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- Herausgeber: Laurie Bell
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Starting a new job can be murder...
Mig Solder's new place of work is a little ... odd. Sure, there's unlimited free coffee, but there's also personal messages that seem to have no sender, colleagues that don't seem quite, well, human, and random emails warning her to run. Now.
When she discovers her predecessors didn’t quit, they just disappeared, Mig decides to put her obsessive attention to detail to good use and investigate. With the help of her mysterious new neighbor, her spirit-contacting best friend, and her wild grandmothers, Mig uncovers a plot way above her pay grade. And once she starts dabbling in the supernatural, the consequences won't just appear on her performance review, it may just take her life - and her soul.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Boss From Hell
Laurie Bell
First published by Laurie Bell in 2022
Copyright © Laurie Bell 2022
www.solothefirst.wordpress.com
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Boss from Hell
ISBN:978-0-6455747-1-5
Cover design by Pat Naoum, Red Tally Studios
Publishing services by Mark Furness, Liquorice Light Publishing
Contents
Starting a new job can be murder...
Mig Solder's new place of work is a little ... odd. Sure, there's unlimited free coffee, but there's also personal messages that seem to have no sender, colleagues that don't seem quite, well, human, and random emails warning her to run. Now.
When she discovers her predecessors didn't quit, they just disappeared, Mig decides to put her obsessive attention to detail to good use and investigate. With the help of her mysterious new neighbor, her spirit-contacting best friend, and her wild grandmothers, Mig uncovers a plot way above her pay grade. And once she starts dabbling in the supernatural, the consequences won't just appear on her performance review, it may just take her life - and her soul.
ABOUT LAURIE BELL
Boss from Hell is Laurie Bell’s sixth novel.
Laurie Bell lives in Victoria, Australia with her partner who she adores. As a sci-fi aficionado, she maintains an active blog of science fiction, fantasy, and flash fiction pieces (found at www.solothefirst.wordpress.com), and serves as a volunteer for her local theater company. She has had several short stories published in the Antipodean SF e-magazine on www.antisf.com and in the Etherea magazine. And of course she has many new books on the go.
DEDICATION
For Janet and Margaret.
My A-Team.
CHAPTER ONE
My left arm is tingling. Cold office air presses down on my skin like a damp wetsuit, heaviest around my chest. I’m having a heart attack. My best friend, Elisa, warned me to be careful this week. Her spirit guides told her something bad was going to happen and here it is—happening.
Glancing into the outer room beyond the frosted glass of Jack’s office, I expect to find a slew of curious faces gawking at me. No one even looks my way.
My back aches. I am having a heart attack.
I’m probably not, but I am in shock.
“I’m sorry, what?” I repeat.
“Margaret, incorrect data is not something I can take lightly and . . .” Jack’s ruddy complexion is darker than usual and sweat beads the edges of his cropped, silver-speckled hair. The stale cigarette smell that hangs in a perpetual cloud around him doesn’t usually bother me, but now it turns my stomach.
“I’m . . . fired?”
He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Margaret, you have to understand—”
“Understand what?”
“The data entered—”
“I told you. It was on the form. I entered what was written.”
“The form we cannot find?”
Fury fights with disbelief. This is Toby’s doing. He gave me the forms. It was his understaffed team that needed help, so of course I assisted. He’s the only one who knows what was on the original file. He did this. “Jack, Toby knew—”
“Margaret, it is out of my hands. Without the file to prove what you’re saying, I . . . I’m sorry.”
He thought I’d made a mistake—an astronomical one—and the client lost money as a result. Unforgiveable. Fireable.
I press my damp palms to the table surface. There’s no response I can give that’s worth articulating. Oh my God. My new house. My mortgage payments are astronomical. Without a job . . .
I moved in a few weeks ago. It’s a small house, tiny really, but it’s all mine, along with a shiny new giant-sized mortgage. And now—no job. What am I going to do?
I glare at Jack. My boss. Ex-boss.
“Jack, you know how I’ve been stressing about my house payments. I worked all those extra hours.” I tilt forward, digging my elbows into the surface of Jack’s black-stained wooden conference table, and grip the back of my neck. The muscles there are rock-hard.
My mind darts back to Elisa’s call and her premonition something bad was coming. I’d brushed it off like I always do, despite her history of always being right, and I’d had those terrible stomach cramps last night that kept me from sleeping.
Jeez, Mig. Always listen to Elisa.
I give myself that lecture every few weeks.
