I was rushing to the office, my heart thudding like a runaway train. If I didnt squeeze through the turnstile before the editorinchief, Id have to write a fullblown explanation for why Emily, whod just been crowned Employee of the Month, was suddenly the offices laughingstock.
Peter Mitchell, the editor, was a man who adored paperwork of every stripe: memos, signoffs, congratulatory notes, apologies, shopping lists and the like. No one could figure out why bureaucracy seemed to run in his veins.
His wife constantly slipped him grocery lists that fell out of her coat pockets, the staff sent him endless internal notes, and Peter smiled at the constant flow. Why put up with all this? bellowed Emilys friend, Lucy, who worked at the café opposite the flat they shared. Its an environmental nightmare! Send him an emailmodern and green!
Emily sighed. You dont get it, Lucy. Hes built entirely out of paper. It sticks out of every pocket and falls out of his notebook. He loves it, apparently, and it keeps him in his element. Besides, he pays well and never forces us to do community cleanups in spring.
That excuse sounded weak, but Lucy bought it. Every April the café owner forced his crew to repaint the fence and wash the walls, which made Lucy sneeze from the paint and cough from the dust. So the lack of community work was a welcome excuse, and the topic never resurfaced.
Now, if Emily didnt slip past Peter by even a second, shed be stuck writing that explanation. What would it say? Oh, plenty of points
Shed overslept because the alarm died with the whole houses power. Then she and Lucy chased a puddle under the fridge, gulped cold overnightsoaked oats, and tried to freshen upthankfully the tap still ran, albeit chilly. After the bathroom routine came the usual feminine touches: mascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.
Lucys jacket was crumpled. Apparently, the family cat, Whiskers, had leapt into a cold puddle from the freezer, burrowed in, and later got smacked by Lucys boot, sending him tumbling onto his fluffy rear. Whiskers, never before humiliated, bolted to the balcony in a huff. Lucy was hunting for another jacket because the iron had given up.
All that ate up a good chunk of time. By the time they realised, it was already late.
Emily, finally looking presentable, gave Lucy a hurried good luck and sprinted for the departing tram. A gentleman tried to shield her from the closing doors, but the moment she glanced at him, his arm vanished like a magicians trick.
She dodged traffic lights, ducked past railings, and avoided pickpocketsanything could happen in a crowd that big. If she were caught late, shed lose the bonus that had already been earmarked: a seaside holiday, a new microwave, a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus, and Emily had earned it fair and square. One slip could ruin it all.
She strained to keep her pace, the bus rumbling past. A bloke clutched a handrail, his coats sleeve slipping to reveal a round watch face full of hands and dials. Emily stared at the clock, her eyes flicking back and forth, unable to look away.
Running late? the young man asked sympathetically. Its a proper hectic day, isnt it?
Yes, Emily replied, pressing her bag tighter against her already sweaty side.
You know what they say, he grinned, you cant be late where youre wanted.
Emily pursed her lips. Normally she would have nodded, but the bonus and the holiday were on the line.
My names Colin, he added, pausing for a reply that never came. And yours?
Im Mrs. Margaret Hartley, a woman in a light coat and lace gloves interjected, pushing Colin aside with a generous bust. Her perfume was sharp, like rosewater mixed with something more pungent. Her lips were painted the colour of beetroot, bright enough to make a passerby wince.
She brushed past, accidentally grazing Colins sleeve with her beetred mouth.
Sorry! she muttered. Theres a storm outside!
Emily recognised her instantly: the bosss wife. No one had ever seen her in person; not even her portrait adorned Peters office, yet everyone knew her voice from the loudspeakershed made a habit of lecturing the entire staff.
Peter, this paper is rubbish! The mammoth story is deadended. I saw a bloke chuck it into the bin, and a vagrant
She carried on, unashamed, splashing colour onto the narrative, while the unwitting employee in the hallway faded into the shadows.
