16:52.
I’d been sat staring at the clock in the top right-hand cornerof my computer screen for nine minutes, moving my mouse pointlessly around my desk so that my Teams status didn’t switch to inactive.
16:54.
Six minutes until I could escape the nauseatingly fishy-smelling office. Beryl, the office manager who had overly inflated ideas about her administrative responsibilities, thought it was socially acceptable to reheat her monkfish curry in the office kitchen (an instantly fireable offence in my opinion), and was making me miss the usual musk of damp, mouldy carpet. ‘Kitchen’ was probably an overly generous description. A kettle, one impossibly small fridge and a sauce-splattered microwave balanced precariously atop the windowsill does not a kitchen make, however much the laminated KITCHEN sign Blu-Tacked to the window tried to convince us otherwise.
16:56.
I twirled my engagement ring slowly around my finger, a habit that had me smiling at the thought of getting home to Joe. Of curling up on the sofa together with a glass of wine, me warming my never-not-cold toes on that bit of exposed skin between Joe’s waistband and his jumper, much to his displeasure.
16:59.
I got to my feet a little too quickly, my office chair skidding backwards as though it too were desperate to escape, and I had to grab the headrest to stop it colliding into an unsuspecting Beryl. (Although considering the whole fish incident, it was far less than she deserved.) As I turned, a man stood before me. He was what my mum would call portly, his one-inch-too-short beige chinos straining across his protruding stomach, greyinghair combed forcibly over to the right to hide the fact he was going bald. My boss. Derek Kingston.
‘How’s that story coming along, Jenny?’ he asked, aggressively clearing his throat as though trying to dispel a particularly stubborn piece of phlegm from the back of his tonsils.
‘Fine.’
Well, it will be fine. Once I actually start it.
‘Just fine? This is one of the biggest legal cases Hove has seen in years, Jenny; it’ll set precedent for years to come. I’ve reserved Friday’s front page for you, so I’m hoping for a little more thanfine,’ Derek puffed, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet in that way he did that made it look like he was thrusting his pelvic region in your direction.
17:01.
For fuck’s sake. I was not paid enough to stay a minute longer in this place than contractually necessary. I just wanted to get home to Joe.
‘If it’s not too much for you, that is? I mean, if it’s too much pressure, what with everything else going on .?.?.’ He was looking over my shoulder as he backtracked, and I turned to see Beryl giving him a shrewd look. Beryl had many hats. HR hat. Office Manager hat. General Busybody hat. Her actual hand-knitted, oversized, bobble-topped hat. Something told me she was wearing the first of those right now.
‘Great, it’s going great,’ I assured him, making a point of shoving things in my bag. Keys. Water bottle. Stapler. The ‘legal case’ in question was 66-year-old Mr Beckles of 12 Wisteria Drive and 79-year-old Mr Gorringe of 14 Wisteria Drive’s ongoing dispute over who owned the 14cm-wide strip of gravel separating their two properties. A pointless battle that had cost them both tens of thousands of pounds in legal fees, and meone pair of perfectly good ballet pumps that were now soaked beyond repair after standing for hours in the rain outside the grey, concrete monstrosity that was Hove Crown Court.
‘Fantastic! On my desk by midday tomorrow,’ Derek bellowed, glancing pointedly at his watch as I put on my jacket. As though leaving work on time was worse than skiving off early.
‘Got to run, Derek,woman’s appointment,’ I mouthed in a dramatic whisper when he showed no sign of moving.
‘Oh .?.?. yes, of course, righto. Good luck! Break a leg and all that. What’s that, Roger? Yes, coming!’ He raised a hand in acknowledgement, walking purposefully in the opposite direction as though he’d just been summoned. Clearly no one had told him Roger was off sick today. I pressed my lips together, stifling a smile as I hurried down the corridor. Jacob was leaning against the exit. As a reluctant five-foot-seven (and a half) male, Jacob’s hair added at least an extra inch – sometimes two – and today looked like a new record, his gravity-defying quiff curling like a scoop of soft-serve ice cream as he hid his smile in the ridiculously cavernous turtleneck of his jumper.
‘Another woman’s appointment, is it?’ he sniggered, guessing I’d just played my over-utilised trump card. ‘What’s that, the third one this month?’
‘Fourth actually,’ I shrugged. ‘Anyway, since when is it a crime to leave work on time?’
‘You’re asking the wrong person. I’m rarely here after 4 p.m., in fact I’m surprised I’ve not burst into flames by now .?.?.’ Jacob gave himself a quick once-over as though checking for scorch marks on his beloved cream cashmere.
Like me, Jacob also worked at theBrighton Tribune.He was our resident photojournalist but, unlike me, viewed our contracted hours of 9–5 more as a loose guideline than an actual rule. Luckily for him, though, he was a man and therefore immune from passive-aggressive digs from Derek.
‘Woah, where do you think you’re going?’ Jacob asked, looping his arm through mine as I made to turn left and commence my usual route home.
‘Umm, home?’
‘Oh no, we’re going to the pub tonight, remember?’
I had a vague memory of a calendar reminder to that effect pinging up on my phone earlier and my ignoring it. The first of Mum’s live music nights she was hosting at the pub. Her latest initiative to support local artists and hopefully drum up some more business during the midweek lull.
‘Is that tonight? Look, Jacob, I’m exhausted, it’s been a long week .?.?.’
‘It’s only Tuesday.’
‘I’m just not feeling that great, honestly, I think I ate something dodgy at lunch.’
