Don’t tell the Boss Page 5

  ‘So, Penny, I’ve been to see Bob in Finance to check some budgets.’

  Please don’t say that you’ve realised you don’t have enough money to employ me and Shelly. Or that you’re cancelling this year’s Christmas party. I know we overspent last year but, really, having the waiters dressed in full Storm Trooper costumes (the Star Wars rather than the Nazi kind) went down amazingly well, or so I’m told. It was just unfortunate that I went as Princess Leia and I ordered the wrong costume off the website. I was going for the tent-like white costume, and ended up with the gold bikini. Mark and I never did leave our bedroom. My husband, who hates fancy-dress parties, has suddenly taken an interest in them and he apparently can’t wait for the next one.

  I just nod, as if I know exactly what budget Giles is talking about.

  ‘Well, I was looking in particular at the team-building trips. Now, I know that last year you didn’t do the trip to Wales, because of the, well, the personnel issues.’

  Oh yes, the personnel issues that saw one of our top managers getting his secretary pregnant on the trip the year before last. Sorry, the married manager getting his secretary pregnant. It was quite the scandal and they continued to be the subject of office gossip throughout their relationship. When his wife kicked him out, he ended up moving into his secretary’s one-bedroom flat with her and, three months later, they both quit their jobs. They’re now running a bed and breakfast in Ayrshire. It’s got five-star reviews on Tripadvisor, not that I’m nosy and have done the virtual tour or anything.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say, nodding.

  ‘Well, it’s just that the other global offices do these events and Gunther is very keen on them.’

  I have no idea who Gunther is, other than being the guy from the coffee house in Friends who now has no hair in real life because of the over-bleaching. Giles has clearly noticed the vague, confused look etched on my face.

  ‘Gunther, you know, Jacobson.’

  Oh, that Gunther, I want to say. The founder and CEO of our company.

  ‘Right,’ I say, smiling as if me and Gunther go way back when, in reality, I’ve never met him.

  ‘So, I think we should bring them back. You know, a few representatives from each section, good for morale.’

  Yes, good for the morale of those left behind who spend the three days sniggering at their poor, unfortunate colleagues who are freezing their balls off in their soggy tracksuits in North Wales. Morale for those on the trip usually hovers just above losing the will to live. That is until I break out my secret supply of Snickers bars that I produce when I get the feeling that the HR Department is about to be lynched for making them go on the trip. Then, for that minute of eating, morale is at a decent level.

  ‘Are you sure we have the budget to do it? I know that Nigel was looking into redistributing the funding into more training courses and—’

  ‘No, Gunther was quite clear. He wants all the offices to do this.’

  Great. And there was me thinking I’d never have to see my work colleagues in tracksuits ever again.

  I’m not entirely sure where Giles is going with this, and why he’s called me in if he didn’t want my opinion.

  ‘I think it would be helpful if we went somewhere new this year. You know, get rid of those memories from before.’

  ‘Great idea.’

  Preferably somewhere that has locks on the doors between the girls’ and boys’ bedrooms, just like in between the servants’ apartments in Downton Abbey.

  I can just see us at a spa or a yoga retreat. I’m sure that everyone would be up for it. No white-water rafting, no potholing, just nice warmth. I mean, we could always do those naff trust exercises where we fall backwards and stuff – simply in the warm. ‘Now, when I was in the Sacramento office, we did an away weekend with some former US Marine Corps guys. It was great. Perhaps you could find something similar.’

  The thought of me in a seaweed wrap disappears and suddenly I’ve got the sound of someone shouting at me in my mind. I’m about to shout, out of reflex, ‘Sir, yes, Sir,’ when there’s a knock at the door of Giles’s office.

  ‘Come in,’ says Giles, sighing. He clearly doesn’t like interruptions. Note to self: only knock when I absolutely have to.

  I turn round to see Shelly opening the door. I know she’s probably dying to know what’s going on, but really, interrupting?

