Id been watching the morning rush from my desk at The Gazette, and I knew Blythe was in a panic. Shed already missed the bus to the office and, if she didnt squeeze past Peter Mitchell before the chief editor, shed have to draft an apologetic note explaining how the employee of the month could possibly arrive looking like a wreck.
Peter Mitchell was a man who adored paperwork. Explanations, confirmations, congratulatory letters, apologies, shopping lists you name it, he hoarded it. No one could guess why bureaucracy fascinated him so much.
His wife, Olivia, constantly supplied him with grocery lists that slipped out of the pockets of his trousers. Colleagues fed him endless memos and errands. Peter seemed perfectly content.
Why do you put up with this? Emma, Blythes mate, would rant in the little café where she worked. The café sat half a block from the flat the two girls shared, and Emma swore there was no better job. Good heavens! If you keep this up the council will clear the woods for a new highway! Send him an email its modern and ecofriendly.
Blythe sighed. You dont get it, Emma. Hes made of paper. It sticks out of every pocket and pours from his notebook. He seems to relish it. Hes in his element, so to speak. And he pays us well and never drags us to those absurd Saturday volunteer days.
Emma nodded, remembering how every April the café owner forced staff to repaint the exterior and wash the walls a dusty, sneezeinducing chore. The excuse of no Saturday cleanups suited her perfectly, so the topic was never raised again.
Now, if Blythe didnt dash ahead of Peter, even for a split second, shed be stuck writing that explanation. What would she even put in it? Oh, there would be a full page of points
Shed overslept because the alarm had died, just as the whole house had gone dark. She and Emma scrambled, mopping up a puddle beneath a leaking fridge, gulped cold oatmeal prepared the night before, and managed a hasty wash of their faces thank heavens the tap still ran, though the water was chilly. After that came the usual womens bits: mascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.
Emmas jacket was crumpled. Apparently, a stray cat named Whiskers had leapt onto it from the freezers cold puddle, burrowed in, and then, in a panic, was kicked by Emmas slipper, sending him tumbling onto his fluffy rear. The cat, insulted for the first time, bolted to the balcony to sulk.
Emma was hunting for another jacket because the iron was broken.
All of this ate up precious minutes. By the time they realised the clock, it was already late.
I helped Blythe fix Emmas coat and wish her a good day, then she bolted onto the steps of the departing bus, squeezing into the crowd like jam into a jar. A tall gentleman tried to brace her against the doors, but when she glanced at him, his caring hand vanished with the man whod offered it.
She dodged traffic lights, avoided bumping into railings and steering clear of pickpockets in a crowd anything could happen.
If she got caught late, shed lose the bonus shed been counting on: a tiny trip to the seaside, a new microwave, and a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus, and Blythe had earned it fair and square. One slip could ruin it all.
She kept her stride, trying not to dart ahead of the bus. She couldnt overtake it, but the illusion of exertion kept her warm.
Right in front of her, a bloke grabbed the handrail, his jacket sleeve flashing a glimpse of a round watch with several hands and dials.
She stared, bewildered, at the hours and minutes, trying to look away but the eyes kept drifting back.
Running late? the young man asked, sympathy in his tone. Its a dreadful day, isnt it?
Yes, Blythe answered, pressing her bag tighter against her already sweaty side.
You know what they say, he grinned. Where youre expected, you cant be late.
Blythe pursed her lips. Normally shed have rolled her eyes, but with the bonus on the line she kept quiet.
My names Charlie, he continued, waiting for a reply that never came. And you?
Im Olivia Thompson, a woman in a light coat and lace gloves interjected, pushing Charlie aside with a generous bust. She smelled faintly of perfume, her lips a shocking shade of beetroot.
She brushed past, accidentally grazing Charlies sleeve with those beetred lips.
Sorry! she muttered. Its a stormy day!
Thats when Blythe recognised her: the bosss wife. No one had ever seen Olivia in person, nor had her photograph ever adorned Peters office walls, but everyone knew her voice over the intercom.
Shed been shouting about a newspaper article earlier that morning. Peter, this story about mammoths is past its prime! Someone threw the paper into the bin, and a vagrant
Her tirade continued, unfiltered, while the bewildered staff member whod unwittingly become a witness faded into the hallway shadows.
Whats the verdict? a colleague asked.
Its a disaster. Your mammoth piece didnt go well, Grey, a sarcastic reporter quipped. My porcelain exhibition, though, melted the heart of that crocodile lady!
A snort followed a young man named Grey, then Peters booming voice demanded everyone back to the conference room.
Olivia never actually worked at the paper; she managed everything from phone calls to meetings in cafés, overseeing the familys affairs. Shed been the one who, years ago, nudged Peter into the editors chair through a friend named Phil, a bigwig in the publishing world whod always admired her energy.
Phil, youve got to sort this! Peters not a child anymore, hes taking on big things. Find him a spot, will you? Ill take you out for dinner as a thankyou, Olivia cooed, waving a hand.
Phil promptly called the Gazette, and the secretary typed up a promotion order.
When Peter first entered his sleek, oakpaneled office as chief editor, he muttered, Olivia, I cant run this machine! Its above my pay grade. He quieted when tea and scones arrived.
