Lucy was racing to the office, terrified of being late. If she didnt slip through the turnstile before the editorinchief, Peter Milton, shed have to write an explanation for why the employee of the month had suddenly turned into a walking tardiness scandal.
Peter Milton adored paperwork. Explanations, confirmations, congratulatory notes, apologies, shopping lists you name it, he had a stack of it. No one could explain where his love for bureaucracy came from.
His wife constantly fed him grocery lists that seemed to tumble out of his trouser pockets, colleagues fed him memos of every kind, and Peter was eversmiling.
Why do you put up with this? protested Lucys friend Emma, who worked in a cafe halfowned by the two flatmates. Honestly, your boss will have the forest felled for you! Email him its modern and ecofriendly.
Lucy sighed. You dont get it, Emma. Hes literally made of paper. It sticks out of every pocket and drips from his notebook. He seems to enjoy it, and he pays us well and never forces us into weekend community cleanups.
Emma nodded, recalling how every April the cafe owner forced staff to repaint the front fence and wash the walls a task that made her sneeze from paint dust. So the excuse of no weekend work was a welcome relief, and the topic never resurfaced.
Today, if Lucy didnt manage to slip just a second ahead of Peter, shed end up writing a very long excuse note.
What would she write?
Shed have to list a lot of points
She overslept because the alarm died, along with the whole houses electricity. She and Emma scrambled, mopped a puddle beneath a leaking fridge, wolfed down cold oatmeal prepared the night before, and managed a quick washup thank heavens the tap still ran, albeit chilly. After the spa session came the usual womens kit: mascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.
Emmas jacket was crumpled; the night before a frozenwater spill had attracted the family cat, Sir Whiskers, who burrowed in it, hid, and then was jolted awake by Emmas slap, landing on his plush rear. Hed never been so humiliated, stormed off to the balcony, and Emma had to hunt for another jacket because the iron was dead.
All of this ate up a huge chunk of time. By the time they realised, it was already late.
Lucy, finally dressed and wishing Emma a good day, barely caught the step of the departing bus, got squeezed into the crowd like jam, and a gentleman gently lifted her to avoid the doors. She stared at him, and his caring hand vanished along with its owner.
No traffic lights to juggle, no handrails to slam into, no pickpockets in the crush anything could happen in that crowd!
If Lucy were caught late, shed lose her bonus. The bonus had already been earmarked: part for a seaside holiday, part for a new microwave, and a slice for a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus, and Lucy had earned it. One slip could ruin it all.
Lucy clutched her bag tighter, elbowing it to her sweaty side, as a bloke in a coat grabbed a rail, his sleeve flashing a round wristwatch with multiple hands and dials.
Running late? he asked sympathetically. Its a proper day, isnt it?
Yes, Lucy replied, pressing the bag harder.
The saying goes, Where youre expected, you cant be late, the lad smiled.
Lucy pursed her lips. Normally shed have nodded, but now the philosophical remark felt badly timed a microwave and a holiday were at stake.
By the way, Im Colin, he said, pausing for a reply that never came. And you?
Im MrsOlivia Fairfax, a woman in a light coat and lace gloves interjected, pushing Colin aside with a generous bust. She smelled of perfume, her lips as bright as beetroot. In her fluster she brushed Sir Whiskers tail with those very beetred lips.
Sorry! she muttered. Stormy weather today!
Lucy recognised her at once the bosss wife, never seen before, never in Peters office, but whose voice echoed over the intercom for all to hear.
Peter, you cant publish that mammoth article again! Its outdated! she ranted, gesturing wildly. Someone tossed the paper in the bin and a beggar
Her tirade continued, colourful and unrestrained, while Peters junior staff, caught in the crossfire, faded into the background.
Anyway? a colleague asked.
Its a mess, your mammoths didnt make the cut, dear, a snarky reporter quipped. My porcelain exhibit, however, melted this crocodiles heart!
A young, unlucky man named Grey received a swift tap on the nose, while Peters thunderous voice demanded everyone back to the conference room.
Olivia never actually worked in the newsroom, but her spirit seemed to haunt every corner.
Who does she think she is, criticising our dear Pete? the canteen ladies sighed. Hell just eat a pie, sip tea, and shell be on the horn again. Oh, the drama!
Meg, a towering woman, pushed through the tram, shoving a few phoneglued youths aside, and claimed a seat next to Peter.
Excuse us, were just Peter stammered, clutching his briefcase.
Dont be shy, Meg! Lucy thought, thrilled to witness the legendary Meg in person.
Whats the matter, love? Dont shout. Its all right. Ill pop over to my mothers, Peter muttered.
Mother? We visit hers every third Saturday, Olivia snapped, as if interrogating a dimwitted pupil.
Its Wednesday, Nicholas, the assistant, corrected.
Dont you ever get asked a name, young man? Olivia bellowed.
Kolya, another staffer, sighed and shrugged.
Funny lot, arent they? he whispered to Lucy. Sorry, I still dont know your name
The tram jolted, Kolyas unshaven cheek brushed Lucys.
What the? Lucy hissed.
Im terribly sorry. Its stormy, as some have noted, Kolya said, squinting at Olivia. And forgive the stubble two days on duty left me unshaven.
Lucy, noticing his tired, greygreen hue, offered, You should get some sleep.
The right word! Im off to walk the dog, then home for a cuppa. Thanks for the concern, Kolya replied with a grin.
Olivia, like a witch from a goldenfish tale, continued rummaging through piles of paper.
Peter, heres the list drycleaning, my masseurs address, the order for my sisters niece Remember Sundays family visit? she demanded. Peter nodded, eyes meeting Lucys with a pleading look: keep this embarrassing scene between us.