Pulling air into my lungs until they’re full, I rub a hand against my chest. Everything is tight. There’s not a lot to look at in Jack’s office but I need a distraction or I’m going to lose my shit. Austere colors. Desk, chair, computer. Nothing I can focus on, so I stare at the boat picture hanging on his wall. “Rich people like boats,” I’d told him when I picked it out. He’d wanted a golf picture.
My career plays back in my head like I’m watching a streaming episode catch-up. Last week on Margaret Solder’s life . . . I’d started in the admin pool, got promoted to Jack Keet’s personal assistant, and basically became his work wife, on-call at all hours. I’d even shopped for his wife’s birthday present last week. Five years of loyal service, and for what?
I’ll have to rent out my place. Move back in with Mom and Dad. Won’t they be happy about that!
Jack pushes his chair out and stretches his legs beside me. I focus on his feet and his favorite shoes. White snakeskin. They look ridiculous. “Margaret—”
“I helped your son with his exams,” I blurt out. Nausea hits me like a truck. How can you do this to me?
I need a plan. If I have a step-by-step checklist, I can hold my fear at bay for a while. Obviously, step one is to find a new job. “How long do I have? Four weeks, as stated in my contract? Will you give me time off for interviews?”
Jack lifts his cell phone to check the time. Gee, Jack, I’m sorry my freak-out about you imploding my life is wasting your precious time.
I still can’t believe this is happening.
His gaze shifts from the phone to the table and his fingers rap against the wood. Tap tap tap.
Oh no. I’ve seen that tell before; specifically on the night he’d admitted to cheating on his wife. Firing me isn’t the worst news he has. “Jack, what is it?”
“Because of your access levels to sensitive client information, we . . . uh . . . I have to escort you from the building today.”
My heart sinks. “What?”
I hadn’t made a mistake. I don’t make those kinds of mistakes. I’m really meticulous when it comes to figures. I double-check everything before I hit submit. The missing form would prove that. This is Toby’s doing. It has to be. I’m swinging from anger to sadness to shock and back like a carnival ride, unable to focus on any one thought for too long.
Mom and Dad are going to be so disappointed.
I am frozen at the meeting table as Jack saunters to his desk and plops his heavy body down in his expensive ergonomic chair. The seat squeaks in protest. Jack’s habits are ingrained so I know without looking that he’ll check his email first. Two fingers peck hungrily at the keyboard as if nothing has changed between us.
Fighting back tears, I stare around his office again. Framed photographs face out from his desk; he needs everyone to be impressed with his perfect family. The Hawaii photo is the most prominent, golf club in hand, giant grin on his face. Who goes to Hawaii just to play golf?
Jack’s keyboard poking slows then stops. I feel his stare and look up. Cold jade eyes meet mine and hold. He looks away first. I twist my fingers together under the table where he can’t see them.
I need time to process this. This is so unfair. I focus on that. It is unfair. An unfair dismissal. I can raise this . . . fight it. The thought disappears as quickly as it occurred. Don’t be silly, Mig. HR protect the company first. Besides, if I fight this decision and, against all odds, actually win, it would be unbearable returning to work for Jack anyway. How can I work for someone who doesn’t trust me? Who I can’t trust to have my back?
No, I won’t fight it. But I do need a plan.
“You’ll have to pack your stuff.” His voice is kinder than I’ve ever heard it. “I don’t do soft shit, Margaret,” he’d once told me, so it feels like an even bigger slap in the face to hear him play nice now.
I will not cry here. I straighten my back and thrust out my chin. Who cares what he thinks.
I snatch a tissue from the dispenser on the table, staring at the scented white square. He put a tissue box on his table instead of the usual candy jar.
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose with the damp tissue. “I take it you have to watch me pack?”
The next ten minutes are the most horrendous of my life. I work hard to avoid looking at my colleagues as I gather my belongings. Surely they didn’t believe I could make such a horrible mistake?
I leave all my work devices on my desk. Laptop, work-issued cell phone, tablet, laptop bag, chargers. It feels like amputating a limb. I even leave my coffee mug. The one Jack gave me last Christmas. The Best Administrator—as long as I have coffee! message is a taunt I can’t face today. As I pass Robert and Steve, it occurs to me I won’t see them again. My heart clenches when people I’ve known for years don’t look up as I pass. I’ve seen it all before. That awkward moment when someone in the team gets fired and is led away. I get it. I’ve done it too. The uncomfortable what-can-I-say? feeling, the weird sense of relief that it’s not you. I just never expected it to be me.
