Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 71
capital is ensconced within my remit of intent. Darren, however, whilst unquestionably
well-off, I would hesitate to describe as rich. If pound signs were flickering in your eyes,
there’d be any number of potential extortees more profitable than Darren.
So, he asks me what the hell I do want. Darren’s all fluster and thin lips, straining to
contain the boiling fury. He’s a bright man. He knows that he can’t explode. He
appreciates the expediency of keeping me on side. I tell him that it’s quite simple: I just
want it to stop. That’s all. I want the affair called to a close. I want it over. Now. Right this
very second. My demand is met with a stunned silence. The words ringing in the air as
options are quickly considered. I elaborate that I have some reason to care about the
other person in those photographs, and that I’m sure there are certain people who
Darren himself harbours a similar fondness for. I cast an emphasising and pitiful glance
towards his family portrait. He swallows as he processes the insinuation. I wouldn’t want
to see anyone getting hurt, I claim.
***
I’ve been a Team Leader in the company for over three years now. I couldn't honestly
claim that it's a post in which I’ve ever felt comfortable. There's an element in the epithet
which just doesn't seem to chime with any authenticity. My grandfather, for instance,
was never a Team Leader. Nor were any of his friends. At that time, the concept didn't
even exist. So when did we all start becoming “Team Leaders”? At what precise moment
did the world suddenly decide that it's perfectly acceptable to go around talking like
this?
Elaine turned forty last month. She’s a quiet, homely type who’s worked here for
fifteen years. Jesus – fifteen years... can you imagine that? Regrettably, I must raise my
hand and admit that I can. The thirty-six months I’ve already clocked up have certainly
whipped by in a non-distinct blur of comings, goings, emails and lunch breaks. If I don’t
make a move soon, then I’ll find myself buried so deeply beneath the rubble that it will
be impossible to ever claw my way out. I feel somewhat sorry for Elaine. I know this
sounds patronising, but she’s had more than her fair share of problems at home. Her
husband suffered redundancy followed by a recurring back injury which promoted
Elaine as the sole breadwinner for the house. Day in, day out, she readies her three
children for school but is without fail in the office before me, cutting eagerly through the
glut of mundane and tedious admin tasks to which Rachel, Mike and myself will
cheerfully procrastinate. Elaine possesses a knowledge of company procedure and
rationale that I find mystifying. I sometimes wonder what I’d do without her. Be
revealed, I suppose, as the incompetent fraud that I actually am.
My sympathy is also extended because of how Elaine is forced to sit and listen to the
details of Rachel’s not inconsiderable sexual meanderings. Elaine never says anything, of
course – that’s not her way – but, whilst trying to stifle an embarrassing arousal, I
sometimes look across the desk partition to see her concentrating, blinkered and
tunnelled, on whatever happens to be on her monitor. During these moments, I cannot
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