I get the feeling the other Stratagem – sorry, Viridian PR – employees agree with me, as I’m being treated with a lot of sympathy, like the axe has already fallen. I guess I can’t blame them. If they think I’m a goner, then that at least improves their chances a bit.
‘I’m sure everything will turn out okay,’ Amisha remarks, ostensibly to the three other people standing with her, but I can tell she’s talking to me more than anyone else.
‘Absolutely,’ Joseph agrees. ‘Whoever has to leave, I’m sure they’ll find work elsewhere quickly. We’re a talented bunch here.’
Okay, Joseph, you don’t have to look directly at me while you’re saying that, you know.
‘No doubt about it!’ Nadia adds, in a slightly hectic voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine, like Amisha says.’
‘Mmmm,’ I half-heartedly respond.
Oh God, I do wish they’d stop looking at me like that. I feel like a dog that’s going to be put down.
I can only take ten or so minutes of this before I decide it’s time to leave for the day. The others seem happy to hang around for a bit and continue to indulge in a combination of speculation and navel-gazing, but I’ve decided that I need to go home and climb into a bottle of wine.
Day drinking is not a habit I want to get into, but I think – given today’s events – I can be forgiven.
Back down in the car park, I hurry over to the Mercedes as fast as I can. I just want to get out of here for the day. Partially to get cosy with that bottle of Chardonnay, but also because I really do need to go and find my CV – wherever it’s lurking on my laptop – and start the annoying and stressful process of sprucing it up.
The second I turn the ignition key, the car gives me an enormous clobberdy-bang. I’m a lot more worried about the implications of this now. It’s one thing to have a faulty car when you have a job that can pay for repairs, but being unemployed with a clobberdy-bang brings a whole new level of terror.
I pull out of the car-parking space, my brain afire with dark and worrying thoughts.
As I hit the exit, I am forced to slam on my brakes once again, as I see a car appear to my left. It’s a bloody Tesla – and those things are most definitely silent but deadly. They can creep up on you without you even knowing about it, thanks to their hushed battery-powered engines. I hate them with an absolute passion.
Guess who’s driving it?
Go on . . .
It won’t be hard.
Yes. That’s right.
It’s Hugh Firmly Blittingstool. He’s come to bask in my misery.
I jest, of course. The man driving the Tesla is Nolan Reece.
He looks at me with alarm through his windscreen as he slams on his own brakes.
So, that’s twice I’ve nearly managed to crash into him today. I’m doing so very, very well with my life.
I offer another one of my patented ‘Ellie Cooke is sorry for being so Ellie Cooke today’ apology smiles, and hold up a hand to acknowledge my driving error.
As if on cue, the Mercedes gives me a clobberdy-bang so huge and loud that it nearly shakes the fillings out of my teeth.
The black cloud of toxic emissions that blanket the car immediately afterwards smells so bad that I know I’m going to have to drive the stupid car straight to the nearest garage, instead of going home to open that bottle of wine.
Nolan Reece watches this happen from the confines of his ultra-clean, ultra-environmentally friendly car, with a look on his face that can only be described as ‘perplexed’.
He should probably just jump out and hand me my P45 now. It’d save us all a great deal of time and effort.
Instead, he gives me a stilted wave, and accelerates silently out of the car park, causing the black cloud to disperse as his car passes mine.
The black cloud around my Mercedes, I should point out – not the one in my head.
I sit there for a few moments, gathering myself.
This could not have gone any worse if I’d just clubbed a baby seal to death in front of my new boss, and then set fire to his Tesla.
I don’t see any way of pulling myself back from the brink here.
. . . but I’m going to bloody well try, anyway. That fear of the unknown will make me.
I will do anything to stay on at Viridian PR. Better the devil you know than the job interview you don’t.
But first, it’s time to sort out the clobberdy-bang, while I still have the money to do so.
That should make me feel a little better about myself.
And once the clobberdy-bang in my car is fixed, maybe I can come up with a plan to fix the clobberdy-bang in my life.
Yes.
That’s the way to think about it. Be positive. Be hopeful. Be proactive. Be—
CLOBBERDY-BANG.
Oh, for the love of an environmentally conscious god . . .
Chapter Two
DYING TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE
Okay, I have to think of a plan now – a good one.
A way to keep my job at Viridian PR, and solve the second clobberdy-bang in my life.
The first cost £750 to fix . . . which was as painful as you’d imagine. I was assured by the mechanic that it had something to do with my gearbox synchromesh. Given my knowledge of cars, he could have said it was down to my bogbox winkywonk and I would still have forked out the cash. Car repairs generally have to be taken on trust, which is why they can be so stressful to sort out.
Still, at least I had a nice man to sort out the problem in the car for me. There’s no one who can sort out the problem that is my job.
Nope. That task is solely down to me, and the only plan I can come up with to fix it is one I don’t feel comfortable with in the slightest.
I’m going to have to butter up Nolan Reece as much as possible . . . as fast as possible. I literally have days before my goose is cooked, so I need to do something big, obvious and impressive to get on his good side, and wipe away the appalling first impression I gave of myself.
Now, I’m not going to lie. I did briefly think about trying to seduce him.
I can do sexy perfectly okay, thank you so very much – provided I have enough time to organise things properly. The knicker and bra set Robert bought me from Vicky’s Secret is still in very good condition, and I’m pretty sure I can still get it on, if I only eat dust for a couple of weeks. And Nolan Reece is unconventionally handsome, as we’ve already noted. The consumption of dust could end up being entirely worth it.
But I dismissed that idea almost as soon as it came into my head. First, what kind of message would I be sending to womanhood if I debased myself like that? Not a good one, that’s what.
And second – for all I know, Nolan Reece is in a happy relationship with another woman . . . or he’s gay . . . or celibate . . . or he might have a knackered penis. I simply do not have the time to find any of these things out.
And who wants to force themselves into a pair of pants that feel like they’re garrotting your undercarriage, and a bra that stops you breathing, if the target in question stays resolutely floppy throughout?
Not this lady, I can tell you.
With that line of attack firmly ruled out, I’m truly stumped. I just can’t think of another way of improving my situation.
. . . actually, though, thinking about it, I do have a nice man who can help me with my second clobberdy-bang – my ever-so-reliable and sensible brother, Sean. He’s a problem solver. And he’s very good at it. I should know, he’s been helping me with mine for decades.