m sorry, do you have something urgent to attend to?”
He said “Oh no, no”, but carried on fiddling with his phone anyway. The others were only half-listening to me; they were nodding politely, but their eyes were darting all round the department. Had I become invisible? I showed them around and introduced them to the others. They became distinctly more animated when I introduced them to The Climber. She was dressed in a short, black pencil skirt, high heels and a tight, stretchy black top. She seemed to have jacked up her wonder-bra to maximum velocity. Suddenly they were making jokes, taking the mickey out of each other, and giggling like school boys looking at rude pictures of ladies’ naughty bits. They seemed delighted that The Climber looked after the sales team, and Gizmo told her that she would be their particular area of interest. They all bellowed, and she laughed her annoying laugh and tossed her hair at them. Oh God. I showed them to a small bank of desks which was to be their home for the week and they started to set up their laptops. Gizmo said he’d come and speak to me about the audit a bit later in the day.
I attempted to carry on my day-to-day duties as normal, but it was impossi
ble to concentrate while keeping one eye on what the audit team were up to. However, for the best part of the day, they remained sat at their desks behind their laptops. How were they able to undertake an audit of a department without actually getting off their arses? I had to leave the department for a while in the afternoon to attend a meeting on Perypils’ new cost-cutting strategies. At the meeting we were told not to: print anything in colour, travel anywhere, agree overtime, order stationery or purchase any kind of staff incentives. I asked what I should do if I ran out of paper clips, and was told I had to approach the other teams on site to see if they had any. I asked what happened if they didn’t. Apparently, I’d have to ask around all the other sites to see if they could send me some. There was a long discussion on holding a paper-clip amnesty. I wanted to kill myself.
When I got back to the department, the four auditors had moved from their desks and were all sat around The Climber. I hurried over to see what was being discussed and as I approached, I could hear her telling them about all the best places to go for a night out in Cheltenham. They appeared to be hanging on her every word. When I asked brightly if everything was ok, they said “Yes fine” and waited for me to go away before they carried on with their conversation. I hoped she wasn’t getting too pally with them; they weren’t here to make friends.
I sat at my desk and started to clear down some emails. I realised I was feeling deflated because of the lack of interest the audit team had taken in me. It occurred to me that it used to be me that turned heads when I was introduced to male colleagues. It was me that made them silly and jokey and giggly. How annoying I must have been to other women. Now, the guys had scarcely looked at me; I held no interest for them. When had that changed? When I hit forty, or before that, when I was in my late thirties? Or sooner? I remembered back to one of my first jobs as a supervisor at Waitrose. I was about nineteen, and there was a woman I had to work with who hated me. I couldn’t work out why. She’d been around forty I reckoned, unmarried, no kids. I’d gone in one morning and announced my engagement (disaster, estate agent, need I say more) and she’d practically snarled in my face, refusing to speak to me for weeks. Jealous, probably. I’d reacted in a mature, positive way - by gobbing in her coffee. Had I now become like her - that bitter, dried up woman, unable to handle a flirtatious, carefree younger version? Worse still - did The Climber gob in my coffee?
The day became the evening. Gizmo hadn’t been to see me like he’d said he would. The audit team were still all prodding away at their lap tops at seven o’clock, The Climber having long gone. I didn’t want to leave the department before they did, just in case they started to poke around, or plant something to fit me up, but I really needed to get home so I could fake another meal before The Husband got in and heard the giveaway ‘ping’. I was about to give up and make tracks when I saw them begin to pack up. At last. They were all staying at a hotel in town for the week. I thought they would come and say goodnight to me, perhaps give me a quick update on what they’d looked at today (apart from The Climber’s cleavage) but as I looked up at them with a smile, they all walked past my desk, talking amongst themselves and left without even acknowledging me. I looked down at myself. Was I still here? I still existed didn’t I? Ok, I was wearing grey - Manchester United once lost very badly when they’d played in a grey strip because they said they couldn’t see each other properly. Was that what had just happened to me? I couldn’t think of any other reason why someone would walk right past you and not say “goodnight”. Unless that someone was a rude, ignorant tosspot of course.
I drove home feeling very down. I had to face it, I didn’t turn heads anymore. Why did it matter so much to me? I was married, I didn’t want to have an affair or anything like that. I just wanted men to find me attractive. But why? Why? What did it matter? Was it something from my childhood, did I have some deep seated need to be desired? I had been a bit of a late starter with boys when compared to my friends, but once I’d discovered Rimmel and contact lenses there had been no stopping me. I sighed. No point trying to self-analyse, I’d drive myself round the twist. The Husband’s car wasn’t in the drive, he must still be at the gym. Great: I had time to swing into action in the kitchen and fake another nutritious meal.
Chapter Five