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb your meeting,’ says Shelly, giving me a nice smile that only another woman would know was bitchy. ‘It’s just that, Penny, your phone’s been ringing, a lot. I thought that perhaps it was important, and when I picked it up, the text message on it said there was an emergency.’

  I look up at Shelly. This is a new low. Interrupting our meeting to give me my personal phone. But then again, no one ever really rings me at work. Perhaps there has been an emergency, maybe it’s my mum or dad. Panic washes over me and my hands shake a little as I hold my hand out to retrieve it.

  ‘Thanks, Shelly,’ I say through gritted teeth. I can’t tell if this is a nice thing she’s doing or not. If this was in the days of old and we were in Nigel’s office, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Upon taking the phone from Shelly, I notice that my six missed calls, and goodness knows how many texts, are all from Henri.

  In the shock of finding out that I might have to go and buy a new pair of Hunter wellies, I’d completely forgotten about Henri’s emergency.

  ‘Do you need a minute, Penny?’ says Giles, raising his eyebrows in exclamation.

  ‘No, no. I’m fine to carry on,’ I say, swiftly putting my phone on silent and shoving it into my flimsy cardigan pocket.

  ‘Good. Shelly, you can shut the door on your way out,’ says Giles.

  I stifle a little chuckle as Shelly goes out with her tail between her legs.

  I try and turn my attention back to what Giles is saying, but my mind is racing with what could have happened to Henri. I’m sure that she can’t actually be having an emergency. I mean, unless the wedding is off, there’s no reason to be phoning me now.

  ‘I would like you to organise it, Penny.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, still distracted.

  ‘The trip. I want you to organise it.’

  ‘The whole thing?’ I say, just checking that I’ve heard this right. The trip was always Nigel’s domain and, given how much I dreaded it, I was always content with that. Aside from the Snickers bars and doing the session head-counts, I had no responsibilities.

  ‘Yes, the whole thing. I’m sure you’ll be all right, Penny. You do organise the graduate fairs, don’t you? And, as a supervisor, you’ll need to be able to do this kind of stuff in your sleep.’

  Blimey, as much as I think I’d be capable of organising this type of event, I’d like to do more interesting things in my sleep. Take last night, for example, I had a wonderful dream where Robert Pattinson and Ryan Gosling duelled over me. There was certainly no one running around in tracksuits, freezing their arses off.

  ‘Of course, Giles. I’d be happy to organise this.’

  Suck on that Shelly. Gosh, this whole competing thing is turning me into a super-bitch.

  ‘Great. So you’ll have to begin with finding out whether there are companies here in the UK that do this.’

  ‘I take it a staff trip to the US is out?’ I say, wistfully thinking of those American soldiers with their tight uniforms and baseball caps. Somewhere hot like the Californian desert. Then, of course, while we were there we could take nice advantage of the exchange rate and go to one of the super-malls and—

  ‘Definitely out. Wales is the only other country you’ll get to. Maybe Scotland if you’re lucky.’

  Practically exotic. No passport needed though and no cheap dollar.

  ‘OK,’ I say, sighing. ‘And it has to be army?’

  ‘Yes, that kind of thing. If it’s anything like the American one, you’ll be kitted out to look the part.’

  Dressing up? In camouflage gear? A couple of little plaits i
n my hair, a little camo-paint. Maybe that could be fun after all. Shelly is going to be green with envy.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I say, actually meaning it.

  ‘It will be, Penny, it will be. And while you’re doing that, Shelly can sort out the revisions to the appraisal process.’

  What? Any glee I had over the fact that I was going to plan this and Shelly was going to be stuck at her desk has slipped away in an instant. Revisions to the appraisal process sounds strategic and managerial to me. That surely involves benchmarking and best-practice analysis. Stuff that goes down well when you’re trying to demonstrate to those on high that you’re ready for the next step up.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to help with that? I did help with the revisions to the interviewing process.’

  ‘Yes, I see that in my notes,’ says Giles, looking absentmindedly around his office. ‘I just thought this would be a good division of labour.’