I stop at Becky’s desk automatically, as I always do for a gossip on my way to get coffee. “Good luck with the wedding, Bec.”
“I’m so sorry, Mig,” she whispers, shooting a glance at Jack like she’s scared he’ll catch her being nice to me.
“Watch out for Toby.”
She nods. I float outside on clouds of uncertainty.
When I next glance up, I’m on the train home. The carriage is busy. The midmorning demographics are different to the peak-hour ones I’m used to. Uni students carry backpacks, parents rock prams and shift workers look exhausted. It’s louder too. People in peak hour usually keep to themselves. Passengers here are talking. I don’t like it.
I clutch my almost empty backpack tighter to my chest. Normally, if I manage to get a seat, I use the ride home to work on my screenplay, my secret little dream. I haven’t told anyone I’m doing it because it’s far too fanciful for my pragmatic family. My love of movies has led to a desire to write one, and I have a great concept. A detective story-slash-western, set in space. It’s fun getting lost in my imagination but I’d be embarrassed if anyone ever found out. It’s not like it’s a viable career. Just something silly for me to pass the time with on public transport. Right now, I can’t stomach the idea of it. Too frivolous.
Reality has punched me in the stomach and it hurts. I stare, unfocused, through the grubby window at the multi-colored concrete and the vehicles and foliage that blur past in a mockery of my current mental state. Chimes break the silence, like a lone crow cawing. Only an hour ago, things had been so, so—
“Honey, I think that’s your phone.”
I need a plan. I snatch my notebook out of my backpack and start a list. First, I have to update my resume and business social media profile. A tap on my arm jerks me around to glare at the offender sitting beside me. “What?”
Two caramel eyes widen as a woman in nurse’s scrubs and a brown overcoat flinches back, her hands flying up to prevent an attack. Her startled look becomes a glare of her own. “Your phone is ringing.”
“What?” The chimes sound again. “Oh.” I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. I don’t . . . I’m not . . .”
The woman sniffs and twists her body away from me. Heat and ice go to war inside my body, a battle neither wins. My skin is both clammy and sweaty. I’ve been in a sauna and it feels much the same way. Blinking back tears that sit too close to the surface, I groan at another chime. What if it’s Mom? I clear my throat and wipe a hand over my face to stay present. It’s probably Elisa calling to ask what’s happened. She’ll know. She always knows. I don’t know why I’m so skeptical of her abilities. It’s just . . . come on. Witch ancestors? Magic, witchcraft, telling the future? Madness. I come from a family of engineers and teachers. Practical people. We don’t do mystical.
Well, except my grandmothers. But they’re a different bags of nuts.
When my bag stops jiggling, I suck in a breath and wrench the zipper back to grab my personal cell phone. My only cell phone now. Tears threaten again. I moan at the notification message: Grandma Berry.
I can’t call my grandmother back or even listen to her message until I know my voice won’t crack. She always tells me not to trust anyone. She’s so right.
The plastic case creaks under the pressure of my fingers. While my phone is in my hand, I jump onto my business social media profile and click the button that says looking for a job. I complete the prompts and update my skills and experience. Then I jump onto the employment websites and set up alerts for admin positions. I loosen my grip on the phone and leave it sitting on top of my bag. My unfocused gaze finds the window again, and my mind puts up a vacant sign. I let myself have the moment and then shake my head. Come on, Mig. Stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself. Get organized. I jot down a few resume updates. I’ll do a deeper search on the employment websites tonight and start applying. With luck, I’ll get a job within weeks. At least a temp job to keep me going. I might only need Mom and Dad’s financial help once.
I flip my phone over and it rings in my hand, an unknown number.
“Hello?” If this is a robocall to sell me insurance or someone claiming to be from the tax office, I’m going to scream—to hell with what the strangers on the train think.
“Good morning. Am I speaking to Ms. Solder?”
I close my eyes, inwardly sighing. I’m not in the right headspace for this. “Look, whatever you’re selling—”
“Ms. Solder, I apologize if I have caught you at a bad time.”
“You have.” On my best days I don’t react well to people cutting me off. And today is not my best day. “I’m not—”
“Ms. Solder, I spotted your updates and availability change on your profile. We are urgently searching for a personal assistant. Executive-level. As you are based in Melbourne, perhaps you might be interested in applying?” The woman speaks fast and her voice is a little too sharp. It takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying.
“I’m sorry?”
