Mabel Smith slipped the headset off and, for a heartbeat, held it in her hand, feeling the faint warmth travel from the cord to her fingertips. The meeting room was getting stifling. On the screen a spreadsheet glowed with colourful columns; someone from the London headoffice droned on about why the third quarter needed a little tightening of the screws, while the arrow on the graph crawled inexorably downwards.
She knew they would soon ask for her opinion. She knew shed have to talk about process optimisation and workload redistribution. The words were already marching through her mind, rehearsed to perfection. Yet her chest felt hollow. All those buzzwords processes, initiatives, horizontal collaboration seemed to live in a vacuum, far from her own reality.
Emily, are you with us? a voice crackled from the screen, a touch sharper than necessary.
Mabel flinched and snapped the headset back onto her ears.
Yes, Im here, she said, clicking open her notes. I see potential in reshuffling tasks between regional teams, but we must keep the human factor in mind, lest we lose peoples motivation.
A handful of tiny windows on the screen bobbed their heads. Someone logged her remark, someone else was already checking their inbox. As she spoke, the phrase human factor floated up with a sly grin. When had she last felt like a person rather than the title Head of Customer Service?
When the call ended, the room emptied quickly. The corridor smelled of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet whiff of pastries from the office vending machines. Mabel lingered by the window. Below, under a dull March sky, traffic rolled by; commuters huddled scarves around their faces as they rushed for the tube. She caught her reflection in the glass a tidy blazer, hair neatly combed, light makeup. Thirtyfour, respectable job, decent salary, a mortgage, and a teenage son. Everything in its proper place.
Inside, however, she felt she was slipping into someone elses skin every morning, not her own.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an old schoolmate: Do you even live there anymore? Always at work. Lets actually do something this weekend. She typed back a halfhearted Cant now, swamped with a project, then deleted it. She finally wrote, Lets catch up on Saturday.
Back at her desk, a small plastic box of needles lay next to the laptop. A week earlier, during a latenight call with the overseas team, shed snagged her blazers lining on a chair. She remembered the travel sewing kit shed bought just in case and stored in the drawer.
She recalled the dimly lit office, the monitors glow cutting into her eyes, and how shed peeled off her blazer to darn the torn lining with large, even stitches. Her hands remembered the feel of a needle, the pull of thread that refused to tangle. As a child shed stitched dresses for her dolls from mums old skirts; at university shed hemmed her own jeans and coat to stand out among the sea of identical jackets.
Her career had begun in a small bank, then moved to the current conglomerate. Evening courses, reports, projects. The sewing machine shed once won as a prize now gathered dust in a bedroom corner. Later, when I have time, shed told herself. Time never arrived.
Ms. Smith, could you step in? the assistant poked her head in. The Manchester team needs a consolidated complaints report for the quarter, preferably by end of day.
Send me the template, Mabel replied, turning back to the screen.
By evening her eyes ached, a dull throb in her temples. She shut the laptop, slipped it into her bag, switched off the lights. In the lift she caught her reflection in the mirror and saw the telltale undereye circles that no concealer could hide.
At home, her son Arthur was chowing down on spaghetti while glued to his tablet. A tin of sauce simmered on the stove, the remnants of the days stress melting away as she shrugged off her coat.
How was school? she asked, pulling off her blazer.
Fine, he replied without looking up.
She set the kettle on, fetched some cheese from the fridge, and dropped her bag with the laptop onto the stool. Numbers, plans, presentations still swirled in her head, as if her whole life were an endless task list in a corporate planner.
Sleep refused her that night. In the dark she heard Arthurs soft snores from the next room, the occasional hum of a distant car outside. She recalled the feel of the needle in her fingers, the straight line of stitches on the blazer lining. She remembered a youthful dream of opening a tiny workshop for mending clothes, a dream shed shelved when marriage and a mortgage demanded stability.
Morning brought an email from HR titled Organisational changes. The body was a parade of dry phrasing about restructuring, consolidating divisions, and streamlining management. An attachment showed a new org chart: her department would be merged into another block, and a new role of Director of Customer Experience would sit above it, occupied by an unfamiliar name.
An hour later she was summoned to the CEOs office. The room smelt of expensive cologne and freshly brewed coffee. The CEO, Mr. Thompson, smiled a strained smile.
Mabel, you know these are tough times, he began. We need to be nimbler, react faster to the market. So weve decided to merge divisions. Your experience is valuable, but He paused. Wed like to offer you a consultant role to the new director. Its technically a step down, but your salary stays the same for six months. After that well review.
She nodded, feeling something settle in her gut. A consultant essentially a placeholder you can push aside at any moment.
I understand, she said. May I have a day to think it over?
He looked surprised but agreed.
She left the office and walked the corridor lined with motivational posters about leadership and success. In the restroom she pressed her forehead to the cold tiles and thought, If not now, when?
