Sophie Whitaker was in a mad dash for the office, late as a schoolrun rabbit. If she didnt slide past the turnstile before the editorinchief, shed be forced to write a fullblown excuse about how the Best Employee of the Month suddenly turned into a tardy mess.
Peter Milner, the editor, adored paperwork. Explanations, confirmations, congratulatory notes, apologies, shopping lists you name it, he hoarded it. No one in the newsroom could figure out why he was such a bureaucratic magnet.
His wife, Olivia Fletcher, constantly slipped him shopping lists from the depths of her handbag. Colleagues fed him endless memos. Everyone was busy, and Peter seemed oddly content.
Why do you put up with this? Poppy, Sophies mate from the nearby café, whined. You work there because theres no better job, right? Honestly, youre practically chopping down the forest with all that paper! Email him instead its modern and ecofriendly.
Sophie sighed. You dont get it, Poppy. Peter is literally made of paper. It sticks out of every pocket and pours out of his notebook. He seems to love it. Hes in his element, as they say. At least he pays well and never forces us into the springtime community cleanups.
Poppys protest softened. Her café boss made everyone repaint the shops fence and wash the walls every April. The paint made her sneeze, the dust made her cough so a break from those chores was a welcome excuse, and the subject was never raised again.
Today, if Sophie didnt slip just a second ahead of Peter Milner without actually overtaking him shed be stuck writing that excuse.
What would she even put in it?
Oh, a list of points would be endless
Shed overslept because the alarm died, along with the whole houses electricity. Then she and Poppy scrambled to mop the puddle under a leaky fridge, wolfed down cold oatmeal that had been sitting since the night before, and managed a quick wash thank heavens the tap still ran, even if the water was chilly. After the bathroom routine came the usual makeup bits: mascara, blush, eye shadow, lipstick.
Poppys jacket was crumpled. Somewhere in the night, the family cat Basil had leapt into a chilly puddle near the freezer, buried himself, and emerged looking like a disgruntled snowball. Basil, offended, fled to the balcony to sulk.
Meanwhile, Poppy was hunting for another jacket because the iron was on the fritz
All of this ate up a ridiculous amount of time. By the time they realized the hour, it was practically midnight.
Sophie, finally dressed and having praised Poppy for a good day, sprinted onto the last step of the departing tram, got jostled like a jellybean in a crowd, and a gentleman tried to shield her from the doors. She gave him a look so sharp that his caring hand vanished along with him.
She could have missed every traffic light, bumped into a railing, or become a pickpockets snack anything can happen in a crush of people!
If Sophie were caught late, shed lose her bonus. The bonus was already earmarked a chunk for a seaside holiday, another for a new microwave, and a bit for a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus and Sophie felt shed earned it. One slip, though, could ruin it all.
Peter Milner, trying not to dart ahead of the tram, strained his legs. He couldnt possibly be any faster, but the illusion of effort is always comforting.
Right in front of Sophie, a young man grasped a handrail; his jacket sleeve slipped, flashing a pair of roundface watches with multiple hands and dials.
Sophie stared at the clocks and minutes, tried to look away, but her eyes kept snapping back.
Running late? the lad asked sympathetically. Its a proper day, isnt it?
Yes, Sophie replied, pressing her bag tighter against her sweaty side.
You know what they say, the lad grinned. Where youre expected, you cant be late.
Sophie pursed her lips. Normally shed nod, but now a coveted microwave and a seaside trip were at stake.
By the way, Im Colin, he said, pausing for a response that never came.
And you are?
Olivia Fletcher, a woman in a light coat and lace gloves stepped in, pushing Colin aside with a generous bust. She smelled faintly of aftershave, her lips painted a bold beetred, as if someone had dabbed them with beet juice.
She brushed against Colins sleeve with those beetred lips.
Sorry! Olivia muttered. Its a stormy day!
Sophies eyes widened this was the bosss wife. Nobody had ever seen Olivia in the office; there were no photos on Peters desk, yet everyone had heard her booming voice over the intercom.