“I know this call is a little out of the blue, Ms. Solder, but would you—”
“Are you offering me a job interview? Which agency are you from?”
“Fair Dinkum Recruiting. My apologies, Ms. Solder, I don’t think I even introduced myself. My name is Paula Najee. I saw the recent updates to your social media and have reviewed your listed skills and experience. I believe you fit the criteria we are looking for. You mentioned you are available for immediate start, is that correct?”
“You said the role is urgent?” To my own ears, my voice is high and uneven. Have I really been lucky enough to be headhunted on the same day I was fired? I rub a hand over my breastbone. My heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon.
Ms. Najee inhales deeply. “A client has approached us looking for an experienced executive assistant to start immediately. It’s an excellent package. Are you asking because you might be interested?”
I nod, but she can’t see that over the phone. My gaze flies to the window and I clear my throat. “I could be interested. When would they want to interview?” She says something, but I’m too busy obsessing about my tone to hear it—do I sound too squeaky and desperate? “Could you repeat that?”
“The client would like to interview straightaway. Would this afternoon be acceptable?”
If I could have jumped in my seat, I would have. The strong sense of propriety, drilled in by Mom over the years, stops me—just. Still, I do bounce a little. Sensing a judgmental stare, I glance at the woman beside me. She’s watching my twitching leg. I cover the phone’s microphone and mouth. “Sorry.” She turns away, but not before I catch sight of her eyeroll. Ten minutes ago, it might have bothered me. Now, it reflects off my mental shields without leaving a dent. “Just to confirm—your client is based in the city? Uh, in the Melbourne CBD?”
Her voice takes on a lighter tone and she speaks quickly. “Oh, yes. Their office is in Bellbird Tower. That’s where the interview will take place.”
Wow. I pass Bellbird Tower on my lunch walk every day. It’s brand spanking new and reportedly has magnificent views from every window. “What can you tell me about the company?”
Ms. Najee clears her throat. “To be honest, Ms. Solder, the client only joined us today. We haven’t completed our usual checks on Bacitriet Consulting. Of course, we could help each other out if you succeed in securing this role. It would certainly be a lovely client for us to have on our books.”
Oh, how nice. I’m the bait to hook a whale. Well, I need a job, so I don’t argue. I can research the company as soon we hang up.
“What time is the interview?”
“Can you do four p.m.?”
A grin breaks out across my face. I nod at my reflection in the train window. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Reception is located on the forty-second floor. Ask for Mr. Bacitriet. Good luck, Ms. Solder. I’ll send the details of the position and the interview through to the email listed on your profile.”
I confirm my email and end the call. A soft whoop escapes my mouth. Shifting bags beside me draws my attention to the nurse. She pointedly ignores me. I don’t take offense. Not now. My luck has changed in a big way, and I can’t shake the smile off my face.
The nurse stands up. Her back cracks and she winces. The train slows as it approaches the next station. Tooronga.
“Oh crap!” I blurt.
I’m on the wrong train.
CHAPTER TWO
Waiting for the train back to the Richmond interchange gives me plenty of time to research Bacitriet Consulting on my phone. The company website is bright and colorful with lots of high-resolution photographs of offices and city landscapes. I can’t find any staff photos, and there’s only a generic reception contact. The company description states Bacitriet Consulting is a hands-on, client-focused firm. Well, that doesn’t tell me a lot.
It’s not even midday yet, and so much has happened. My skin is still a little clammy. I figure I’m in shock. I need chocolate and I don’t have any in my bag.
Though Melbourne is heading into winter, the sky is clear, and the sun makes itself known against my face. I unzip my coat and check the platform display. The next train is expected in four minutes.
I have trouble hitting the call button on my cell but when I finally manage it, Dad answers on the second ring. “All set for tonight?”
“Hi, Dad. I have to cancel the party.”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“Dad, can I . . .” Suppressing a cough, I wander along the uneven asphalt and concrete of the platform. I hate giving Dad bad news, and telling him I’ve just lost my job is the worst kind of news. I breathe deep and spit it all out in one go.
It’s a while before I stop talking. The silence stretches interminably and the stopwatch in my head becomes a grandfather clock, each tick pounding my body like it is bread dough.
“What do you need? Money?”
Mom and Dad are happily retired. They’ve paid off their house but they don’t exactly have a lot of cash to flash and always budget carefully. They were super excited when I moved out. I know I was at home longer than they’d expected but they’re proud of what I’ve accomplished. I can’t let them down. I’m an adult. I can sort this out.