Instead of heading straight home, she walked to the bus stop early, letting the air clear her thoughts. The street was lined with pharmacies, hair salons, small shops. In a modest basement a warm yellow glow lit a sign that read Clothing Repair & Alterations. Beneath it, a scrap of paper listed opening hours and a phone number.
Mabel slowed. Through the window she could see a cramped room filled with tables. At a window sat a woman in her fifties, glasses perched, feeding fabric into a sewing machine. Hangers displayed coats, dresses, mens trousers. A pile of jeans lay on a chair by the door.
Someone nudged her from behind.
Are you going in or not? a man with a bag grumbled.
She stepped aside, letting him inside. The door opened, and a dull thud of the machine mingled with the scent of fabric, hot iron, and soap a childhood memory of her mother ironing laundry in the kitchen.
A strange mix of excitement and fear washed over her. This little workshop felt like a different life, one she wasnt sure she could enter.
Back home she paced from room to room. Arthur was back in his headphones. In her inbox lay a draft titled Resignation Letter. She opened it, stared at the empty body, and closed it again.
That night the numbers kept looping: mortgage, council tax, groceries, Arthurs basketball club. Her current salary covered everything with a cushion. The workshop in the basement would bring in a modest, unstable income, no corporate perks.
On the way to work the next day she finally slipped into the basement. The bell above the door jingled. Inside it was warm. On a table lay colourful spools of thread, pins, a measuring tape. The woman with glasses looked up.
Good morning, Mabel said, her mouth suddenly dry. I was wondering are you looking for an extra pair of hands?
The woman squinted, taking in Mabels blazer, neat bag, lowheeled shoes.
Do you sew? she asked bluntly.
A bit. I used to mend my own clothes and friends when I was younger. Its been ages, but my hands remember.
Everyone says that, the woman chuckled. Im Mrs. Clarke. I have one assistant, but she cant stand on her feet all day. Theres plenty of work, just not an office setting you know, dust, threads, a variety of customers, and the pay well, its not a corporation.
The word corporation sounds foreign to me, Mabel admitted.
I know, Mrs. Clarke said softly. Could I try it? Maybe a few days. Im still employed, but I might be free soon.
Mrs. Clarke studied her a moment longer.
Come on Saturday. Well see what happens.
Outside, Mabels knees trembled. She clutched a business card with the workshops number. Two voices fought inside her head. One whispered, Youre crazy. You have a child, a mortgage. A basement? Threads? The other, quieter but insistent, reminded her of the pleasure of guiding fabric under a needle.
Back at the office, new emails and meetings waited. During lunch she printed a resignation form and slipped it into her drawer, never quite gathering the courage to hand it in.
Saturday was grey. Arthur had gone to a friends house, promising to be home for dinner. Mabel spent ages choosing what to wear, finally settling on jeans and a plain top; her blazer hung on a hook like an unwanted coat.
The workshop buzzed with activity. A young woman at the door lugged a bulky bag.
I need my jeans taken in, she said. And the zipper replaced.
Mrs. Clarke gave Mabel a nod.
Right, this is our trainee, she told the customer, pointing to Mabel. Take a seat.
Mabel settled into an old but wellkept sewing machine. A stack of trousers lay beside her. Mrs. Clarke showed how they marked length with pins.
Dont rush, she warned. People pay for neatness.
The first stitches were clumsy. The foot pedal felt alien, the thread tangled a few times, her back ached. After half an hour she found a rhythm. The fabric whispered under her fingers, the needle darted in and out, leaving a straight line.
By lunch she felt lightheaded from the effort. Mrs. Clarke poured tea from a battered teapot and set the cup on the edge of the table.
Hows it going? she asked.
Tired, Mabel admitted. But it feels right. I can see what Im doing.
Thats the point, Mrs. Clarke said. Just dont fool yourself its hard work. Shoulders, eyes, feet. And the pay isnt much. But if you love it, hang on.
Mrs. Clarke slipped a few notes into Mabels hand.
For the training, she said. Think about whether this is the life you want.
At home Mabel spread the cash on the kitchen table. It was barely a tenth of what she earned in the office. She stared at the notes, remembering how easily shed spent similar sums on takeaway coffee and taxis.
Monday arrived with a decision. She signed the resignation letter and handed it to HR. The bespectacled clerk looked up.
You sure? she asked. You have a good position, seniority.
Absolutely, Mabel replied, surprised at the calm in her own voice.
The news rippled through the department. Colleagues popped by, asking where she was off to.
To a tiny clothing repair shop, she told one.
She laughed, thinking theyd think she was joking. Then they realised she was serious and looked a little bewildered.
Why? The money? another stammered.
I know, Mabel said.
That evening she told Arthur.
Youre quitting? he asked, pulling off his headphones. What about the mortgage?