Morning paper, Peter! This story about mammoths is deadweight, you hear? Someone tossed it in the bin, and a tramp
She kept rambling, sprinkling colour on the critique. A junior staff member, caught in the crossfire, vanished into the hallways shadows.
Anything else? his colleagues asked.
Its a disaster. Your mammoths, Simon, didnt impress Aunt Olive! a snide reporter jibed. My porcelain exhibition melted this crocodiles heart!
A slap to Simons nose, a victorious stride from the articles author, then Peters thunderous roar demanding everyone to the conference room.
Olivia never actually worked at the newsroom, but her presence loomed like a ghost in every corner.
The cafeteria ladies muttered, Who does she think she is, critiquing Peter? Theyd heard rumors of the despotic editors spouse a woman who, after a puff of pastry, would call, interrogate, and demand immediate answers.
Olivia pushed her way onto the tram, wrestled a couple of teenagers glued to their phones, and plonked herself beside Peter.
Sorry, were just, Peter stammered, clutching his briefcase to his knee.
Sophie, what are you doing? the girl whispered, shocked to see the infamous Meger up close.
Olivia snatched the briefcase, clicked it shut, and rummaged for keys. Petey, where are the keys? Are you still hiding under the door while I stroll around Harrods with Simmy? Youve lost your mind!
Sophie and the watchguy watched Peters face flush with either embarrassment or shame.
Dont worry, love, the lad said to Sophie. I still dont know your name
The tram jolted; Colin nudged Sophies cheek with his unshaven, pointy chin.
Are you serious? Sophie hissed.
Im terribly sorry. Its truly stormy, as some have noted, Colin shot a sideways glance at Olivia. And my beard two days on the shift left no time to shave.
Sophie, noting his weary, greygreen hue, suggested, You should get some sleep.
Its not the word, Colin replied, Ive got a dog to walk, then home for a cuppa. Thanks for the concern.
Olivia, like a fairytale hag, ranted while shuffling paper: Peter, this is the list of things to pick up from the drycleaner, the address of my masseur, the order for my sisters nieces Remember were going to see them on Sunday? Peter nodded. Right, right
She rifled through the stack, and Peters eyes met Sophies. In his brown gaze lay a plea: keep this humiliating scene between them.
Now they shared a secret, just the two of them.
Why did Peter endure Olivias tyranny? Why tolerate her endless control? Hed been made by her shed spotted his talent at university, married him, and, through her network of uncles and acquaintances, nudged him up the ladder.
Olivia never lifted a finger at the newsroom; she spent her days on phone calls, café meetings, and supervising the familys every move.
Shed been the one, seven years ago, to call Fiona (the former deputy) and push Peter into his current role. Fiona, a media bigwig, was smitten with Olivia, who knew how to use that.
Fiona, get him settled! Hes no longer a kid, hes planning everything. Find him a spot, will you? Olivia cooed, promising a dinner that never materialised.
When the previous editor retired, Fionas secretary typed up a promotion order, and Olivia smiled, satisfied. She never went to the celebratory dinner, citing a migraine, but the hope of a reunion lingered.
Peter, on his first day as editor, entered his new oakpanelled office, panicking. Olivia, I cant manage this machine! Its beyond me!
Olivia surveyed the waitress, chuckled, patted Peter on the shoulder, and declared, Dont worry, love. Not even gods scorch pots. Well manage!
She was the grey cardinal behind the scenes. Peter, unseen, would phone her for story ideas, not because he lacked judgment, but because he respected his wifes taste. She lived his life, suffered from chronic stomach woes, spent weeks in hospital, yet still ran the tiny kingdom of The Daily Ledger.
A story about mammoths, pushed by Simon, inadvertently replaced a piece on daylight bulbs. Peter called Olivia five times, trying to confirm the mammoth angle, but she was off shopping in Harrods.
The mammoth piece splashed on the front page, thrusting its ivory tusks at Olivia. She was not amused.
At Olivias behest, the IT admin gave her access to employee attendance logs. She ranted about tardiness, demanding explanations. Peter tried to smooth things over: Were all human, Olivia. She snapped, Fine, Im leaving. If you protect them, youre a fool! and slammed the phone.