  I catch something out of the corner of my eye and I see my phone is lighting up through the pocket of my baggy cardigan. I just hope that Giles can’t see it over this side of the desk. Damn Henri and her emergency. I’ve desperately got to keep my head in the game for this promotion.

  ‘Of course. I’d love to organise the Wales trip,’ I say in defeat.

  ‘Right then, I’ll email you the budget from Bob and then, if you keep me updated on your progress, say every two weeks, that will be great.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘When did you envisage it happening?’

  ‘I’m thinking early July. Just before everyone goes off on their summer holidays. And that way the weather will be nice and warm in Wales.’

  Clearly Giles has never been to North Wales in the summer. Thermal underwear and full waterproofs are usually on the packing list, and the word hypothermia appears in the safety lecture at the start of the adventures.

  ‘Nice and warm,’ I say grinning with my fake smile.

  ‘Great. See you then, Penny.’

  The glasses are back on and I realise I’m being discharged. I stand up. I’m slowly getting used to this bizarre management style where he’s almost human one minute and like an alien the next.

  ‘Thanks, Giles, for this responsibility,’ I say. I have obviously been watching too much US TV.

  I walk back over to my desk.

  ‘So, good meeting?’ asks Shelly.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Giles has given me the Wales weekend to organise.’

  I can almost see the cogs turning in her mind. She looks like she’s smirking but, at the same time, she’s pissed off that I was given the opportunity and not her.

  ‘That should be fun. Hope you’ve got your down jacket handy.’

  ‘And the thermals.’

  ‘At least you’ve got your mitt-warmers now,’ says Shelly, smiling.

  ‘I do!’ I’d forgotten about them; they were my Secret Santa present last year. As we’re starting to laugh, I suddenly feel a little sad about the change between Shelly and me. We used to laugh like this all the time. I’m about to tell her that she’s going to get her own great project when I suddenly start to tingle in places that aren’t quite appropriate at work. I realise that, when I sat down, my cardigan has found its way between my legs and my phone’s now vibrating somewhere a phone shouldn’t.

  ‘I’m just going to sneak away and grab a sandwich,’ I say to Shelly.

  ‘Good idea,’ she says.

  I hurry down the staircase of the office and pick up the phone.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to Henri, wondering how many limbs she’s missing which, in my book, is one of the few things that constitutes an emergency.

  ‘Penny? Thank God. If I’d got your answerphone again I would have gone crazy. If I knew where you worked. I probably would have marched to your office.’

  ‘What’s wrong? You said there was an emergency.’

  ‘I did. Guess what? My sister has booked flights over from Australia for the summer, so we’ve got to have the wedding in July. This is it, Penny – two months and counting! Will you be able to do it?’

  Two months? The feeling of déjà vu floods over me. I had to plan my own wedding in just over three months and it was hard-going. Now I’ve got to do it all over again in two months? Well, at least this will get it over with quickly and then the wedding planning will be finished. Maybe Mark was right, maybe I’d be better off giving my job my full attention and not have to worry about other people’s weddings. Then I could impress the socks off Giles.

  ‘Two months is fine, Henri. Just fine. And yes, we will be able to do it in time.’

  Yes, two months would be ideal. I’ll just get this wedding out of the way and then I’ll be able to concentrate fully on my actual job and the promotion.

  chapter five

  princess-on-a-shoestring top tips:

  Planning a Wedding in a Hurry

  There could be all sorts of reasons for needing to plan a wedding in a matter of weeks, and the good news is it can be done. I organised my own wedding in twelve weeks. My top tip in this area is: be flexible. Forget your preconceived notions; you might just have to go with what you can get. Maybe the venue you really wanted isn’t available and you might have to consider other options like choosing a midweek day for the reception. You might not have enough time to get a traditional wedding dress, but there are ways round this: sample sales, the high street, second-hand (eBay/charity shops). Shotgun weddings are not for the fussy, uncompromising bride.

  Tags: fast, planning, hurry, shotgun, baby.