Im not quitting work altogether, she said. Just moving to a different place. The pay will be less, so well cut back on deliveries and extras. But Ill get home earlier. Ill be able to cook, go for walks with you.
I already hang out with friends, he muttered, then fell silent. What if it doesnt work?
She thought for a moment.
Then Ill look for something else. But I want to try.
He shrugged, replaced his headphones, and muttered, If you stop shouting about work in the evenings, thats a plus.
The notice period stretched. She handed over projects, wrote manuals, answered questions. Colleagues sent flowers and cards, wishing her luck. Some watched with curiosity, as if a person had suddenly decided to live by a different set of rules.
On her last day she lingered by the glass façade, watching the light, the airconditioning, the endless meetings inside. Stability, insurance, bonuses and the fatigue that had become part of her body.
Two days later she walked into the workshop for real, not as a trainee but as a staff member. Mrs. Clarke handed her an apron, pointed out where the scissors, threads, and tapes lay.
Dont fear the customers, she said. Theyre all different. Some complain, some thank you. Just dont take it personally.
The first weeks were brutal. By evening her back and neck ached, her fingers were nicked by pins. She mixed up order numbers, got a length wrong a couple of times, and Mrs. Clarke had to redo the work.
Youre a smart woman, Mrs. Clarke grumbled. Youve been in a corporation. Here its simple things measure, dont get distracted.
One afternoon a frazzled elderly lady in an expensive coat stormed in.
What have you done to my suit? she shouted, slamming a bag on the table. I asked for the sleeves shortened by two centimetres, and youve cut them even more. Now the cuffs stick out.
Mabel recognised the order. Shed marked the length herself and had probably misread the note.
Lets have a look, she said, trying to stay calm.
The lady held up the jacket; the sleeves were indeed a tad too short.
Its my mistake, Mabel confessed, feeling a lump rise in her throat. I can try to fix it perhaps add a decorative trim.
I dont want trims, the lady snapped. That suit cost more than you earn in a month. Youve ruined it.
Mrs. Clarke intervened, offered a discount and a free repair on another item. The lady left, slamming the door and threatening a bad review.
Mabel sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands. The error wasnt fatal, but it bruised her pride. In the office, a slip vanished into a spreadsheet; here it was tangible, raw.
Enough, Mrs. Clarke said. Admit the error, apologise, learn. Dont beat yourself up. And remember, your back will hurt if you keep it up.
That evening Mabel arrived home, exhausted. Arthur took off his headphones.
What happened? he asked.
She told him about the suit, the shouting, the threat of a review.
Everyone makes mistakes, he said surprisingly. Even in games. The important thing is not to repeat them.
His simple words felt more useful than any corporate stressmanagement seminar.
Money remained a tightrope. At months end she listed every expense mortgage, council tax, groceries, Arthurs club fees and matched them against her new income. It was just about enough.
Ill have to give up taxis, she said aloud. And the habit of ordering takeaway at night.
She opened the pantry, pulled out a packet of rice and a tin of beans. She realised a decent dinner could be cooked without delivery. Arthur groaned at the prospect of again, rice, but soon got used to it.
Her phone buzzed occasionally. Former colleagues asked how she was doing.
Im in the basement, mending other peoples jeans, she joked.
Hows that working for you? their voices carried a mix of curiosity and amusement.
She answered honestly sometimes tired, sometimes pleased with the results, sometimes just defending her choice.
One day her former boss called.
We have a new opening, she said. Not as senior, but stable. Think about it youre not going to spend your life fixing socks.
Mabel looked at her hands, at the thread stuck under her nails.
Thanks, but Im not ready to go back yet. If things get really bad, Ill give you a ring.
Hanging up, a small pang of fear lingered. She no longer had a safety net. The choice now rested squarely on her own shoulders.
Gradually, regular customers returned. A young man brought in his trousers each season for a new waistline. A middleaged woman trusted her with office dresses, always saying thank you and leaving a modest tip. Mabel began to recognise faces, remember stories a client before a job interview, another before a daughters wedding, another simply because its a shame to throw away a favourite coat.
One afternoon a teenage girl burst in, backpack slung over one shoulder, sneakers squeaking.
Please help, she pleaded. My prom dress zipper broke and the ceremony is in two hours.
She produced a delicate blue dress; the zipper was indeed jammed.
Can you fix it? the girl asked, eyes wide with panic.
Mrs. Clarke was busy repairing a coat, so Mabel took the dress. The fabric was fine, but the zipper needed delicate work.
Well manage, Mabel said, though her stomach clenched. She carefully opened the seam, removed the old zipper, and threaded a new one. Her fingers trembled, thoughts of ruining the dress flooding her mind. Slowly, methodically, she stitched, checking each stitch.
An hour later the zipper glided smoothly.As the girl twirled in her nowperfect dress, Mabel realized that stitching not only mended fabric, but also stitched together her own sense of purpose.
