Dear Diary,
I was racing to the office this morning, utterly late a nightmare I could not afford. If I didnt slip past the turnstile before Mr. Peter Michael, the editorinchief, I would have to write an excuse for why the employee of the month, me, had suddenly become a disgrace.
Peter is a man who loves paperwork. He hoards every kind of form: explanations, confirmations, reports, congratulatory notes, apologies, and endless shopping lists. No one at the Herald could guess where this obsession with bureaucracy came from.
His wife constantly sends him grocery lists that tumble out of his trouser pockets, and the staff pepper his desk with memos of all sorts. Peter is content as long as the paperwork keeps flowing.
Why do you put up with this? my friend Lucy demanded, shaking her head. She works at the little café down the street from the flat we share, and she swears theres no better job. Good heavens! If you dont write to him by email, the whole world will go to waste! Email is modern and ecofriendly.
Lucy, you dont understand, I sighed. Hes made of paper. It sticks out of his pockets and spills from his notebook. He seems to enjoy it. Hes comfortable in his own little bubble, as they say. Let him be! At least he pays well and doesnt force us out for community cleanups in spring.
It was a weak argument, but Lucy was moved. Every April the café owner makes his staff repaint the exterior and wash the walls. The paint makes Lucy sneeze, the dust makes her cough. So the promise of no community cleanups was a welcome excuse, and the subject never resurfaced.
Today, if I dont manage to slip in front of Peter even for a second, I will be forced to sit down and write an apology. What will I write? Oh, there will be a long list
I overslept because the alarm failed, just as the whole house lost power. Lucy and I rushed around, mopping the puddle under the leaking fridge, scarfing down cold oatmeal wed boiled the night before, and then tried to freshen up thank the heavens the tap still ran, albeit with chilly water. After the bathroom routine came the usual womans touches: mascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.
Lucys jacket was crumpled; apparently, during the night our cat, Whiskers, had leapt onto it from a frozen puddle by the freezer, burrowed in, and then a frantic kick from Lucys slipper sent him tumbling onto his fluffy rear. Whiskers, never before so humiliated, fled to the balcony in a huff.
Lucy searched for another jacket because the iron was dead
All of this ate up a good chunk of time. By the time we realized it, night had already fallen.
I finally dressed Lucy, wished her a good day, and barely caught the step of the departing bus. I was pushed into the crowd like a jelly, and a gentleman tried to hold me back so the doors wouldnt crush me. I glanced at him, and his helpful hand vanished along with its owner.
I thought, if I could just dodge every traffic light, not slam my face into a handrail, and avoid the pickpockets that lurk in such crowds, I might make it.
If Im caught late, I lose the bonus. The bonus was already earmarked: a portion for a seaside holiday, another for a new microwave, and a bit for a pair of shoes. The girls nicknamed it the rubber bonus. Id earned it, but one slip could ruin everything.
I kept my composure, resisting the urge to sprint after the bus. The illusion of effort always feels warming.
Just as I was about to step onto the handrail, a young man grabbed it, his jacket sleeve slipping to reveal round wristwatch facesseveral dials, many hands. I stared at the watch and the minutes, trying to look away, but my eyes kept drifting back.
Running late? he asked sympathetically. Its a dreadful day, isnt it?
Yes, I admitted, pressing my bag tighter against my already sweaty side.
You know the sayingwhere youre expected, you cant be late, he said with a smile.
I pressed my lips together. Normally Id have nodded, but now the thought seemed out of placethe microwave and the sea were at stake!
By the way, Im Colin, he continued, pausing for a reply he never got. And you?
Im Olivia Hart, I said, stepping forward. A woman in a light coat and lace glovesher perfume reminiscent of fresh linen, her lips bright as beetrootbumped Colin aside with a graceful sweep. She was the bosss wife, though Id never seen her before, not even a photo on Peters desk, yet her voice was familiar from the loudspeaker announcements.
Olivia Ferguson, she announced, pushing past us. Im sorry, its stormy today!
In that instant I realised who she wasPeters wife. No one had ever met her; only her voice echoed through the office intercoms.
Morning, Peter! That newspaper youre holding is useless! The mammoth story is dead, you understand? Some bloke threw it in the bin, and a homeless man
She went on, painting the situation in vivid colours, while the subordinate forced to hear her tirade faded into the background.
Whos she to criticize our dear Peter? the junior staff whispered. Poor thing, shell be in the kitchen stuffing pastries, drinking tea, while she keeps nagging him. The gossip spread like wildfire.
Olivia swept past the tram, pushed past a few teenagers glued to their phones, and plonked herself beside Peter in the carriage.
Excuse us, Peter stammered, clutching his briefcase to his knee. Were just
Its like a schoolboy! I thought, astonished to be witnessing the notorious Olivia in person. The girls would be jealous.
Whats the matter? Speak up! Hand over your bag! Olivia snapped, snapping her briefcase shut. Where are the keys, Peter? Are you going to sit under the door while I stroll around the shopping centre with Simmy? Youve lost it!
Peter and the young man with the watch watched as a blush of embarrassment washed over Peters face.
Lydia, calm down, the young man muttered, I dont even know your name
The tram lurched. Colin nudged my cheek with his unshaven, prickly chin.
Are you serious? I hissed.
Im terribly sorry. The storm is real, as some have noted, Colin replied, winking at Olivia. And apologies for the stubbleIve been on duty for two days, no time to shave.
I noticed how weary he looked, his face a pallid green.
You could use some sleep, I said sympathetically.
Not a word! Ive got to fetch the dog, then head home. Thanks for the concern, he smiled.