Olivia surveyed the junior staff, gave Peter a reassuring pat, and said, Dont worry, Pete. Well manage. She was the silent cardinal behind the scenes. Peter, in secret, would phone her for article ideas, not because he lacked judgment but because he valued her opinion. She, meanwhile, endured chronic stomach ailments, often in hospital, yet still ran the Gazettes little empire.
The mammoth story, pushed in place of a piece on daylightsaving bulbs, became pageone fodder, much to Olivias displeasure. She demanded explanations from anyone who slipped even a minute late, and Peter, flustered, would read those notes aloud to her, sugarcoating as needed.
One day, Olivia burst out at Peter, If you keep shielding them, Im leaving! She slammed the phone, and Peter, nerves frayed, stormed to the staff kitchen, devouring forbidden pastries and tea without sugar, then called in the usual culprits for explanations.
When the paperwork landed on his desk, he read it to Olivia, embellishing, apologising, and eventually she softened, sparing any dismissals.
Later, as the tram (or rather the doubledecker bus) screeched to a halt, a young man pressed his cheek against Blythes, his stubble ruffling her skin.
What the hell? Blythe hissed.
Im terribly sorry. As the weather forecast warned he muttered, glancing at Olivia, who snapped, Wheres the list? Remember, the drycleaning, the masseurs address, the order for my sisters nieces She thrust a crumpled note into Peters pocket. He nodded, eyes meeting Blythes, pleading silently that she keep this embarrassing scene between them.
From then on, there was a secret they shared.
Peter tolerated Olivias whims, her control, her petty tyrannies because, in his mind, she was the one whod lifted him from a humble reporter to chief editor. He loved her, and she, despite her domineering ways, kept the Gazette afloat.
When Olivia suddenly asked, Is that journalist of yours still around? she pointed at Blythe, the girl whod just snagged the bonus. Blythes eyebrows shot up, then she scowled.
Where? Oh, Oliver, youve got it all wrong! Blythes already on a dream assignment, Peter mumbled, waving a folder. Olivia, hand over the briefcase, please.
Olivia scrambled for scattered papers while Charlie nudged Blythe toward the exit. She gave a grateful nod.
What a woman! What a bulldozer! Charlie remarked, halfadmiring, halfsarcastic, as he helped Blythe out of the bus, then hoisted a weary Peter onto the pavement, gave Olivia a flirty wave, and sent a kiss into the air.
Olivia snapped a finger at him, turning away.
Right, Im off, the young man said, heading toward the highrise on the right.
And Im off, Blythe replied, gesturing toward the lefthand alley.
Peter shuffled beside them, unsure whether to say goodbye or just drift away.
See you later! the young man called, grinning. What a lady what a bulldozer
Dont take it to heart, Blythe, Peter whispered as he passed her, let what you saw stay between us, okay? No judging, no mockery. We all do the best we can. He added, Without Olivia, Id be nothing.
Blythe wanted to retort that shed made him a nothing, but she held back, meeting his sad, pleading gaze.
Im a tombstone, Peter, he said. Lets go. Could I slip in ahead of you? Or maybe through the back door? Whatever works.
Blythe, flustered, asked, What happened to you?
Peter chuckled, Just the usual. Ive got a cat, Whiskers, who cant be scolded. Hes a victim of circumstance.
Whiskers? Whos scolding him? she asked.
Someone, Peter sighed. Hes our beloved mascot.
Blythe kept talking about the power outage, Emmas jacket, the cat, the puddle under the fridge. Peter listened, smiling, his shoulders loosening, his face flushing, as if the conversation were a breath of fresh air. He even bought them both a coffee and a scone.
A call from Olivia interrupted, asking what he was doing in a coffee shop after a notification about his petty expenses. He silenced his phone, slipped it into his pocket.
Right then, he said, you go ahead, Ill follow.
He would wander the streets, arriving at work only by lunch. He hadnt divorced Olivia, hadnt changed his ways, just breathed in a full lung of life and kept going.
That evening, Olivia, exhausted and scented with a mixture of perfumes, came home and realized how much she missed him. She loved him, damned if she didnt. Like a cat, she was attached.
Blythe, after publishing a couple of smashing pieces on Maya mysteries, left the office late, utterly spent. Creative souls run on empty sometimes.
Blythe! Ive been waiting for you, a voice called from the shadows. It was Charlie, holding a bright, mismatched bouquet. I wasnt sure which flowers you liked, so I grabbed a mix.
She smiled, accepted the blooms, and said, Shall I walk you out? I may be a pest, but after that kiss on the bus I feel Ive earned a little courtesy.
She frowned, then decided to keep both the flowers and Charlie.
They strolled down the lamplit street, laughing, admiring shop windows glowing with colourful bulbs, feeling that something good still lay ahead.
Your boss is a wonderful man, Charlie said. As they say, a woman makes a man.
Blythe shrugged. To each his own.
He loves cats, Charlie added quietly.
That makes him a decent fellow, Blythe agreed. Hope he stays healthy.
They hurried to the bus, chuckling for no particular reason, simply because everything felt alright.