“Actually, Dad, if you can believe it, I already have a job interview.”
“Really?” His voice is suddenly a lot lighter.
“Yeah, but they want me to come in tonight.”
There’s another pause. “Right, so the party is off. No problems. I’ll call Andy and your grandmothers. Your mom and I will pop round tomorrow instead.”
I hadn’t realized how hard it was to breathe until he said that. “Well, since I’m not working . . . yeah, tomorrow is perfect. I’ll call Elisa.” Turning thirty-four is not that big of a deal, right? My brother, Andy, won’t mind the last-minute cancelation but I know my grandmothers were looking forward to seeing my new place. I hate to put them off. They’ll be round on the weekend now, guaranteed. I’d better get some stuff for afternoon tea.
I sag onto a peeling dark green-painted metal bench and listen to a kookaburra laugh in the distance. I glare at the gum tree harboring the winged devil. Rude.
“Thanks, Dad.” Hopefully the train pulling into the station hides the quaver in my voice. “I might not get the job, though. Or I might not like the boss.”
“All true.”
“My train’s coming. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you tomorrow. I need to call Elisa.”
“Take care, honey. See you soon.”
“Love you, Dad.” I step aboard the second-last carriage. This train will return me to Richmond, where I can catch my actual train home. I glance through the scratched window and remind myself to pay attention to the stations this time.
Pressing down on my bouncing knee to still it, I watch suburb after suburb zoom by. I’ve always taken the train to work. The population in Victoria changes constantly; you can see it in the way the inner suburbs have influenced those further out. It takes most of the train ride home before I see larger properties and trees instead of graffiti-covered concrete. Townhouses have jammed into what were once large single blocks, and the streets grow skinnier by the year. More fences and hedges have popped up too, as neighbors close themselves off from one another. A sign of the times.
I find Elisa’s number and hit call. A weird smell penetrates my mental bubble and I examine the empty fabric-lined seats around me. Gross.
“Hey, sweets. Are you excited?” Elisa’s happy voice takes my mind off the smell.
“I have had the worst day,” I moan.
“Ooo, I told you. Remember I said there were bad signs around this week?”
I suppress a sigh. “Yeah, I remember.”
“You trust me, right?”
“Since preschool.” And isn’t that something? Somehow, Elisa and I have remained friends through years of house moves, changed schools, and now her married-with-kids life. Her new-agey premonitions are part of the package that is my best friend. I should listen to her more. “The party is off.”
“What? No! Frank’s taking the twins bowling. I have the whole night free.” The horror in her voice tells me she’d planned for a boozy evening. “What happened?”
I focus on the empty train seat in front of me. Foam padding has spewed from a frayed gash.
“I have a job interview.”
There’s a long silence over the line. “Where are you? It sounds like you’re on a train.”
“I got fired.”
“WHAT?” I count silently, waiting for her to continue; I get to seven. “I knew it. I knew something bad was going to happen this week. I’ve been skittish all day. It was that Toby character, wasn’t it? I told you I had a bad feeling about him. Surely you can contest this? It’s got to be an unfair dismissal.”
“The file I used for the data entry is missing, so I’ve got no proof. And even if I did win, how can I work for Jack after this? And Toby is still there. I think if I ever see that smug face of his again, I’d punch it and get fired anyway.”
“Argh, this is so infuriating.” I smile at the tone in her voice. This is just the support I needed. “Do you want me to do a reading? I have my tarot cards here.”
“Maybe later? I’m freaking out. I just wanted to tell you about tonight. None of this was in my plan, you know?”
“I know. You have everything planned out for years to come. I don’t know how you do it. If it helps, I don’t feel like you’ll be out of work for long. And remember, my last reading didn’t bring up any money issues.”
“I already have a job interview. Maybe it’s meant to be?”
My friend huffs out a breath. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. Tell me what happened?”
I fiddle with the strap of my fake leather handbag as I tell her about the phone call. The black plasticky-rubber peels away under my fingers. “So you think I should go?”
I can hear her shuffling cards. “I didn’t say that, exactly. Something feels . . . off. How did you get an interview so fast?”
What I’d imagined was a long story didn’t turn out that way. I tell Elisa all about my morning as the train pulls into Richmond. Ignoring the new bald patch on the strap, I shoulder my bag and hike my backpack over the top of it. I tug my jacket free from bunching under my armpits and stagger off the carriage, fighting the icy wind that tries to blow me back onto the train. “Damn, it’s got cold all of a sudden.” The sky is now a gloomy gray and the smell of rain hangs heavy in the air.