Now they shared a secret.
Peter endured Olivias capriciousness, her endless control, because hed helped her climb to editorinchief, spotting her talent back at university, marrying her, and then, through her family, nudging his career forward.
Olivia never lifted a pen herself; she spent her days on phone calls, coffee meetings, and overseeing the familys affairs.
It was she who, seven years earlier, nudged Fanny (a senior publisher) to push Peter into the chief role. Fanny, a media heavyweight, was secretly infatuated with Olivia, who skillfully played the game.
Fanny, you must arrange this! Petes no longer a boy, hes taking charge. Find him a spot, please! Olivia cooed, promising a restaurant dinner though she later claimed a migraine.
Soon after, a Appointment Order appeared on the secretarys keyboard.
Olivia was pleased, even if she never dined out. Peter, now chief, entered his oakpanelled office, nervous on his first day.
Olivia, I cant run this thing! Its beyond me! he whispered, then fell silent as tea and scones arrived.
Olivia surveyed the waitress, smirked, patted Peters shoulder and declared, Dont worry, Pete. Well manage.
She was the greycardinal behind the scenes. Peter would call her for article ideas, not because he didnt know, but out of respect for his wife. Olivia, chronically ill with stomach woes, spent her hospital days steering the tiny empire of The Clean Leaf.
A story about mammoths, submitted by a reporter named Grey, mistakenly replaced a piece on daylight bulbs, which Peter, under Olivias eye, deemed dull.
Mammoths will sell! Grey danced in the chiefs office. Everyone loves fossils and ice ages!
Peter called Olivia five times for clearance, but she was off shopping at Harrods.
The mammoth piece hit the front page, bashing Olivias beaked comments. She was not amused.
Olivia kept tabs on staff. Shed given the IT admin access to attendance logs, then furiously scolded Peter for a colleagues 47second tardiness.
It was just a situation, were all human! Peter tried to explain.
Fine, Im leaving you then. If you protect them, Im done, Olivia shrieked, hanging up.
Peter, nerves frayed, fled to the canteen, devoured forbidden pastries, chugged tea without sugar, then summoned offenders for explanations, which he read aloud to Olivia, sweetening the tale before she softened and spared any firings.
He could have walked away, but hed learned to rely on her for everything what to wear, what to eat, how to work. He loved her, despite the absurdity.
Later, Olivia, eyes bright, asked Lucy, Isnt that the journalist who grabbed the bonus?
Lucy flinched, then scowled.
Where? Olivia, youve got it wrong! Sashas long gone, Peter muttered, handing over his briefcase.
Olivia scrambled for scattered papers, while Kolya nudged Lucy toward the exit. She thanked him.
What a woman! What a bulldozer! Nicholas remarked, handing Lucy a hand, helping her out of the tram, then shoving a soggy Peter onto the pavement, waving a cheeky kiss to Olivia.
Olivia snapped a finger at him, turned away.
Now Im off, the young man said, heading for the tower on the right.
And Im off, Lucy shrugged, pointing down the left alley.
Peter shuffled, unsure whether to say goodbye or just drift away.
Cheerio! Kolya chirped. What a lady what a bulldozer He laughed and walked off.
Dont take it to heart, Lucy. Let what you saw stay between us, alright? No judging, no mockery. We all do our best, Peter whispered behind her. Without Olivia, Id be nothing.
Lucy wanted to retort that shed become a nothing because of her, but she held back, meeting his sad, pleading gaze.
Im a grave, Peter. Shall we go? Can I slip in ahead of you, or maybe through the back door? she stammered.
Take it easy, Ill tell Les, hell adjust your time. We take taxis, but Olivias driver is ill, so were on the tram, Peter replied, gently guiding her by the elbow.
Lucy recounted the blackout, Emmas jacket, Sir Whiskers, and the puddle under the fridge.
Peter listened, smiling, missing the lively banter, the youthful laughter, the cats.
Hed grown up with cats, though Olivia could never stand them.
Dont criticize Sir Whiskers. He acted out of desperation, Peter sighed.
Whos even scolding him? Hes our beloved mascot, Lucy replied. And there was that one time
They talked until Peter felt lighter, his shoulders relaxed, his face flushed. He bought Lucy a coffee and a scone.
A call from Olivia interrupted, asking about his petty expenses. He silenced his phone, slipped it into his pocket.
Thats that. You go ahead, Ill follow, Peter said. Have a good day!
He lingered on the streets, arriving at work only by lunch. He hadnt divorced or changed; he simply breathed a deeper sigh.
That evening, Olivia, exhausted and smelling of every perfume imaginable, came home and realised how much she missed him. She loved him, sinfully, like a cat.
Lucy, after publishing a couple of smashing pieces on Mayan mysteries, left the office late, utterly spent the usual fate of creative souls.
Lucy! Im waiting for you, Nicholas shouted from the shadows. I didnt know your favourite flowers, so I bought these.
He handed her a bright, mismatched bouquet that Lucy called a proper jumble.
She smiled, accepted the flowers.
May I escort you? I may seem pushy, but after that tram kiss I feel entitled Nicholas teased.
Olivia frowned, ready to fling the bouquet, but kept both the flowers and Nicholas.
They strolled down the lanternlit street, chatting, laughing, admiring shop windows aglow, grateful that life still lay ahead and that their love might be something different from Peters.
Peters a great bloke, your boss! Nicholas affirmed. They say a man is made by his woman. Without Olivia hed be on his knees.
Lucy shrugged. To each their own.
Loves cats, thats a good sign, she added.
Then he must be a decent chap, Nicholas agreed. Hope he stays healthy.
They ran toward the tram, giggling for no particular reason, simply because everything was fine.