  I walk into the community centre, puffing my chest out proudly. I used to be nervous coming to my gamblers’ support group, but now I’m so excited to get there and see everyone. I say my hellos as I walk in, but my eyes are scanning for Beth, the girl I’m mentoring.

  We were paired about a month ago. She’s very sweet, and very young. So young. She’s still in her first year of sixth-form college. She developed a gambling habit the summer after her GCSEs when she got a smart phone for her sixteenth birthday. She started gambling illegally after she’d ‘borrowed’ her mother’s credit card. She racked up over £5,000 worth of debt on the card before her mum cottoned on.

  I spot Beth sitting in the corner. I take a deep breath before heading over, as I haven’t exactly bonded very well with her. To be honest, I think I was given her to mentor as I’m the youngest in the group and Mary, the leader of the group, hoped I’d be able to find some common ground. I’m twelve years older than her, and that feels like an insurmountable gap. If I thought I was down with the kids, I was seriously wrong. I used to think I hadn’t grown up since I was a teenager, but this has conclusively proven that I have.

  ‘Hi, Beth,’ I say as I go over to her. She’s sitting in the corner, looking like she’s surgically attached to her phone.

  ‘Hey,’ she grunts without looking up.

  ‘What are you up to on there?’ I ask, trying to peek over at her screen as I sit down.

  ‘I’m not gambling, if that’s what you’re asking,’ she snaps and turns her body away from me.

  ‘Relax, Beth,’ I say, trying to channel my inner-mother voice. ‘You told me last week that you’d stopped and I believe you.’

  Actually, I don’t believe her; she’s blatantly lying through her teeth. I’ve noticed that she looks down at the floor if she’s not telling the truth. I had an inkling about this and I tested it a couple of weeks ago when she came to my house for tea and cake. She ate one of the cupcakes I’d made and she said it tasted delicious. They were all burnt, and they were chewy in the middle, and later I saw half of one in the bin. The trouble is, I can’t do anything but try and be supportive. I can’t make her go cold turkey unless she wants to. I had naively assumed that, once she came to the group, she’d give up gambling like I had.

  What I can’t work out is how she’s still doing it because her mother is monitoring her credit card like a hawk, and Beth’s still over a year away from having her own.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Beth. ‘It’s just
been a shit day at college.’

  I’m about to correct her for using the word shit, and then I remember that I’m not her mum, and I’m supposed to be her cool mentor.

  ‘Yeah, my day has been pretty fucking awful too.’

  I know it’s not big or clever to use the ‘f’ word, but not only am I trying to create empathy with our awful days, but I’m trying to impress her with my swearing. It seems to have worked as her eyes light up at the fact that I, a supposedly serious adult, used the ‘f’ word. Maybe I could be a teen whisperer, after all. Now that I’m on a roll, should I try and go for the big guns?

  ‘Have you decided yet if you’re going to apply to uni?’

  ‘Dunno,’ says Beth, shrugging.

  Mary had suggested that I try to get Beth to focus on her future as a way to distract her from the gambling. But, so far, every time I’ve bought it up, Beth has shrivelled up like a shrunken violet.

  ‘Perhaps we could chat about it sometime? I tell you some of my university stories, show you some of my photos?’

  Emphasis on the word some, there are a lot of stories that whilst might sound impressive to teenage ears, are not entirely appropriate for me to be telling someone so young and impressionable. She is, after all, I think, a fairly unworldly wise sixteen-year-old.

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ says Beth.

  Before I can try and persuade her to reconsider, Mary calls for us all to sit down as the meeting starts.

  *

  An hour and a half later, and we’ve come to the end of our formal session. Beth ran out before I could even suggest setting a date for our next meet-up. I think perhaps I came across too guidance counsellor and it scared her off. I’ve been trying to get her to slot in a coffee date once a week, and so far I’ve failed miserably. Maybe I’ll try texting her later in the week, as I suspect that teens only communicate normally with a limited number of characters.