Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 69
LOVE IN CONTEXT
by Mark Colbourne
Prompted by the cluster of my three brisk knocks, Darren's voice beckons me into his
office. Please, he says, raising a hand towards the empty chair opposite his own, take a
seat. Softly sealing us inside these four partitioned walls, I move to accept the invitation.
I just want a little chat, I smile, thanking him for the time he has set aside. He is, after all,
a busy man. An important man. A member of the Board. I am in the grip of a steady
calm which, I must admit, is something of a surprise. There are moments when our
capacity - our sheer, raw nerve - can far exceed anything we would have ever dared to
imagine.
OK, Darren whistles before easing back in the executive recliner behind his
commanding mahogany desk - furniture befitting his age and directorial position. He’s
eyeing the envelope in my hand. I can practically read his thoughts, screaming as they
are from between those furrowed lines in his forehead. He claims that he’s always got
time for me, that I’m a valued Team Leader, a respected member of staff. He wonders
what he can possibly do to help.
I present the envelope and tell him that we need to discuss the future. Darren’s desk
is immaculate – a reflection of the standard he sets. A silver pen positioned in the
binding ring hold of the leatherbound notebook. His laptop angled against the edge.
That framed picture of his wife and two children on proud and central display. He tells
me that he hopes this isn’t what he thinks. That he’d be very sorry to see me leave.
Context Industries is, I must remember, a forward-thinking company. It prides itself on
employee retention. It encourages personal progression and career development.
There are always, he insists, opportunities to be explored. I shake my head - that initial
calm now superseded by a giddying flush of volatile excitement - to smirk that no, it’s
nothing like that. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe it’s actually me who’s doing this.
Darren opens the envelope, and three photographs fall eagerly onto his desk. It takes a
moment for him to acknowledge their content. His eyes squint before widening as a
recognition of their sordid detail – the Travelodge car park, the over-familiar companion,
Darren himself – and the implications they will subsequently generate arrive. He looks
up, covering – subconsciously, I suppose – this damning evidence with the empty
envelope still pinned between his fingertips. His eyes burn into mine: angry and
betrayed, confused and cornered. In a low voice, he asks me how much bloody money I
want.
***
Your twenties are a careless decade. You’re off-balance with the rush of being out there
in the world, of the absence – save for your own, good self – of possessing anyone or
anything to care for and answer to. Those sombre considerations of life seem such a
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