Upon our initial meeting and introducing herself, your salesperson, Rose Denton, touched my bicep, remarking that it was ‘the best bulge I’ve seen all day’. Despite the inappropriateness of the comment, I continued with the meeting, hoping we would at least talk business.
In fairness, we did discuss the ways in which your services could help my company grow, however the professional nature was not to last.
After mentioning a price, Ms Denton again touched my bicep, remarked that she could ‘teach me a thing or two’. She added that if we ‘make a regular thing of it’, she would be able to offer a better price. When I replied that I had a girlfriend, she responded by saying that it was ‘only a bit of mutual fun’.
Needless to say, I did not take her up on the offer. I have no idea if this is a one-off occurrence, or something that happens regularly but, as one employer and director to another, I thought you would want to know.
Despite this, I have not ruled out working with you in future. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I would much rather do business directly with you. Please call if you wish. I have not mentioned prices here because I was unclear whether Ms Denton was quoting officially, or speaking out of turn. If the lower end of what she quoted is correct, I believe we could still do business.
Declan signs off with his name and phone number but that’s it. I read the email twice but it’s so different from my own memory – from what actually happened – that it’s like he’s writing about a different person. I stare at my name – Rose Denton, Ms Denton – and it’s me. But it’s another me. No. It’s not me.
‘I didn’t do this,’ I say.
Graham takes the page and scans it himself.
‘I was a professional,’ I add. ‘If anything, he was the strange one. We shook hands at the end and he held on for a little too long.’
‘You never said anything.’
And this is the problem. Of course I never said anything because, to a degree, this sort of behaviour is normal. Small instances like this – a touch on the arm or thigh, a hand on the nape of a person’s back – happen all the time. And to whom would I report it? Graham propositioned me himself while we were away at that conference and we were both married.
‘It didn’t feel like much at the time,’ I say, hating myself for it. Perhaps if I mentioned this sort of thing every time it happened, it would stop happening. ‘This isn’t true,’ I add. ‘Almost none of it. We talked business, we swapped business cards, he said he’d be in contact and that was it.’
‘So nothing untoward occurred?’
‘No!’
‘I have to ask.’
He says that as if he really does. As if he’s giving a political grilling, not talking to someone who’s worked for him for more than a decade.
‘No,’ I repeat, more firmly this time. The confusion is becoming full-on anger.
Graham presses back into his chair, the damning page of lies in his hand. He scans it once more and purses his lips.
‘He’s doing this for a lower price,’ I say. ‘It’s in the final line. If you call him, he’ll quote something below what I said and claim that was the special rate. He told me it was a small business and his office was empty. I bet he can’t really afford it.’
Graham finally puts the page down.
‘It would be a new client for you…’
I stare at him and it takes me a second to get the words out: ‘Are you joking?’
‘Do I look like I am?’
He definitely doesn’t. His eyebrows are arched down, meeting in the middle. He’s not an attractive frowner.
I know what he’s going to say a moment before says it. He glances away from me towards the door and then spins a quarter-turn in his chair so that he can admire the photos of himself on the wall. I follow his gaze, focusing on a sign that reads: ‘ATTACK EACH DAY’. This is, presumably, the type of meaningless bilge he learns on his weekend retreats. If attacking each day means spending hours at a time alone in an office, then he’s nailed it.
‘I’m going to have to stop you seeing clients,’ he says. There’s a brief pause and then he adds: ‘Temporarily.’
‘How temporarily?’
‘I actually have called Mr Irons. He mentioned contacting the ombudsman with the complaint…’
‘Did he ask about a discount?’
Graham doesn’t answer, which is as good as a big, fat ‘yes’. Of course he did.
‘Did he actually contact the ombudsman, or just mention it?’
Graham shakes his head. ‘I can’t risk it. I’m sure it’ll all go away in a week or so.’
‘You mean after you’ve agreed to his price. You know that’s blackmail.’
He doesn’t react. ‘You can continue to work from your desk, use the phones, and so on.’
‘What’s the point? If I set up any leads, someone else will end up getting the sale.’
He throws both hands up, palms to the ceiling. ‘It is what it is. Leave it with me. I hope it’ll all be sorted soon enough.’
I stand a little too abruptly, knocking the chair over. I should storm out, slam a few doors, tell him what I really think of him.
But I don’t.
With Dan and me separating, I need this job more than ever. I’ll have bills to pay, food to buy. Olivia doesn’t make much to contribute and I don’t want her money anyway. Dan might pay his part of the mortgage but we’ve not got that far yet. I don’t know what’s going to happen – and being unemployed would only make things worse.
I only realise I’m clenching my fists when I feel the nail on my index finger pierces the skin of my palm.
I don’t call Graham an arsehole and I don’t slam the door. I do pick up the chair and put it back into place. I’m about to stomp out when Graham stops me by saying my name.
‘What?’ I reply.
‘Don’t even think about contacting Mr Irons,’ he says firmly.
‘I wasn’t—’
‘I mean it. If you so much as text him, I’ll have to fire you. I can’t risk him complaining to the ombudsman.’
I try to think of a smart comeback but don’t have one. I say nothing, spinning and walking out before returning to my desk. My palm isn’t bleeding but there’s a small pink slice in the base of my thumb from where I pinched it.
Natasha has mercifully stopped wittering on about her night out but I dig out a pair of earphones, plug them into my phone and find something to drown out any future noise anyway.
The rest of the day ticks along with typical humiliation. Claire asks me at one point if everything’s okay – but she’s the only person who talks to me. Graham doesn’t leave his office. All of that is fine by me as I sit and stew. I wonder if the others are talking about me. Laughing about me. It’s the way things go in offices. One person knows and then everyone does. Natasha’s going to love this when she finds out. Innocent or not, I’ll never live this down for as long as I work here.
When I’m sure no one is watching, I register for a couple of jobs websites, though it isn’t encouraging. Part of the problem of living where we do is that there isn’t a lot of industry here. Most of the work is city-based, so there aren’t many jobs to begin with. For the ones that do exist, the company bosses all know one another. It’s a golf-playing private club and to work for one, I’d need a decent reference from another.
Beyond that, there’s so much effort involved. The last time I put together a CV, it was based on one I’d created for school. I’ve let all the career stuff slip and I’d have to start from scratch.
The end of the day cannot come fast enough and, for the first time in a while, I’m literally counting down the minutes. I’m the first out the door when it’s time to go but I’ve not even got to my car by the time the next problem has arisen.
Jason is sitting on my bonnet, casually swinging his legs and smoking a cigarette. He looks up, spotting me and giving a small wave. That happens at precisely the same time as Natasha and Claire leave the office. They stop and Natasha whispers something to Claire I don’t catch. I’m caught in the middle, with little I can do other than hurry to my car.
‘How did you know where I work?’ I hiss.
Jason shrugs and flicks the cigarette butt towards a drain. ‘Ell told me. I came on the bus, then walked for a bit.’