products had to be a perk of the job!
Wrong.
There are no perks at Brinkley’s, unless you count bitchy co-workers and nepotism. Which any sane person wouldn’t.
I make my way past the factory to the Portakabin that houses Brinkley’s office staff. It’s ugly and grey with tiny, useless windows that don’t seem to let in any natural light at all. We have to have the strip lighting on at all times – even during the height of summer – which isn’t good when you’ve got a raging hangover from a night at the pub with your mates.
‘What time do you call this?’
I’ve pushed open the door (reluctantly) and stepped into the office, only to be shrieked at by Katey-Louise. My ears can’t handle her at the best of times, so they aren’t best pleased right now. If they could, my ears would pop off the sides of my skull and bog off home to my bed.
‘You’re late.’ Katey-Louise stalks across the office and stands right in front of me with her hands on her hips. I’d love nothing more than to reach out and place my palm across her stupid little face and push her away. She’s invading my space and I don’t like it. I don’t like her.
Katey-Louise screws up her mouth. ‘I’m reporting you.’
Snitching little witch.
‘Give her a break, Katey-Louise. She’s obviously had an accident.’ My colleague Adam – the only colleague I actually like – gets up from his desk and manoeuvres Katey-Louise out of my personal space and leads me towards my desk, slowly. ‘What happened? Are you ok?’
I want to be brave, really I do. But I’d also quite like a bit of sympathy and a valid excuse for being late (having a hangover doesn’t cut it, apparently). So I sniffle a bit and wince as I sit in my chair. I may be overegging it slightly, but my knee does hurt and there is quite a bit of congealing blood.
‘I was pushed over.’ Not entirely true, but it’s better than admitting I tripped over an uneven bit of pavement. Especially with Katey-Louise hovering.
‘Pushed over?’ Katey-Louise snorts. Which is fitting as she’s a snide little pig. ‘Who by? A school kid? Did they try to steal your dinner money?’
‘No.’ I stick my chin in the air. ‘It wasn’t a school kid. It was a bloke. A big bloke.’ I stretch my arms wide to demonstrate. ‘And he didn’t try to steal my dinner money. He tried to steal my handbag.’
‘You mean that one?’ Katey-Louise juts a finger towards the handbag still hooked over my shoulder.
‘Yes, this one. I said he tried to steal it. But I fought back.’
‘That was very brave.’ Adam crouches down and lifts my leg slightly to get a closer look. I hiss, and not for added drama this time. ‘But you got hurt. Next time just give them your bag.’
No chance. I’ve got my phone in there with the photos from The Saturdays concert Lauren and I went to. I should really get them printed off but I never get round to it. Until I do, the muggers can jog on.
‘Ooh, looks nasty but I think you’ll be ok. We’ll clean it up and put a plaster on.’ Adam smiles at me and I get a bit fluttery in the tummy. Adam Sinclair is more than little bit gorgeous. Before he joined the company as head of social media six months ago, the office was complete dullsville – but it’s funny just how much a handsome face can brighten a place up.
‘You don’t think I need stitches or anything?’ Being patched back together with a needle and thread isn’t a pleasant thought but at least a trip to the hospital will get me out of work for an hour or two. More if A&E’s packed to the rafters.
‘No, I don’t think you’ll need stitches.’ Adam turns to Katey-Louise, who immediately begins fluttering her unnaturally long eyelashes (they really are unnatural. She has them glued to her peepers once a week) and sticks out her chest. Floozy. ‘Can you grab the first aid kit?’
Katey-Louise blinks at him, but in a confused rather than flirtatious manner this time. ‘The first aid kit?’
‘Yep. Green box? Has plasters and bandages in it?’
‘I know what it is.’ Katey-Louise taps Adam playfully on the arm. ‘But where is it?’
‘You don’t know where the first aid kit is?’ Adam rises to his feet, frowning at Katey-Louise when she shakes her head. ‘You’re the office’s first aider. You’re supposed to know where the first aid kit is. It’s your responsibility!’
Katey-Louise steps back, her bottom lip wobbling. ‘Don’t shout at me. It isn’t my fault.’
Adam opens his mouth, then shuts it again. I don’t blame him. There’s no point trying to reason with Katey-Louise. Nothing is ever her fault. Or her responsibility, come to that. As the boss’s daughter, she thinks she can coast through life looking cute and pouting. Which is proving to be true. With no qualifications, experience or knowledge of what the job entails, Katey-Louise is head of marketing at Brinkley’s. It’s a wonder the company hasn’t gone under.
And the nepotism doesn’t stop with Katey-Louise. The whole office – apart from me and Adam – is made up of Brinkleys, from Managing Director Neville Brinkley and his wife Denise, to offspring, Katey-Louise and Jasper. Jasper is head of IT, which is just as laughable as Katey-Louise’s role. Jasper doesn’t know anything IT-related beyond Facebook and Minesweeper. He’s currently sat at his desk, headphones planted over his ears as he clicks away at the Minesweeper grid, grunting every time he clicks on a mine.
I didn’t even realise people still played Minesweeper until Jasper joined our team.
‘Do you know what?’ Adam had stalked across the office, but he’s returning now with the green plastic box. ‘It is your fault. Your dad sent you on that first aid course. The one you asked him to.’
‘That’s because I wanted to go to Liverpool for a few days. One Direction were playing at The Echo Arena and my friend Tansy-Mae managed to get tickets. They were sold out in Manchester.’ Katey-Louise says this as though it explains everything; her dad paying for the course and accommodation (we couldn’t have Katey-Louise travelling there and back daily on the train, could we?) and her return without any first aid knowledge whatsoever.
‘Just make yourself useful and go and make Delilah a cup of tea.’ Adam plonks the green box on my desk and opens it up while Katey-Louise stands there, open-mouthed. I don’t think she knows where the kettle is either.
‘Maybe you could bring me a biscuit too? Sugar is good for shock.’ Yes, I am milking this scraped knee for everything it’s worth. It isn’t every day I’m treated with kindness in the office.
‘Good idea.’ Adam looks at me, his lips twitching. He’s the only decent one in the office. He doesn’t have any authority, which is a shame, but it’s nice having somebody on my side.
‘I think a Fudge Sundae would be best,’ I say. They’re my favourite of the Brinkley’s brand and as rare as hen’s teeth in the Brinkley’s office. Neville is loath to give out freebies – we’re only given a bag of seconds at Christmas.
‘Dad isn’t going to be happy.’ Katey-Louise is calculating whether to do my bidding; to give in and serve me would be humiliating,
