Laurence – it will clash with my hair.’
In Reception Susannah Harrington was waiting for me.
‘Good morning Cassandra dear. Let me introduce you to Morag McDermott, one of our dynamic solicitors in Company and Commercial.’
I shook hands with a dour looking thirty-something female who looked as dynamic as a pair of old socks.
‘Morag will be your boss for the next three weeks while her secretary holidays in America.’
‘Pleased to me you,’ I smiled at Morag while my tummy contracted. I wasn’t getting good vibes from Ms McDermott at all.
I settled down to work and tried to tune out the poisonous atmosphere emanating from my new boss.
As the week progressed, my misgivings about Morag proved unhappily correct. At around eleven every morning she would storm into our shared office apparently nursing a monumental hangover. She would then slam things around her desk, growl into a mobile and achieve absolutely nothing. Come noon, in a fit of bad temper, she would wordlessly stalk out without a backward glance. Invariably, just as I was reaching for my coat to go home, Morag would stagger through the door wafting whisky fumes and declare
we
had a lot of work to do.
So far I’d managed to avoid a drunken screaming match as invariably she would sit down, nose dive on to the ink blotter and snore robustly.
But on this particular morning Ms McDermott happened to be waiting for me, an expensive shoe tapping impatiently.
‘What time do you call this?’ she snapped.
Do not rise Cass, do not rise. I looked at my watch. ‘Five minutes to nine,’ I carefully replied.
She flung a tiny plastic cassette at me. I dodged and it landed on my desk’s surface with a light clatter.
‘I want this typed and ready for half past nine on the dot.’
And a very good morning to you too Morag McCow. Just what was this female’s problem? Either she had rampant premenstrual tension or one hell of a personality disorder. God help me if it was both.
At noon Morag once again disappeared with no explanation whatsoever and didn’t return until I had logged off and was buttoning up my coat. But instead of sinking soporifically down on to the ink blotter, she instead collapsed upon her chair, placed her head in her hands and surrendered to uncontrollable sobbing.
My instinct was to rush over and offer comfort, but she wasn’t the most approachable of people. I didn’t want her blotchy face rearing up and snarling at me to bog off. In the end I made do with awkwardly patting her shoulder.
‘Er, Morag? Can I make you a cup of coffee?’ I asked gently. She peered at me vacantly through brimming eyes. ‘Morag? Have you had bad news?’
She gave the smallest of nods. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible news. My husband doesn’t love me any more.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I’ve only been married six months.’
Ah.
Over the next few days I got to know the real Morag. She was actually an extremely nice lady with a heart as soft as a strawberry centre. Her entire family lived in Scotland and she had nobody in the South of England other than her estranged in-laws.
‘I was initially so wrapped up in my marriage and work that I didn’t really make any friends down here,’ she confessed one day.
‘Well you can certainly count me as a mate. It’s the weekend tomorrow. What about we have a get-together on Saturday night. The twins will be at my ex’s so I won’t have to hurry home.’
‘I’m available all day,’ Morag hinted, looking at me hopefully.
I smiled. ‘Unfortunately I’m not. I’m checking out new kitchens but you’re welcome to keep me company.’
‘Oh no thanks,’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘The excitement of whether to choose ash or cherry wood cabinets would be too much for me.’
‘Don’t mock,’ I waggled a finger playfully. ‘This is my new project designed to keep me busy and buoyed up.’
‘Are you still feeling terribly raw?’ she asked looking sympathetic.
I shrugged. ‘It’s getting
In Reception Susannah Harrington was waiting for me.
‘Good morning Cassandra dear. Let me introduce you to Morag McDermott, one of our dynamic solicitors in Company and Commercial.’
I shook hands with a dour looking thirty-something female who looked as dynamic as a pair of old socks.
‘Morag will be your boss for the next three weeks while her secretary holidays in America.’
‘Pleased to me you,’ I smiled at Morag while my tummy contracted. I wasn’t getting good vibes from Ms McDermott at all.
I settled down to work and tried to tune out the poisonous atmosphere emanating from my new boss.
As the week progressed, my misgivings about Morag proved unhappily correct. At around eleven every morning she would storm into our shared office apparently nursing a monumental hangover. She would then slam things around her desk, growl into a mobile and achieve absolutely nothing. Come noon, in a fit of bad temper, she would wordlessly stalk out without a backward glance. Invariably, just as I was reaching for my coat to go home, Morag would stagger through the door wafting whisky fumes and declare
we
had a lot of work to do.
So far I’d managed to avoid a drunken screaming match as invariably she would sit down, nose dive on to the ink blotter and snore robustly.
But on this particular morning Ms McDermott happened to be waiting for me, an expensive shoe tapping impatiently.
‘What time do you call this?’ she snapped.
Do not rise Cass, do not rise. I looked at my watch. ‘Five minutes to nine,’ I carefully replied.
She flung a tiny plastic cassette at me. I dodged and it landed on my desk’s surface with a light clatter.
‘I want this typed and ready for half past nine on the dot.’
And a very good morning to you too Morag McCow. Just what was this female’s problem? Either she had rampant premenstrual tension or one hell of a personality disorder. God help me if it was both.
At noon Morag once again disappeared with no explanation whatsoever and didn’t return until I had logged off and was buttoning up my coat. But instead of sinking soporifically down on to the ink blotter, she instead collapsed upon her chair, placed her head in her hands and surrendered to uncontrollable sobbing.
My instinct was to rush over and offer comfort, but she wasn’t the most approachable of people. I didn’t want her blotchy face rearing up and snarling at me to bog off. In the end I made do with awkwardly patting her shoulder.
‘Er, Morag? Can I make you a cup of coffee?’ I asked gently. She peered at me vacantly through brimming eyes. ‘Morag? Have you had bad news?’
She gave the smallest of nods. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible news. My husband doesn’t love me any more.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I’ve only been married six months.’
Ah.
Over the next few days I got to know the real Morag. She was actually an extremely nice lady with a heart as soft as a strawberry centre. Her entire family lived in Scotland and she had nobody in the South of England other than her estranged in-laws.
‘I was initially so wrapped up in my marriage and work that I didn’t really make any friends down here,’ she confessed one day.
‘Well you can certainly count me as a mate. It’s the weekend tomorrow. What about we have a get-together on Saturday night. The twins will be at my ex’s so I won’t have to hurry home.’
‘I’m available all day,’ Morag hinted, looking at me hopefully.
I smiled. ‘Unfortunately I’m not. I’m checking out new kitchens but you’re welcome to keep me company.’
‘Oh no thanks,’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘The excitement of whether to choose ash or cherry wood cabinets would be too much for me.’
‘Don’t mock,’ I waggled a finger playfully. ‘This is my new project designed to keep me busy and buoyed up.’
‘Are you still feeling terribly raw?’ she asked looking sympathetic.
I shrugged. ‘It’s getting
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