Dear Diary,
I was racing to the office this morning, my heart pounding like a drum. If I didnt slip through the turnstile before MrPeter Mitchell, the editorinchief, Id have to write an apology explaining how the employee of the month could possibly be late. I could already feel the sting of embarrassment.
Peter Mitchell has a strange love for paper. He hoards every kind of documentexplanations, confirmations, congratulatory notes, apologies, shopping listslike a moth to a flame. No one in the newsroom knows where that obsession comes from.
His wife, Olivia Fairfax, constantly sends him lists of groceries that tumble out of the pockets of his trousers. The staff hand him memos of every sort. Hes content, surrounded by his paperwork.
Mydear, why do you put up with this? my friend Poppy shouted one afternoon. She works at the café opposite the flat we share, and she swears theres no better job. Lord! If you dont write to him by email, youll be the one cutting down the woods! Email is modern and ecofriendly.
I get it, Poppy, I sighed. Hes made of paper. Sheets stick out of every pocket and spill from his notebook. It must be his comfort. He pays well and never drags us to weekend community cleanups.
That wasnt a great excuse, but Poppy understood. Every April the café owner forces his staff to paint the fence and wash the walls. The paint makes me sneeze, the dust makes me cough, so the lack of weekend cleanups was a relief for us all.
Today, if I dont manage to slip ahead of Peter Mitchell, even for a heartbeat, Ill be stuck writing that apology. What will I even say? Oh, a list for sure
I overslept because the alarm died when the whole house lost power. Poppy and I scrambled, mopped the puddle under the leaking fridge, wolfed down cold oatmeal Id prepared the night before, and then tried to wash our facesthank heavens the tap still ran, albeit with chilly water. After the bathroom rituals we dabbed on mascara, blush, eyeshadow, and lipstick.
Poppys jacket was crumpled. Apparently our cat, Whiskers, had leapt into the frozen puddle from the freezer, buried himself, and tried to wait out the storm, only to be kicked by Poppys slipper, landing flat on his fluffy rear. Whiskers, humiliated for the first time, bolted to the balcony to sulk.
Poppy searched for another jacket because the iron was dead, and all that took a precious chunk of time. By the time we realized how late it was, the day was already slipping away.
I finally got Poppy dressed, wished her a good day, and darted onto the steps of the departing tram. I was jostled into the crowd like a piece of jelly. A gentleman tried to shield me from the closing doors, but the moment I glanced at him his hand vanished, as did he.
In that crush I could have missed every traffic light, tripped on a handrail, or fallen prey to pickpocketsanything can happen in a crowd! If Im caught late, I lose the bonus that Id already earmarked: a seaside trip, a new microwave, a pair of shoes. We jokingly called it the rubber bonus, and Id earned it fair and square. One slip could ruin it all.
I held my breath, trying not to dash ahead of the tram. It was useless, but the illusion of effort kept me warm. Right in front of me a young man grabbed the handrail, his jacket sleeve slightly lifted, revealing a pair of roundfaced wristwatches, each with multiple hands and dials.
He asked sympathetically, Running late? Its a dreadful day.
Yes, I replied, pressing my bag tighter against my already sweaty side.
He smiled and said, They say you cant be late where youre awaited.
I opened my mouth to answer, but a sudden voice interrupted. Excuse me! a woman in a light coat and lace gloves declared, her scent a mix of perfume and rosewater. Her lips were painted a vivid beetred, as if made of fresh beet juice. She brushed past, almost knocking the young mans sleeve with those bright lips.
Im sorry! The weathers a storm! she muttered, and I recognised her instantlyOlivia Fairfax, Peters wife. No one had ever seen her in the office, yet her voice boomed over the intercom and everyone seemed to know it.
She launched into a tirade about a newspaper article, calling it a relic of mammoth stories and accusing Peter of trashing a copy in a bin. A homeless man, she claimed, had tossed it away. The newsroom staff laughed nervously, while Peters eyes flickered with a mix of irritation and fear.
The chatter grew louder. Someone shouted, Your mammoths didnt make the cut, MrGrey! Aunt Olive wont be pleased! A reporter named Grey sneered, then the room erupted in a chorus of clattering chairs and Peters booming voice demanding everyone return to the conference room.
Olivia never set foot in the newsroom, yet her spirit seemed to linger in every corner. The staff whispered, Who does she think she is, criticising our Peter? The kitchen girls muttered, Shell probably eat a cake, drink tea, and then start interrogating us again.
Olivia pushed through the tram crowd, shoving a few distracted teenagers aside, and sat opposite Peter, who fumbled an apology, clutching his briefcase like a schoolboy. I thought, What an honour to see the legendary MegWoman in person! The girls would be jealous.
She snapped, Where are the keys, Peter? Are you still hiding under the door while I stroll through Harrods with my little Simmy? Her voice cracked with fury. Peter stammered, Its Wednesday, while a lanky man named Nick tried to smooth things over, whispering to me, I still cant remember your name
The tram lurched. Nick pressed his unshaven cheek against my cheek. You look exhausted, I said. You should get some sleep.
He laughed, Im off to walk the dog, then home to my baby. Thanks for the concern. Olivia, meanwhile, shuffled a pile of papers, mumbling about drycleaning lists, addresses for her masseur, and a grocery order for her sisters children. Peter nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a pleading lookplease, keep this humiliating scene to yourself.