“So, to top it all off, you caught the wrong train?”
“Yep, quite the horror show.”
“Honey, these days, anything can happen.” The shadow cast by the long roof panels make the platform even chillier. I edge away, searching for even a miniscule bit of warmth. The platform display screen sets me grumbling further. Eleven minutes?
“What about the interview, have you heard of the company? Who will you be working for?”
“The recruitment agent said they’re a new client so she didn’t have many details to give me. I did a basic search but there’s not much on them.”
Elisa gives a long-thinking hum. “Well, it could be meant to be. Still, take care, okay? I’m coming over tonight after your interview. You can tell me how it went over a drink or two. Or three. It’s still your birthday. We’re celebrating. We have to invite all the good vibes in for the coming year.”
Elisa’s gift—at least, that’s the way I think of it—is a way of seeing the truth, good or bad, via feelings, energy and auras. It’s all a bit mumbo-jumbo but she’s my best friend and I love her. Besides she’s rarely wrong. About anything.
I grin. “If you do sense something, you will tell me, won’t you?”
“Of course. Text me tonight after the interview and I’ll pop right over.”
I love the sound of that. “Will do.” I disconnect our call and breathe hot air onto my icy fingers. Twin yellow lights appear in the distance, breaking through the gloom. Finally!
After another endless train trip, I walk what seems like the half mile to my car and plonk down in the driver’s seat. I hesitate before putting the key into the ignition. This is crazy. Why am I sad? I shake my head. I have to focus on the coming interview, not on Jack’s betrayal.
Next steps. Go home, freshen up and travel back into the city for the interview. Then come back home and—
My handbag jiggles on the wool-covered passenger seat. Welcoming the delay, I fish out my cell phone and check the screen. Grandma Berry. Nope. I can’t talk to her just yet. I’ll call her back later. She’s probably with Grandma Rose, and who knows what crazy shenanigans they’re getting up too. Hopefully, the call isn’t to complain about the missed party tonight.
I let my phone ring for a moment and glance out through the car windshield, catching sight of a fluttering piece of paper jammed beneath the wiper blade. No, no, no! I spring out of the car, snatch up the offending paper and curse loudly. The number on the parking ticket appears to grow larger right before my eyes. “Oh, come on!”
CHAPTER THREE
Ilike predictable. I like boring.
Changes I’m not prepared for discombobulate me, leaving me wrong-footed. I’ve got a plan—a five-year plan. I like to know what’s coming and what I’m working toward. It’s how I saved enough money in the first place to get a house—all on my own—and how I’ve gotten so proficient as an assistant. Getting fired was not in my plan.
Buying a house was supposed to be a smart commitment. Now I’m not so sure. I hadn’t realized how fleeting stability can be. My old job is suddenly gone, and I’m in debt up to my hairline. If I don’t get this new job, I’ll come close to a meltdown. Damn Toby. I’ve never hated anyone more in my entire life. Even thinking about his smarmy face makes my teeth clench. Karma will get him one day. I’m sure of it. Though, just in case karma is busy, maybe I should get Elisa to put a whammy on him instead.
I rub my chest, feeling an ache in the muscles. Come on, Mig. Push through. I just have to tweak my plan—extend the timeline a little and factor in more unknown risk.
Tonight, I’ll drink a toast to my last day at work and raise a glass to my new job. Well, fingers crossed. If I’m offered the job, I’ll take it—no matter what the new boss is like. At least that way I’ll have a steady pay-check coming in. I can worry about looking for a better job once the dust settles.
I find my laptop under my discarded dressing gown. Step one: freshen my resume. I’ll have to impress my potential new boss with my updated skills. I can hand over a printout at the interview. The itch under my skin lessens with a clear step forward.
A gurgle from my stomach interrupts my plan.
I pull the leftover veggie soup from the fridge, heat it in the microwave and eat while checking my email. I go over the details from Ms. Najee again. After a quick shower, I dress in my interview suit. I suck in my belly. Damn. I pop the button on the waistband and tug my shirt out to cover my slightly lumpy hips. It’ll do. I update and print my resume and jump back in the car. Before driving off, I stare at myself in the rear-view mirror. You need this job, Mig.