Peter, nerves frayed, bolted to the staff kitchen, scarfed down forbidden pastries, gulped tea without sugar, then summoned offenders for written excuses. He read each excuse to Olivia, sugarcoating, embellishing, then cooed, and she finally relented on dismissals.
He could have walked away, divorced, but hed forgotten how to live solo. Olivia dictated everything: what to wear, what to eat, how to work. He loved her, so he stayed.
At one point Olivia asked, Peter, isnt that the journalist who snagged the bonus? pointing at Sophie.
Sophie, startled, raised an eyebrow, then frowned. Where? Olivia, youve got it wrong! Sophies been dreaming of that bonus for ages, Peter said, shaking his head. Olivia, I must go. Hand over the briefcase, please.
Olivia scrambled to gather the scattered papers; Colin pushed Sophie toward the doors. She thanked him.
What a woman! What a bulldozer! Nicholas, a colleague, remarked, handing Sophie a hand. He helped her out of the tram, then nudged a soggy Peter onto the pavement, waved at Olivia, and sent her a cheeky kiss.
Olivia snapped a finger at him, turned away. Im heading that way, the young man on the right said.
And Im going that way, Sophie replied, pointing down a side alley.
Peter shuffled, unsure whether to say goodbye or just drift off.
Cheerio! Nick grinned at the pair. Now thats a bulldozer! he repeated and departed.
Sophie, hearing Peters soft voice behind her, was told, Dont let what you saw get out. No judging, no mockery. Were all doing the best we can. He added, Without Olivia Id be nothing.
Sophie wanted to retort that shed made him a nothing too, but she caught his sad, pleading glance and stayed silent.
I’m a graveyard, Peter, he said suddenly, Lets go. Can I slip into the office ahead of you? Or perhaps use the back door? he stammered.
Take it easy. Ill tell Les, hell tweak your schedule. We pay for taxis, but Olivias driver fell ill, so were on the tram. Whats your story? Peter asked kindly, taking Sophies elbow.
Sophie recounted the power outage, Poppys ruined jacket, Basils watery adventure, and the frantic mopunderthefridge episode.
Peter listened, smiled, and seemed to relax. He missed a real conversation, the youthful laugh, the cat anecdotes. He remembered his own childhood filled with cats, though Olivia could never stand them.
Dont badmouth Basil, Peter sighed. He acted out of desperation. Hes our little hero. Sophie laughed, Whos cursing him? Hes beloved.
The chat continued, shoulders loosened, faces flushed, and Peter even bought them both a coffee and a scone.
A call from Olivia interrupted, asking about his petty expenses. He silenced his phone, tucked it away, and said, All right, you go ahead, Ill follow.
He wandered the streets, finally arriving at work just in time for lunch. He hadnt divorced Olivia, hadnt turned into a new man, just drew a deep breath and kept on.
That evening, Olivia, exhausted and smelling of every perfume in the house, came home, and Peter realised how much he missed her. He loved her, truly, like a cat loves a sunny windowsill.
Sophie, after churning out a couple of dazzling articles on Mayan mysteries, left the office late, utterly spent the typical fate of creative souls whove missed a nights sleep.
Sophie! a voice called from the shadows. Ive got flowers Im not sure what you like, so I grabbed a mixed bunch. He handed her a colourful bouquet she jokingly called a salad.
She smiled, accepted, and said, Shall I see you off? I may be a bit pushy, but after that tram kiss I feel entitled the young man teased.
Olivia, initially ready to fling the flowers away, decided to keep both the blooms and the chap.
They strolled down the lamplit street, laughed at the flickering shop windows, and felt hopeful that the road ahead could still hold something special, perhaps not quite like Peters odd marriage.
Honestly, your boss is a decent chap, Nicholas said. They say a man is made by his woman without her hed probably still be in his pajamas.
Sophie shrugged. To each his own
The man loves cats, she added quietly.
That makes him a good person, Nicholas agreed. Wish him health.
They ran for the tram, giggling for no reason at all, because everything was just fine.
