agency, Potters, in a triumphant cloud, with a loud and boozy champagne send-off, then, within days of joining a temp agency, got a job at Yes! Productions, covering someone’s maternity leave.
She pushed open the door there now. The trendy reception area always met her with a pepper and ginger biscuit-infused room spray that made her sneeze. She’d suffered it all week and had just about had enough of it.
‘Morning, Imogen.’
‘Ach-oo! Sorry. Morning, Fred.’
She always had to show her pass, everyone did, no matter how long they’d worked there. Fred once refused to let Marge the cleaner in, because she’d forgotten hers, and she’d worked there for ten years. It was an independent production company. They made sitcoms and the occasional gardening programme for the BBC.
As she walked to her desk, a formidable figure was lurking.
‘When you’re ready, Imogen.’
‘Yes, Carolyn.’
Carolyn Boot. Tyrant was way too mild a word for her.
Carolyn disappeared into her office. Imogen would follow, in approximately one minute, once she’d taken her coat off, to have her Daily Diary Meeting with her. It was Friday the 13th, but every day was unlucky for Imogen at this job.
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