The staff whispered, What a nightmare, those mammoths didnt sell! A snort from a reporter named Grey followed, then a triumphant stride from the author of the porcelain piece article, and finally Peters booming shout demanding everyone into the conference room.
Mrs. Hartley never appeared in the newsroom herself, but her presence seemed to hang in the air.
The cheek of her, criting our Peter! the kitchen staff muttered. Hell just gobble a pie, sip some tea, and shell be on the line again, grilling him!
Margaret pushed through the tram, shoving a couple of teenagers glued to their phones aside, and settled beside Peter.
Im sorry, we just Peter stammered, clutching his briefcase.
Childish! Emily thought, watching the drama unfold. The girls will be jealous.
Stop your whining, hand over the bag! Margaret snapped, snapping the briefcase shut. Where are the keys, Peter? Are you going to hide under the door while Im strolling the GUM? Youve lost it!
Peters eyes darted to the clock: 3:57pm. Hed be late for the editorial meeting.
Liza, calm down, he muttered, trying to keep his composure.
Your mother, Margaret barked, we see her every third Saturday. Is today the third Saturday? She turned to Peter, demanding an answer.
Its Wednesday, whispered Nicholas, a junior reporter whod been listening.
The bosss wife never asks the young men a thing! Margaret roared.
Nicholas sighed, shrugged, and leaned in close to Emily. Funny, isnt it? I still dont know your name.
The tram clanged, jolting forward. Kolyaa lanky fellow with a scruffy chinpressed his cheek against Emilys. What the she spat.
Apologies, the storms really blowing, Kolya muttered, rubbing his stubble. Ive been on duty two days, cant find a razor.
Emily, noting his fatigued, greygreen look, said gently, You look like you need a nap.
Not the word! Kolya replied, Ive got a dog to walk and then home. Thanks for the concern.
Meanwhile, Margaret, like a witch from an old tale, rummaged through a pile of papers. Remember the drycleaning list, the address of my masseurdont need thatthis is for my sisters nieces birthday. Were heading there Sunday, right, Peter? She thrust a crumpled note into Peters coat. His eyes met Emilys, a plea hidden in them to keep this humiliating scene secret.
So the two of them shared a private secret.
Why did Peter endure Margarets tyranny? Why swallow the relentless control? Hed been coaxed into the top editors chair by her, slowly, from a modest reporter to chief. Shed spotted his talent in university, married him, then used family connections to push him upward.
Margaret never worked a day herself; her life was phone callsboth on the line and in caféskeeping tabs on family affairs. It was all on her shoulders.
Shed even been the one to ring up a friend, Fim, who then nudged Peter into the role he now held. Fim, a bigwig in the press, was hopelessly in love with the energetic Margaret, and she knew how to use it.
Fim, sort this out! Peters no longer a kid, hes aiming high. Find him a spot, will you? Ill treat you to a dinneroh, Im feeling a migraine, so Ill stay in. She laughed, then called the newsroom, where the retiring chief editors secretary typed out a new appointment letter.
Peter, on his first day in the mahoganypanelled office, fretted, Olivia, I cant run this machine! He muttered, then fell silent as tea and scones arrived.
OliviaMargarets nicknameinspected the waitress, gave Peter a pat on the shoulder, and said, Dont worry, love. Well manage. She was the grey cardinal behind the scenes. Peter, whenever he could, phoned her for article advice, not because he couldnt decide, but because he respected his wifes judgement. She suffered from chronic stomach troubles, often in hospital, yet still ran the tiny empire of The Daily Chronicle.
A mammoth story, pitched by the reporter Grey, had slipped into the front page by mistake, replacing a piece on daylightsaving bulbs that Peter found dull. Mammoths sell! Grey danced around the editorial desk, People love fossils, the ice agetrust me!
Peter called Olivia five times to confirm the mammoth angle; she never answered, out shopping at Harrods. The piece made the front, and Olivias eyes flashed with anger.
