Sophie Kinsella - Remember Me?

“We’ve had an e-mail from on high about people abusing lunch hours.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a piece of paper. “SJ wants all directors to give their teams a bollocking. Today, preferably.” Byron raises his eyebrows innocently. “Can I leave that one to you?”

Bastard. Bastard.

I’m pacing about my office, sipping my coffee, my stomach churning with nerves. I’ve never told anyone off before. Let alone a whole department. Let alone while simultaneously trying to prove that I’m really friendly and not a bitch-boss-from-hell.

I look yet again at the printed-out e-mail from Natasha, Simon Johnson’s personal assistant.

Colleagues. It has come to Simon’s attention that members of staff are regularly pushing the limit of lunchtime well beyond the standard hour. This is unacceptable. He would be grateful if you could make this plain to your teams ASAP, and enforce a stricter policy of checks.

Thanks.

Natasha

Okay. The point is, it doesn’t actually say “give your department a bollocking.” I don’t need to be aggressive or anything. I can make the point while still being pleasant.

Maybe I can be all jokey and friendly! I’ll start off, “Hey, guys! Are your lunch hours long enough?” I’ll roll my eyes to show I’m being ironic and everyone will laugh, and someone will say, “Is there a problem, Lexi?” And I’ll smile ruefully and say, “It’s not me, it’s the stuffed shirts upstairs. So let’s just try and make it back on time, yeah?” And a few people will nod as though to say “fair enough.” And it’ll all be fine.

Yes. That sounds good. Taking a deep breath, I fold the paper and put it away in my pocket, then head out of my office, into the open-plan main Flooring office.

There’s the chatter and buzz of people on the phone and typing and chatting to each other. For about a minute no one even notices me. Then Fi looks up and nudges Carolyn, and she prods a girl I don’t recognize, who brings her phone conversation to an end. Around the room, receivers go down and people look up from their screens and chairs swivel around, until gradually the whole office has come to a standstill.

“Hi, everyone!” I say, my face prickling. “I…um…Hey, guys! How’s it going?”

No one replies, or even acknowledges that I’ve spoken. They’re all just staring up with the same mute, get-on-with-it expression.

“Anyway!” I try to sound bright and cheerful. “I just wanted to say…Are your lunch hours long enough?”

“What?” The girl at my old desk looks blank. “Are we allowed longer ones?”

“No!” I say hurriedly. “I mean…they’re too long.”

“I think they’re fine.” She shrugs. “An hour’s just right for a bit of shopping.”

“Yeah,” agrees another girl. “You can just make it to the King’s Road and back.”

Okay, I am really not getting my point across here. And now two girls in the corner have started talking again.

“Listen, everyone! Please!” My voice is becoming shrill. “I have to tell you something. About lunch hours. Some people in the company…um…I mean, not necessarily any of you-”

“Lexi,” says Carolyn clearly. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Fi and Debs explode with laughter and my face flames with color.

“Look, guys,” I try to keep my composure. “This is serious.”

“Seriousssss,” someone echoes, and there are sniggers about the room. “It’s sssseriousssss.”

“Very funny!” I try to smile. “But listen, seriously…”

“Sssseriousssly…”

Now almost everyone in the room seems to be hissing or laughing or both. All the faces are alive; everyone’s enjoying the joke, except me. All of a sudden a paper airplane flies past my ear and lands on the floor. I jump with shock and the entire office erupts with gales of laughter.

“Okay, well, look, just don’t take too long over lunch, okay?” I say desperately.

No one’s listening. Another paper airplane hits me on the nose, followed by an eraser. In spite of myself, tears spring to my eyes.

“Anyway, I’ll see you guys!” I manage. “Thanks for…for all your hard work.” With laughter following me I turn and stumble out of the office. In a daze, I head toward the ladies’ room, passing Dana on the way.

“Going to the bathroom, Lexi?” she says in surprise as I’m pushing my way in. “You know, you have a key to the executive washroom! Much nicer!”

“I’m fine in here.” I force a smile. “Really.”

I head straight for the end cubicle, slam the door shut, and sink down with my head in my hands, feeling the tension drain from my body. That was the single most humiliating experience of my life.

Except for the white swimsuit episode.

Why did I ever want to be a boss? Why? All that happens is you lose your friends and have to give people bollockings and everyone hisses at you. And for what? A sofa in your office? A posh business card?

At last, wearily, I lift my head, and find myself focusing on the back of the cubicle door, which is covered in graffiti as usual. We’ve always used this door like a kind of message board, to vent, or make jokes or just silly conversation. It gets fuller and fuller, then someone scrubs it clean and we start again. The cleaners have never said anything, and none of the executives ever comes in here-so it’s pretty safe.

I’m running my eye down the messages, smiling at some libelous story about Simon Johnson, when a new message in blue marker catches my eye. It’s in Debs’s handwriting and it reads: “The Cobra’s back.”

And underneath, in faint black Biro: “Don’t worry, I spat in her coffee.”

There’s only one way to go. And that’s to get really, really, really drunk. An hour later and I’m slumped at the bar at the Bathgate Hotel, around the corner from work, finishing my third mojito. Already the world has turned a little blurry-but that’s fine by me. As far as I’m concerned, the blurrier the better. Just as long as I can keep my balance on this bar stool.

“Hi.” I lift my hand to get the attention of the barman. “I’d like another one, please.”

The barman raises his eyebrows very slightly, then says, “Of course.”

I watch him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn’t he going to ask me why I want another one? Isn’t he going to offer me some homespun barman wisdom?

He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of peanuts, which I push aside scornfully. I don’t want anything soaking up the alcohol. I want it right in my bloodstream.

“Can I get you anything else? A snack, perhaps?”

He gestures at a small menu, but I ignore it and take a deep gulp of the mojito. It’s cold and tangy and limey and perfect.

“Do I look like a bitch to you?” I say as I look up. “Honestly?”

“No.” The barman smiles.

“Well, I am, apparently.” I take another slug of mojito. “That’s what all my friends say.”

“Some friends.”

“They used to be.” I put my cocktail down and stare at it morosely. “I don’t know where my life went wrong.”

I sound slurred, even to my own ears.

“That’s what they all say.” A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his Evening Standard. He has an American accent and dark, receding hair. “No one knows where it went wrong.”

“No, but I really don’t know.” I lift a finger impressively. “I have a car crash…and boom! I wake up and I’m trapped in the body of a bitch.”

“Looks like you’re trapped in the body of a babe to me.” The American guy edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. “I wouldn’t trade that body for anything.”