Home > Every Trick In The Book

Every Trick In The Book
Author: Liz Hedgecock

Chapter 1

 

 

‘It’s nothing personal, Jemma.’

Jemma sat clutching the edge of the chair, taking it very personally.

‘I can’t say this enough,’ said Phoebe, her boss. ‘It isn’t about the person, it’s about the job. And unfortunately, your job is no longer required.’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Wendy from HR. ‘It’s a business decision.’ Her expression softened a little. ‘I know that doesn’t make it any easier for you.’

Jemma suspected that she was meant to speak at this point, but she couldn’t. All her words had hardened into a tight lump in her throat, and she had a feeling that if she tried to talk, something entirely inappropriate would come out. Not that it mattered now, really.

‘Now, of course we have a redundancy package,’ said Wendy, and Jemma winced. Wendy had explained her presence at the beginning of the meeting, but Jemma had been so shocked that she had barely taken a word in. The R-word made it final.

That morning she had at last finished the report she’d been working on for most of the week, sent it to her boss, then popped out to Pret for her Friday treat: a chicken and avocado sandwich, a slice of carrot cake, and a flat white. Then she re-entered the open-plan office, and all talk ceased.

‘Phoebe asked me to let you know that she’d like to see you,’ said Yvonne, Phoebe’s PA.

‘Oh. OK.’ Jemma changed course and began to walk towards Phoebe’s office.

‘She’s up in Meeting Room Four,’ said Yvonne.

Jemma’s skin prickled. Yvonne was looking at her in a sympathetic sort of way. ‘Is it about the report? I didn’t think she’d have had time to read it yet—’

‘She didn’t say what it was about,’ said Yvonne, though her expression indicated that she knew.

Jemma walked to her desk, put her lunch down, then took the lift to the meeting-room floor. When she saw Yvonne’s expression repeated on her boss’s face, she knew. Wendy’s presence was the icing on the cake. Although suddenly she seemed to have lost her appetite.

Wendy was still talking, and Jemma hastily tuned back in. ‘Now, we’ve decided to let the two years you spent in our graduate scheme count towards your service. That makes four years’ service, so we have calculated your redundancy payment as this.’ She pushed a printout across the glass-topped table. There were various numbers on it, all doing a little dance. Jemma nodded, numb, and pushed the piece of paper towards Wendy.

‘Normally you would have a notice period of one month. However, given that we have sprung this on you rather, we shall put you on gardening leave for that month to enable you to look for alternative employment.’ She smiled. ‘Which I’m sure won’t be long in coming.’

‘No,’ said Phoebe. ‘I shall give you an excellent reference. Your conscientiousness and your diligence have been an asset to the company. I am truly sorry to lose you.’

Jemma’s thoughts were a blur. No more early mornings in the office with an espresso, saying hello to the others as they came in. No more quick drinks after work with Em, which often turned into staying for happy hour, then going for a pizza, then finding herself tumbling into bed happily drunk at a ridiculously early hour. And no time to organise a leaving do.

‘So if I could have your badge, and your door pass?’ Wendy held her hand out expectantly. ‘Oh, and if any of your files aren’t saved on the network drive, could you move those over.’

Jemma bent her head and removed her lanyard. ‘The door pass is behind the badge,’ she said.

Wendy slid it out to check. ‘Excellent,’ she said brightly, and ticked two boxes on the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘Now, I think we’ve covered everything. Would you mind signing here to confirm?’ She pushed the sheet of paper across the desk to Jemma, with a pen.

Jemma signed the paper without reading it. Odd that her signature was just the same as usual. The same neat loops, the same flourish at the end which she had added when she was fourteen, and kept ever since. What now? She looked at her boss for a cue.

‘Would you like me to take you back to the office, Jemma?’ Phoebe asked, still with that same sympathetic expression on her face. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to say goodbye to everyone.’

No, I don’t, thought Jemma. ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said, with a brave smile.

When Jemma returned to the main office, every head was down. ‘Hi,’ she said, wondering if she had become invisible.

There were a few mutters of ‘Hi’ in response, but all heads remained resolutely bent. Em would have said hi, would have smiled; but Em was on leave today, celebrating her boyfriend’s new job.

Jemma felt like shouting at them, asking ‘Why did none of you warn me? You obviously all knew.’ But that would be mean, and she wasn’t a mean person. Just ambitious.

The company’s clean-desk policy meant Jemma had little to pack up. A pen pot, a business-card holder, a small fake cactus. It all fitted, along with her lunch, in a canvas tote bag emblazoned with the company name. The irony of becoming a walking advertisement for the company just now wasn’t lost on her.

‘Bye, everyone,’ she said as she opened the door. She didn’t bother waiting for a reply.

She had to ask Dawn on reception to buzz her out. ‘It’s my last day,’ she said, as explanation.

‘You kept that quiet,’ said Dawn, as Jemma wrote her leaving time in the book. ‘Off to bigger and better things?’

‘Yes,’ said Jemma, and smiled.

***

The city bustled past her as she stood outside the building. I don’t want to go home yet, she thought. If I go home, I’ll probably sit in front of the TV and cry. Besides, the thought of packing into a tube, a sardine like any other, repelled her. I have to do something, she thought, and started walking. She wasn’t entirely sure which direction she was heading in; but she was going west.

Jemma walked past office blocks, and shops, and churches. Gradually the City of London became less and less citified, and she found herself in Covent Garden. But today she wasn’t in the mood for boutiques or quirky little speciality shops, so she carried on to Charing Cross Road. Here everything seemed slower. People flicked through boxes of books on the pavement, or pointed at window displays. People didn’t hurry; they sauntered, or just stood. So far on her journey Jemma had felt like a slow person in a fast world. Here, it was the other way round. She wandered down the street, ready to stop for anything that took her fancy. But the people loitering in front of shops and in doorways made it hard to see, and she moved on.

Then she noticed a little shop set back from the rest, like a shy person at a party. She looked up at the sign. Burns Books, it said, in faded gold on navy. Secondhand Booksellers.

‘Burns Books?’ Jemma said, and laughed. ‘What a silly name for a bookshop!’ In the window were a box set of The Lord of the Rings, a dusty collection of Dickens, and a row of Poldark novels, labelled Two missing. It wasn’t so much a display as an apology. Jemma opened the door, and went in.

A bell above her head jangled, and a man reading 2000 AD jumped and hastily put it down on the counter. ‘Hello,’ he said, frowning. ‘What do you want? You’re not from the council, are you?’ He pushed a hand through his sandy hair.

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