exhale as I urge my body to move faster towards the main road. If I miss my bus, there’ll be a twenty-minute wait for the next and bursting into the office late is not the sort of impression I want to make on this of all days. I have my autumn festival file tucked under my arm, but it’ll be of little use if I don’t catch the 8.22 bus.
I’m almost at the main road when I hear the distant rumble of a double decker bus. Gah! Pushing myself and praying I don’t break an ankle in the stupid boots, I make a dash for it, gasping and rasping for breath as I sprint towards the bus stop. Yes! There’s a sizeable queue waiting to board, giving me a few more valuable seconds to reach the stop. This must be a good sign of things to come, surely, even if it means I’ll probably have to stand for the entire fifteen-minute journey.
I make it onto the bus, sweating despite the chill, and collapse onto the one remaining seat at the back. I take the available seat as another good sign of things to come, even if it is the seat in the middle, which means I spend the next fifteen minutes in fear of flying down the aisle of the bus every time we turn a corner or brake. I’m not catapulted from my seat (a third Good Sign) and the traffic is pretty smooth going (Good Sign #4), meaning I have plenty of time to get from the Piccadilly Gardens bus stop to the office without breaking another sweat. This is definitely a Good Day. I’m feeling so positive, I practically skip along Lever Street and offer my cheeriest of hellos to the barista as I step into my favourite independent coffee shop. I order three coffees – a gingerbread soya cappuccino, a cinnamon latte with whipped cream and brown sugar, and a salted caramel mocha. Spending my hard-earned cash on fancy coffees is a big indulgence for me, but I feel a Good Day like today deserves it, and so I barely whimper as I slot my debit card into the card reader and jab my pin into the number pad.
Carrying three hot coffees – even if they are helpfully slotted into a cardboard tray – means I can no longer skip, but my mood is still lifted as I make my way to the office. Vanessa Whitely Events is located on the third floor of a converted red-bricked Victorian terrace and while the outside has kept its historical charm, the inside is airy and modern, with exposed brickwork, shiny white desks and chrome lighting fixtures in every conceivable place. The reception area has huge tub chairs in a rainbow of colours, and I can still taste the fear of waiting to be called for my interview three years ago every time I step inside.
‘Morning.’ Emma smiles brightly from behind the reception desk, raising a hand in greeting as I elbow my way through the glass doors. ‘Need a hand?’
Emma is one of the loveliest people I know. Permanently chirpy and always willing to listen to me moan about Vanessa’s lack of faith in me, or Sonia’s latest catty remarks, or life in general, Emma is often the only thing that keeps me going at work. She isn’t just a work colleague; she’s my best friend and I’d be lost without her. I felt a bit out of place when I stepped into the big, wide world of events management alone, but Emma was like a life jacket from the moment she arrived behind the reception desk two years ago, propping me up with friendship and gin.
‘I’m okay.’ I dodge out of the way of the door, allowing it to close behind me as I right the tray of coffees that is slipping from my grasp. ‘Just about.’ I scamper towards the reception desk to relieve myself of the tray and the file that I’ve somehow managed to keep tucked under my arm. ‘Cinnamon latte?’ I de-wedge one of the coffees and hold it out to Emma, whose eyes widen as she grasps the cardboard cup.
‘You’re the best! I am so in the mood for a decent coffee.’
I give a one-shouldered shrug, as though the cost of the coffees hasn’t taken a scary chunk out of my weep-inducingly low bank balance. I really need this promotion. ‘I thought we could do with a treat.’
‘Amen to that.’ Emma raises her cup before she takes a sip, closing her eyes to savour the taste. ‘God, yes. I need this today. Vanessa’s already on the warpath and it isn’t even nine o’ clock.’
‘She is?’ My stomach churns. This information doesn’t bode well for me. I need Vanessa to be in good spirits – or at least neutral spirits – when I present my ideas to her. If she’s in a bad mood, she’s more likely to toss my file aside to ‘take a look at later’ – which never happens – or dismiss them outright.
Bugger.
‘Any idea what’s set her off?’ If I can smooth things over, I could nudge my chances of promotion back on track. Emma is the font of all knowledge when it comes to Vanessa Whitely Events; she usually knows what’s happening and when and to whom, so if you want up-to-date gossip, she’s your woman. But Emma shakes her head.
‘No idea, sorry. She stormed in here earlier, yelling into her mobile, but I couldn’t get the gist of it.’
‘Maybe this will help calm her down.’ I pick up the tray of coffees. ‘Wish me luck.’ Slipping my file of ideas under my arm, I head towards Vanessa’s office, chin held high in determination as I rap on the door.
Vanessa is sitting behind her desk, her face pinched as she rests her chin on a clenched fist. Her mobile has been tossed aside, landing on the edge of a stack of paper so that it’s being propped up, face-down, on the desk. Her hair – unusually for Vanessa – is looking a bit bedraggled, as though she’s been clutching at her head in despair, disrupting her sleek up-do. Do I mention it? Earn myself a few extra brownie points for my honesty and for saving Vanessa from looking anything but flawless? Or will that put me in the firing line? Perhaps it’s best to keep quiet, just until I’ve established why Vanessa is so clearly distressed, if there is a way I can help, and if my mentioning the state of her hair will be a help or hindrance to my cause.
‘Well? What do you want?’
I’m still dithering by the door, but Vanessa’s bark spurs me into action. Stepping fully into the room, I march purposefully across the large office, noticing with alarm that a pot of pens has been swiped from the desk and is currently strewn across the polished floor. This is not good.
‘Coffee.’ My voice comes out all squeaky, so I clear my throat and try again. ‘I brought you a coffee. Soya cappuccino. Gingerbread.’ I clear my throat once more and step over the scattered pens. ‘A gingerbread soya cappuccino.’
Vanessa’s shoulders rise as she heaves in a breath through flared nostrils. I suspect she’s either going to burst into tears with gratitude or roar that a gingerbread soya cappuccino is no longer her coffee of choice. I’m not sure which option I’d prefer, but it’s a third option that Vanessa plumps for, releasing her breath with a heavy, disdainful sigh. She snatches a cardboard cup from her desk and wafts it at me.
‘I already have a coffee, thank you very much.’ Although Vanessa is using pleasantries, the words are fired at me with a sneer.
‘I could tell Vanessa needed a pick-me-up this morning.’ Sonia’s voice makes me jump, and the file slips from under my arm, joining the mess of pens on the floor. I didn’t realise my colleague was in the office, skulking in the corner. She smiles sweetly – almost patronisingly – at our boss. ‘She’s having a tough time.’
‘Oh?’ Dumping the coffee tray on Vanessa’s desk, I crouch down to pick up the file. Luckily, none of the pages have come loose. ‘Anything I can help with?’
Sonia snorts, and when I steal a look behind me, she’s shaking her head at Vanessa while rolling her eyes. She emerges from her corner by the window and perches on the edge of Vanessa’s desk, as though they’re the best of buddies. Equals. Sitting in