Now there was a secret between me and the boss. Why did Peter tolerate Olivias tyranny? Why did he endure her control and cruelty? In my mind I realised I had helped him rise from a junior reporter to editor-in-chief, spotting his talent back at university, nudging his career forward through family connections.
Olivia never worked a day herself; she spent it on phone calls, coffee meetings in cafés, and supervising the familys life. Shed been the one who, seven years ago, called a publisher named Fiona, who then pushed Peter into the position he now occupied. Fiona, a big name in the newspaper world, had a soft spot for Olivias ambition.
Fiona, you must set him up! Hes no longer a boy; hes scheming everywhere, Olivia had cooed, promising a dinner in exchange. Fiona, hearing her, sent a memo appointing Peter as editor, and Olivia smiled triumphantly.
Peter entered his new oakpanelled office, trembling on his first day. Olivia, I cant manage this machine! Its beyond me, he whispered, before a tray of tea and scones arrived.
Olivia inspected the staff, gave Peter a reassuring pat, and declared, Dont worry, Peter. Well get through this. She was the grey cardinal behind the scenes, feeding him article ideas, even though she frowned at his chronic stomach ailments and frequent hospital visits. She ran the little empire of The Clean Sheet from her sickroom.
The mammoth article, originally a filler, was shoved in place of a piece on daylight bulbs. Olivia dismissed it, calling it boring. Grey, the reporter, insisted, Mammoths sell! Everyone loves ancient beasts! Peter called Olivia repeatedly, but she ignored him, out shopping at Harrods.
When the mammoth story hit the front page, Olivias face twisted into a scowl. She demanded the system admin give her access to staff attendance logs, then berated Peter for a minuteandfortysevensecond tardiness. Were all human, Peter tried to explain. Fine, Im leaving, Olivia shouted, slamming the phone. Peter, nerves frayed, stormed to the canteen, devouring prohibited pies, gulping tea without sugar, then summoning people for explanations. He handed those papers to Olivia, sweetening the tale, and she, softened, decided not to fire anyone.
Later, Olivia, like a witch from a fairy tale, rattled off a list of things to fetch from the dry cleaners, the address of her masseur, the grocery order for her nieces, reminding Peter of the Sunday family visit. Peter nodded, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of doom and a silent plea to keep this sordid episode secret.
Now only the two of us share that secret. Why did Peter stay with Olivia, the megwoman? Why endure her absurd demands? I realised Id helped shape his career, nudging him upward, while she pulled the strings from the shadows.
The afternoon dragged on. After the tram ride, Nick nudged me toward the doors, Olivia hurriedly gathering stray papers. I thanked them both, and Nick, halfsarcastic, called Olivia a bulldozer as he helped me out of the tram, then gave a gentle push to Peter, who stumbled onto the pavement.
Olivia snapped a finger at him, then turned away. I must go, she said, heading toward the highrise opposite. I waved toward the lefthand alley, and Peter shuffled, unsure whether to say goodbye.
Nick winked, What a woman, what a bulldozer, and we smiled. Peter called after us, Dont forget to hand over the briefcase, please. Olivia scrambled to collect her scattered papers while Nick ushered me to the exit.
Dont let what you saw bother you, Peter murmured behind me. Without Olivia Id be nothing. I wanted to retort that Id made him nothing, but his forlorn gaze stopped me.
He sighed, Im a grave, Peter. Lets go. Can I slip in through the back door? I answered, Go ahead, Ill tell Lesley youll sort the time. He chuckled, We always take taxis, but the drivers ill, so were on the tram. He asked, What happened to you? I recounted the power outage, the puddle, the cat, and the ruined jacket.
Peter listened, his shoulders relaxing, his face brightening. He confessed that as a child his home was full of cats, but Olivia could never stand them, even banning them outright.
You dont blame Whiskers, he said. He was just acting out of desperation. I laughed, Whos blaming him? Hes our favourite.
We chatted on, the conversation lightening my chest. He bought us a coffee and a bun, and his phone buzzed with a message from Olivia about his petty expenses. He silenced it, slipped the phone into his coat.
Off you go, then, Peter said, waving. Have a good day.
Later, after a long walk, I finally left the office, exhausted but satisfied with the articles Id penned about the mysteries of the Maya. Creative souls, I thought, often run on empty.
Just as I was stepping onto the pavement, Nick appeared from the shadows, a bright bouquet of wildflowers in hand. I wasnt sure which blossoms you liked, so I grabbed a mixed bunch, he said, handing them over.
I smiled, accepting the colorful bunch Id later call a proper melange. He leaned in, May I walk you home? I know I seem forward, but after that tram kiss I feel I owe you a little more. I blushed, Alright, lets go.
Olivia, still humming with the scent of every perfume imaginable, had already returned home, and I sensed how much Peter missed her despite their battles. He loved her, foolishly and deeply, as any man loves his partner.
Nick chuckled, You know what they say: a man is made by his woman. I shrugged, To each their own. He added, He loves cats, so he must be a good person. I nodded, May he stay healthy.
We hurried toward the tram, laughing for no reason at all, simply because everything felt right.