As always, I glance at the creepy house next door and a shiver runs down my spine. Though the house itself looks pretty normal—a single story brick veneer—it exudes menace. It makes me avoid going anywhere near the fence on that side. The curtains are closed and the shrubbery surrounding the house and the lawn is overgrown. Bloody fire hazard. I bet there are rats inside. I wish someone lived there; having a vacant property beside my own is a little spooky.
I flip on the radio and back out onto the road. Katy Perry comes on. I crank up the volume and sing along.
It’s been five years since my last interview, but I know they are all about confidence. Working for Jack was the longest I’ve ever stayed in the one job. Prior to that, I only managed a year or two before boredom set in and I moved on. Working admin can be a bit of a curse. Once you learn what you need to know about a company, the work becomes a little same old, same old. It’s great for people-watching though. My screenplay has benefited greatly from the different personalities I’ve met over the years.
I park closer to the station this time. Twisting the key off, I let a thick silence fill the car. All of my hopes are pinned to this interview. It’s an insane amount of pressure. What if I don’t get it? And it’s not even the job interview filling me with doubts. I thought—no, I know—I’m good at my job, but . . . Jack fired me. Maybe . . . maybe I’m not as good as I think I am. Maybe I’m just . . . Ugh.
Back on the train, I continue my research into Brian Bacitriet. I get the same results as before—nada. How is it possible to not have any presence online in this day and age? Especially as a consultant.
The notepad I carry in my handbag to write down my story ideas allows me to jot down a list of average interview questions and brainstorm answers. It’s a plan of a sort and helps to settle my nerves.
Before I know it, the train has returned me to the city. Bellbird Tower is a short walk from Southern Cross Station―an excellent point in favor of taking the job. Crowds are starting to thicken as rush hour approaches. I cross Collins Street at the tram stop. Though it’s only quarter to four, the overcast May afternoon brings evening on quickly. The air is colder too. The Antarctic wind blasts off Port Phillip Bay, whipping down Collins Street from Docklands. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and zip my waist-length puffer jacket higher, halting at the loud ding ding ding of an oncoming tram. It rushes past me with a burst of air as commuters madly scramble to get off the tracks in time.
I love working in Melbourne. I wouldn’t want to work anywhere else in the world. The streetlights are popping on already and cars are quickly turning Collins Street into a parking lot. It’s going to be freezing tonight.
Nerves always make me desperate for the loo. I glance into a window as I pass and sigh at my wild hair. The problem with my natural waves is that they always spring in the wrong direction. I distract myself while I walk by going over my interview checklist. A decent pay package, easy to reach via public transport, and a good vibe from my boss. Point three is the big unknown. Elisa would say it’s the most important, and she’s not wrong. You want to respect the person you work for—or, at least I do. Still, no job means no money, and no money means I can’t make the repayments on my mortgage. I can work for someone I don’t like for a little while. Probably.
At this end of Collins Street, if I peer back over my shoulder I can see the Rialto, and at a right angle from there I can see Eureka Tower’s golden top across the river sending beams of light across the city. I approach Bellbird Tower with plenty of time to spare and crick my neck staring up at the purple tinted windows stretching off into the clouds. I feel a little awestruck. Will I actually get to work here?
When I enter the lobby, I’m immediately drawn to a gigantic Aboriginal painting covering the entire back wall. The plaque reminds me that the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation are the traditional owners and custodians of this land. Yellow, orange and red dotted colors create a dry desert landscape. It’s a glorious warmth-evoking painting, and feels out of place in such a cold foyer. I tear my gaze from the artwork to peer around the spacious waiting area. A black-suited man with a buzz cut and frameless glasses stands at a rectangular reception desk at the end, with blue and gray couch chairs forming several rows in front of the elevator banks. I glance around for a public restroom but can’t find any obvious signage. There’s a shadowed corridor. I head in that direction and find what I’m looking for.
I use the bathroom quickly and examine my hair in the mirror. It’s wild. Wispy waves dart off in all directions like I’ve touched one of those science balls in high school. I brush it out but I’m not hugely successful. I wet the strands and roll my eyes in the mirror.
My presence garners a strange look from the concierge as I return to the lobby. I’m early, so rather than approach the desk, I plonk myself down in one of the chairs to review my notes again.
I remove my puffer jacket and scarf and straighten my suit jacket, brushing a hand over my sleeves to check for dandruff or stray hairs. I’m fortunate that my interview suit had been clean. My usual work outfits are a bit like a uniform—black trousers that I can match with a range of business shirts. Today’s is emerald. It brings out my eyes. Elisa loves it on me and it makes me feel confident. I need all the confidence I can get today.