Meanwhile Olivia, like a hag from an old fairy tale, rummaged through a pile of papers on her lap. Remember this listdrycleaning, my masseurs address, the order for my sisters nieces. Were travelling to them on Sunday, Peter. She thrust a crumpled note into his pocket. Peter met my eyes, and I saw a mix of resignation and a plea that I keep this humiliating scene to myself.
Now we shared a secret, just the two of us.
Why did Peter endure such a domineering wife? Why tolerate the control and tyranny? Hed risen because of hershed spotted his talent back at university, married him, and through her family connections pushed him up the ladder. She never worked a day herself; her life was filled with phone calls, meetings in cafés, and overseeing the familys affairs.
Shed even been the one to call Fiona years ago, who then propelled Peter into his current role. Fiona was a big shot in the newspaper world, secretly infatuated with the charismatic Olivia, and used her influence to help Peter.
Fiona, you must sort this! Peters no longer a boy; hes taking over everything, Olivia had cooed, promising a dinner in returnthough she later feigned a migraine and never went.
Peter, on his first day as editor, entered his newly paneled oak office, trembling. Olivia, I cant run this machine! Its beyond me! he whispered, then fell silent when tea and scones arrived.
Olivia surveyed the waitress, gave Peter a reassuring pat, and declared, Dont worry, love. Well manage. She was the gray cardinal behind the scenes. Peter, whenever he needed advice, called her, not because he lacked ideas, but out of habit and respect. Olivia suffered from chronic stomach issues, often in hospital, yet between bouts she ran the tiny empire of the Clean Sheet newspaper.
The mammoth story, submitted by a journalist named Grey, slipped into the front page, stabbing Olivias plans with its ivory tusks. She was not pleased.
She insisted the IT department grant her access to staff attendance logs, then chastised Peter for anyone being a minute late. It was a situation, were all human, Peter tried to defend. Olivia, in a fit, declared, Im done with you, Peter! If you protect them, youre treating me like a fool! She hung up, and Peter, frantic, devoured forbidden pastries, gulped tea without sugar, and demanded explanations from staff, reading them aloud to his wife, softening her heart enough not to fire anyone.
As the paperwork piled on his desk, he read them to Olivia, embellishing, justifying, then whispering sweet nothings. She would soften, and no one lost their job.
Peter could have left, but he seemed unable to live without her guidance. She decided everythingwhat to wear, what to eat, how to run the paper. He loved her, and she loved him, in her own stubborn way.
Isnt that your journalist? Olivia suddenly asked Sarah, pointing at me. The one who grabbed the bonus?
I raised an eyebrow, then frowned. Where? Olivia, youre mistaken! Sarah has been dreaming about her work for ages, Peter interjected, shaking his head. Olivia, I need to go. Hand me the briefcase, please.
Olivia scrambled to gather her scattered papers, while Colin ushered me toward the exit. I thanked him.
What a woman! What a bulldozer! he remarked, half admiring, half teasing, offering me a hand to step out of the tram. He then helped Peter onto the pavement, gave Olivia a cheeky wave, and sent a blown kiss her way.
Olivia flashed a warning finger, turned away, and muttered, Off you go, Peter. The young man on the right side of the street nodded, and I, shoulders slumped, pointed to the alley left behind.
Peter shuffled, unsure whether to say goodbye or just drift away.
Goodbye! Colin grinned at both of us. What a woman what a bulldozer he repeated, then walked off.
You dont have to be upset, Sarah. Let whatever you saw stay between us, okay? Dont judge. Everyone does the best they can, Peter murmured behind my back. Without Olivia, Id be nothing
I wanted to retort that hed become nothing because of her, but I held my tongue, caught by his sad, pleading gaze.
I’m a tombstone, Peter, he whispered. Lets go. Can I slip into the office ahead of you? Or perhaps use the back door?
Go quietly, I replied, Ill tell Lesley, hell adjust your time. We always take taxis, but his driver fell ill, so were on the tram. What happened to you? he asked kindly, taking my elbow and guiding me forward.
I recounted the power outage, Lucys ruined jacket, Whiskers midnight adventure, and the puddle under the fridge. Peter listened, his smile widening. He missed the light, spontaneous chatter, youthful laughter, and cats.
He sighed, Dont scold Whiskers. He acted out of desperation, the poor thing. I laughed. Whos scolding him anyway? Hes our beloved.
We talked until the office door opened. He offered me a coffee and a scone, which I accepted. Just then his wife called, inquiring about his petty expenses, but he silenced his phone and slipped it into his pocket.
Alright, you go ahead, Ill follow, Peter said. Have a good day!
He lingered on the streets long after the morning rush, arriving at work only around lunch. He hadnt divorced, hadnt changed, simply breathed in a full lung of air and paused.
That evening, Oliviastill smelling of every perfume imaginablereturned home, and I realized how much Peter missed her. He loved her, damn it, just like a cat loves a warm lap.
I left the newsroom late, exhausted, as creative souls often are after a sleepless night.
Sarah! Ive been waiting for you, Nicholas emerged from the shadows. I dont know what flowers you like, so I bought these. He handed me a bright, mismatched bunchwhat I called a mixed salad of blooms.
She smiled, accepting the bouquet.
May I see you out? he teased. I may seem pushy, but after that tram kiss I think Ive earned a right He chuckled.
Olivia frowned, ready to toss the flowers, then decided to keep both the blossoms and Nicholas.
We strolled down the lanternlit street, chatting, laughing, admiring shop windows glowing with coloured lights, grateful that the future still held promise, and perhaps a love unlike Peters.
Honestly, hes a good man, your boss, Nicholas said. You know what they say: a woman makes a man. Maybe without her he wouldnt stand.
I shrugged. Everyone has their own path.
He loves cats, I added quietly.
That makes him a decent chap, Nicholas agreed. May he stay healthy.
We ran for the tram, laughing for no particular reason, simply because everything felt right.
