work could tell that a subtle change has come over me lately, it seems I’m very much mistaken. Early the next morning, I’m at my desk, scanning down through the ad pages for next weekend’s Culture section. Yet another God-awful task that falls to the senior editor; it seems the T. Rexes on the floor above me in their infinite wisdom have decreed that on top of everything else my job entails, I now have to comb through each and every single one of the ads we place in all editions, to make sure that they’re ‘fully in keeping with the tone, image, and content of the national paper of record.’ Like they thought people would ring up the Post classifieds wanting to sell vibrators or second hand dildos. As if I hadn’t quite enough apart from this shite-ology to be getting on with, but that’s a whole other story.
(Shite-ology. New hyphenated word I’ve picked up from Jake. Not to self; stop using it in work.)
Anyway, it’s barely eleven a.m. when there’s a gentle tapping at my office door and in comes Rachel; lovely, cool, calm Rachel who in all the years we’ve been working together I’ve never seen act with anything other than Prussian efficiency and unfailing politeness to one and all around her. Rachel that would nearly put a debutante just out of a Swiss finishing school to shame.
And now she’s in front of me, sobbing, actually sobbing, hot tears spouting out of her poor, bloodshot red eyes and trembling like a shock victim.
I’m instantly on my feet and over to the girl like a bullet, gently putting my arms around her and almost cradling her, the way I cradle Lily whenever she’s heavy with sleep, into the chair opposite my desk.
‘What? What is it, tell me what’s wrong?’ I ask her, rubbing my arms up and down her shoulders, the way you see coastguards doing with swimmers who’ve narrowly survived drowning.
‘It’s H-H-Harry,’ is all I can get out of her, between gulps of tears. Harry, I remember is her boyfriend, and dad to her little girl, who’s only about six months older than Lily.
‘Tell me, pet. Tell me everything you can.’
God love the girl, but it takes roughly ten minutes to get the whole story out of her, she’s that distraught she’s having difficulty putting two sentences together. Meanwhile, I whirl efficiently all around her; getting Kleenex, fishing a bottle of Rescue Remedy from the bowels of my handbag and sticking my head out the door to grab a passing intern, telling her to run across the road to Slattery’s Bar and not to come back without a good, decent shot of brandy.
Back to poor Rachel, who seems to be breathing that bit easier now.
‘I know I sh-shouldn’t even be taking up your time like this, Eloise,’ she stammers, ‘… And I’m so sorry to do this to you, but it’s just that, that …’
‘Shhh, it’s OK. You can tell me. That what, love?’
‘I’ve … I’ve come to hand in my notice. I’m so sorry to let you down, but I can’t go on like this any more. I just can’t.’
‘Don’t be so daft,’ I tell her softly, perching down on the ground beside her. ‘You’re going absolutely nowhere until you tell me exactly what’s wrong with you, and with Harry too, for that matter. Tell me. Come on, we’ve known each other a long time and you can tell me anything. We can talk about your wanting to leave later. First fill me in on whatever’s wrong with you, because that to me is far more important.’
My office phone and mobile ring simultaneously and keep ringing and I completely ignore both of them. Just keep looking at her, waiting on her, willing her to talk as soon as she’s ready to. She looks at me in dull surprise at my not rushing off to deal with the calls, seemingly astonished at my even giving her the time of day. But something in my eyes must convince her that the tiger-blooded dragon boss of old has softened a bit because, when the shot of brandy arrives and when I’ve made her knock it back in a single gulp, the colour slowly starts to seep back into her cheeks and finally, she starts to tell me in broken sentences exactly what’s wrong.
Harry’s broken up with her, it seems. They’re together nearly five years, have a gorgeous little girl called Molly, and the bastard announces to her just this morning that, quote, ‘I can’t do this any more, I need to be with someone more committed to me.’ This, by the way, communicated –wait for it – via email.
And that’s not all, it seems. Even though he was made redundant from his job in an IT firm about six months ago and has basically been financially dependent on poor Rachel ever since, he still had a go at her for putting in such long hours, claiming that not only was Molly growing up barely knowing her own mother but that it put unfair pressure on him being the only caregiver and having to run the whole house by himself.
An accusation that stung me like a bleeding viper, I’ve had it levelled at my own head so many times in the past, by the long string of nannies who’ve all walked out on me. Makes me sick to my stomach that any woman should be punished and accused of bad parenting, just for having no choice but to work hard to keep the show on the road.
‘BASTARD!’ I keep saying over and over again, as my hot little heart pumps into righteous overdrive and a searing fury floods through my veins. ‘Cowardly, bloody, bastard!’
‘I’m so sorry Eloise,’ says Rachel, shakily getting up to leave. ‘I shouldn’t even be bothering you with all this when you’re so busy, but now you can see why I’ve no choice but to hand in my notice. He’s gone, he’s really gone, so I’ll have to work far fewer hours on account of Molly and that’s no good in my job, is it? You need an assistant that’s here all the hours that you are. It’s not fair on you otherwise. So, so, you see, that’s pretty much it for me … Isn’t it? I’ll have to leave. Won’t I?’
Another fresh bout of sobs here, sending me flying off to find yet more Kleenex, and shoving them in front of her.
‘Rachel,’ I say, levelling with her. ‘If I ask you a straight question, will you give me a straight answer?’
She nods weakly.
‘Is that what you want? Do you really want to walk?’
Then I wryly throw in, ‘Am I honestly that much of a troll queen to work for?’
‘No! Not at all! And you know I’ve never listened to what everyone else …’
She stops herself just in time.
‘Right then. Here’s what we’re going to do,’ I tell her, all businesslike. ‘If you want to stay on as my assistant, nothing would make me happier. But as of today we’re drawing up a whole new contract for you. For starters, I’m cutting your hours right back …’
She looks at me in horror, but I cut her off ‘… with absolutely no corresponding cut in your salary whatsoever. For God’s sake Rachel, you’re here as long as I am, you’re like my right hand and not once in all those long years, to my shame, have I ever given you a single pay rise or promotion. I’ll designate one of our interns to deputise for you so you can work a normal forty-hour week. That way, at least you can be home by six every evening to be with Molly.’
She looks up at me, mouth open, the very cartoon picture caption of the word stunned.
‘Eloise – really? I mean, are you being serious?’
‘Never more serious in my life. And another thing. When’s the last time you took a holiday?’
She has to
