I know is no longer doing the job.
We pass the day sitting at our desks, me resentful and sulky, her perky, feet up on the desk, reading. I am juggling two phone calls and conscious of the fact that Joshua asked me to make him a coffee fifteen minutes ago when Lorna gets up and sashays across the room to me, dropping a piece of paper on my desk. The paper is covered with a handwritten scrawl and across the top in capitals the words ‘PLEASE TYPE’ scream out at me. I look up questioningly, but she’s halfway out the door with her coat on.
By the time I have dispatched the two callers (courier company – ‘why haven’t you paid your bill,’ and actor client – ‘I’m lost on my way to an audition’) she’s long gone. I look at the sheet of paper. I turn it over. Maybe what Lorna really meant to give me is on the other side. It’s blank. I scan the words for further clues. It seems to be a CV for Mary. Age, height, attended the Central School of Speech and Drama from September 2006 to June 2009, two small-time productions in profit-share theatre as well as a couple of months doing Theatre In Education since. It would take about three minutes to input it on to my computer. That’s not the point. The point is that it would have taken Lorna about three minutes to input it on to her computer too. Now I’m sure she’s taking the piss. I consider going in and talking to Melanie about it, but I feel like all I do is moan and complain these days. I decide to put the paper back on Lorna’s desk. If she wants me to type something for her, she can damn well look me in the eye and ask me to do it face to face. I prop it up on her keyboard where she can’t miss it and settle back down to work.
‘How are you getting on?’ Joshua asks me as he walks through reception on his way out to lunch. ‘Not too over worked?’
‘Erm…’ I say. ‘Well…’
He’s gone before I can say anything even if I had decided to. Joshua never really wants to hear the answers to questions like, ‘How are you?’ or, ‘Any problems?’ He likes to be able to tell himself that everything in his kingdom is in order.
Sixty-seven minutes later Lorna breezes back in. I have my coat on, ready to go out. I look at my watch as she walks straight through to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. At least she didn’t ask me to make it for her, that’s something. I wait until I hear her coming back and then I call out, ‘I’m going for lunch.’
I’m nearly through the door when I hear her say, ‘Oh, Rebecca?’
I force myself to stop. ‘I’m going to be late,’ I say, although I have no plans beyond a sandwich in St James’s Square.
‘I left something for you,’ she says, not even apologetically. ‘Did you see it?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes. I put it back on your desk.’ I’m not going to offer up the fact that I haven’t typed it up as her note asked. If she wants a fight, then she can start it.
She smiles. ‘Good.’ That’s it. Good. I wait for her to say thank you, after all she doesn’t yet know that I didn’t carry out her request. But no. No ‘thank you’. Just ‘good’. I hear her shuffling papers around on her desk as I leave and I have to stop myself from laughing. It’s either that or kill her.
When I get back exactly an hour later (I’m not stupid, I know she’s timing me, desperate to catch me out) she’s sitting there waiting for me with a face like thunder.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling.
She launches straight into it. ‘I thought you said you had typed that CV up for me.’
I feign confusion. ‘No, I said that I saw the piece of paper you left on my desk…’
‘Which clearly said “please type” across the top…’
I take a deep breath. ‘Lorna,’ I say. ‘At no point has anyone told me that I was now to be your assistant as well as having to look after Joshua and Melanie on my own and deal with all the general office stuff. If you’re really snowed under and you want to ask me to do
We pass the day sitting at our desks, me resentful and sulky, her perky, feet up on the desk, reading. I am juggling two phone calls and conscious of the fact that Joshua asked me to make him a coffee fifteen minutes ago when Lorna gets up and sashays across the room to me, dropping a piece of paper on my desk. The paper is covered with a handwritten scrawl and across the top in capitals the words ‘PLEASE TYPE’ scream out at me. I look up questioningly, but she’s halfway out the door with her coat on.
By the time I have dispatched the two callers (courier company – ‘why haven’t you paid your bill,’ and actor client – ‘I’m lost on my way to an audition’) she’s long gone. I look at the sheet of paper. I turn it over. Maybe what Lorna really meant to give me is on the other side. It’s blank. I scan the words for further clues. It seems to be a CV for Mary. Age, height, attended the Central School of Speech and Drama from September 2006 to June 2009, two small-time productions in profit-share theatre as well as a couple of months doing Theatre In Education since. It would take about three minutes to input it on to my computer. That’s not the point. The point is that it would have taken Lorna about three minutes to input it on to her computer too. Now I’m sure she’s taking the piss. I consider going in and talking to Melanie about it, but I feel like all I do is moan and complain these days. I decide to put the paper back on Lorna’s desk. If she wants me to type something for her, she can damn well look me in the eye and ask me to do it face to face. I prop it up on her keyboard where she can’t miss it and settle back down to work.
‘How are you getting on?’ Joshua asks me as he walks through reception on his way out to lunch. ‘Not too over worked?’
‘Erm…’ I say. ‘Well…’
He’s gone before I can say anything even if I had decided to. Joshua never really wants to hear the answers to questions like, ‘How are you?’ or, ‘Any problems?’ He likes to be able to tell himself that everything in his kingdom is in order.
Sixty-seven minutes later Lorna breezes back in. I have my coat on, ready to go out. I look at my watch as she walks straight through to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. At least she didn’t ask me to make it for her, that’s something. I wait until I hear her coming back and then I call out, ‘I’m going for lunch.’
I’m nearly through the door when I hear her say, ‘Oh, Rebecca?’
I force myself to stop. ‘I’m going to be late,’ I say, although I have no plans beyond a sandwich in St James’s Square.
‘I left something for you,’ she says, not even apologetically. ‘Did you see it?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes. I put it back on your desk.’ I’m not going to offer up the fact that I haven’t typed it up as her note asked. If she wants a fight, then she can start it.
She smiles. ‘Good.’ That’s it. Good. I wait for her to say thank you, after all she doesn’t yet know that I didn’t carry out her request. But no. No ‘thank you’. Just ‘good’. I hear her shuffling papers around on her desk as I leave and I have to stop myself from laughing. It’s either that or kill her.
When I get back exactly an hour later (I’m not stupid, I know she’s timing me, desperate to catch me out) she’s sitting there waiting for me with a face like thunder.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling.
She launches straight into it. ‘I thought you said you had typed that CV up for me.’
I feign confusion. ‘No, I said that I saw the piece of paper you left on my desk…’
‘Which clearly said “please type” across the top…’
I take a deep breath. ‘Lorna,’ I say. ‘At no point has anyone told me that I was now to be your assistant as well as having to look after Joshua and Melanie on my own and deal with all the general office stuff. If you’re really snowed under and you want to ask me to do
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