Olivia also tracked employee punctuality. At her behest, the IT admin gave her access to staff swipe logs. She berated Peter about a colleague whod been a minute and fortyseven seconds late.
Olivia, it was just a blippeople are human! Peter tried to defend.
Too bad, Im leaving you then. If you keep covering for them, Im done. She shrieked, slamming the phone.
Peter rushed to the staff kitchen, wolfed down a forbidden pastry, chugged tea without sugar, and then summoned the latecomers for explanations. He read each excuse to Olivia, sugarcoated them, and she, softening, allowed no dismissals.
He might have left her, but hed grown so dependent on her that even deciding what to wear was a thought she owned. He loved her, truly, and that love kept him tethered.
Peter, isnt that the journalist who won the bonus? Olivia asked, glancing at Emily.
Emily lifted her eyebrows, then scowled. Where? Olivia, youve got it wrongSophies already dreaming of work. Peter shook his head. Olivia, hand over the briefcase, please.
Olivia scrambled for scattered papers; Nicholas nudged Emily toward the doors. She thanked him.
What a woman! What a bulldozer! Nicholas remarked, halfadmiring, halfsarcastic, as he helped Emily out of the tram, then lifted a weary Peter onto the pavement, waved a cheeky kiss at Olivia, who rebuffed him with a finger.
Off I go, the young man said, heading to the highrise opposite.
Me too, Emily replied, pointing toward a side alley.
Peter shuffled beside them, unsure whether to say goodbye or just drift away.
See you later! Nicholas called, grinning. What a lady what a bulldozer He repeated and walked off.
Dont let this ruin you, Emily. Keep it between us, alright? No judgment. Peter whispered as he watched her disappear. Without Olivia Id be nothing.
Emily wanted to retort, to say shed made him the nothing, but she stayed silent, her eyes lingering on his weary stare.
I’m a grave, Peter, he muttered. Lets go. Can I sneak in through the back door? Or maybe the side entrance?
Take your time, she replied. Ill tell Les, hell tweak your schedule. We always take a taxi, but the drivers off sick, so were on the tram. What happened to you? Peter asked kindly, taking Emilys elbow and leading her forward.
Emily recounted the power outage, Lucys jacket, the cat, and the puddle under the fridge. Peter listened, smiling, his shoulders relaxing, his face brightening. He felt a sudden urge to buy something frivolousa coffee and a scone for both of them.
Just then his wife rang, asking what he was doing in a coffee shop after getting a message about his frivolous spending. He silenced his phone, slipped it into his coat.
Right then, you lead, Ill follow, Peter said. Have a good day!
He wandered the streets, only making it to work for lunch. He hadnt divorced, hadnt changed his life, but he took a deep breath, feeling a little lighter.
That evening, Olivia arrived home, exhausted, smelling of every perfume in the house, and realized how much she missed him. She loved him, sinful as it was, just like a cat loves a sunny spot.
Emily, having churned out a couple of smashing articles on Mayan mysteries, left the office late, utterly drainedtypical for creative souls or anyone short on sleep.
Emily! Im waiting for you, Nicholas called from the shadows. Im not sure which flowers you like, so I bought these.
He handed her a cheery, mismatched bouquet that Emily nicknamed a mixed salad.
She smiled, accepted the flowers.
May I escort you? I know I seem pushy, but after that tram kiss I feel Ive earned the right, he teased.
Emily frowned, ready to toss the flowers, then decided to keep both the bouquet and the man.
They strolled down the evening street, chuckling, admiring shop windows lit with coloured bulbs, happy that life still held promise and perhaps a love not quite like Peters.
Your boss is a top bloke, Nicholas affirmed. You know the sayingbehind every man is a woman. Without her, hed be flat on his back.
Emily shrugged. To each his own.
He loves cats, she added softly.
That makes him a decent fellow, Nicholas replied. Hope he stays healthy.
They laughed, ran to catch the tram, and simply enjoyed the moment, because everything felt right.