After reviewing my notes, I shove my notepad deep into my bag and do a last compact mirror check. My eyes look a little red—if I sneeze, maybe I can claim I have hay fever? I sigh. Can I sneeze without it coming across as gross or contagious? We’re paranoid enough these days and I always carry sanitizer in my handbag. I don’t want to lose out on the job just because I look sickly.
The concierge approaches me with sharp clacking footsteps. His hand rises to his ear. An earpiece? “Ms. Solder?”
I jerk. “Yes?”
His erect posture relaxes infinitesimally. “You’re expected on the forty-second floor.”
Right then. I stand and hang my puffer jacket and scarf over my arm. “Okay, thank you.” He hands me a visitor’s pass and directs me to swipe onto the elevator.
The slow ride up increases my fears. I step out on the forty-second floor to a buzz of noise and several people rush past me to fill the elevator. Two receptionists sit behind a wall-length desk. Their sleek headsets are practically invisible, making it appear as though they’re speaking to the air. Neither one looks up at my approach.
My footsteps slow. I’m unsure if I should take a seat or give them my name. Three high-backed crimson chairs look uninviting so I just hover. The reception area is gray with bursts of red, and the receptionists both wear dark red lipstick and perfect smoky-eye makeup. The blond straightens her soft-looking heart-covered scarf as her eyes narrow in my direction. The unwelcoming jolt makes me question taking the role. I don’t have to work here . . . I can afford to wait, right? Maybe it will be okay if I don’t succeed today.
“Who are you here to see, darl?” The dark-haired, dark-skinned receptionist has a husky voice like she’s just recovered from a cold. I glance at the blond beside her. She stares back at me without blinking.
“I’m here to see Mr. Bacitriet.”
The dark-haired receptionist’s judgmental gaze roves up and down my body. I’m sure she knows my outfit is not designer label. “You must be Margaret Solder. We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Take a seat. I’ll give him a ring.”
Her perfectly painted, crisp red nails gesture to the straight-backed chairs. Darn. I’d hoped to avoid sitting in one. As soon as I make contact, I find I’d been right to delay for as long as possible. The cushion feels carved out of wood. I shift and wriggle but nothing can make the chair any more comfortable. I cross my legs. My nerves make a reappearance and my left knee starts bouncing. I order myself to stop fidgeting and smooth my hands along my thighs to dry the sweat on my palms. You never know who is watching.
I glance at the receptionists again. They’ve barely moved. They are a little like two statues made of ice. Their chin-length hair is razor-straight and both wear white, fitted sleeveless dresses. Uncharitably, I wonder if the women were purchased at the same store. Discount for bulk orders perhaps? Don’t judge on appearance. They might be perfectly lovely. Despite the effort, I can’t help but cast them as aliens freshly arrived on Earth, unaccustomed to blending in with humans, and the thought makes me smile.
Cold air brushes my nape and silence falls on the room like a weighted blanket. My head snaps up as a shadow looms in the doorway to my left.
The man who steps forward is the total opposite of my ex-boss in every way, and it raises the hairs on my skin. Where Jack was in his mid-forties, short and a little rotund, this man, in his late sixties or early seventies, is tall, skeletally thin, like a deciduous tree in winter. Reception’s low lighting creates shadows across his sharp nose and jutting cheekbones. I recoil very slightly as he stretches out a hand.
“Brian Bacitriet. You must be the woman I’ve been looking for.”
My instinct is flight. Escape. I even glance toward the elevators—they’re only a few steps away. I take a deep breath and stand up.
I need a job and this man, no matter how creepy he seems, might be just what saves me from defaulting on my home loan. I lock eyes with him as his hand closes around mine, and suppress a shiver at the icy touch of his fingers. I twitch my lips into a smile I don’t feel. “Margaret Solder. I’m excited to hear more about the position.”
He ushers me to precede him through the door and down a long, dimly lit hallway. I hear him shuffling behind me, his shoes squeaking with every uneven step, his breathing labored. Shouldn’t he be retired at his age? I suddenly wonder how permanent the job as his assistant is likely to be.
The hallway leads to an open office that stretches off into the sunset. Giant floor-to-ceiling windows allow a perfect view of the pink and orange tones kissing the sky. Wow. I tear my gaze away to examine the rest of the floor. If I get this job, I’ll end up sitting here somewhere, and for the desk space alone I would walk into hell. I count only forty desks in an area that could easily seat eighty, in rows of four. Low partitions give the illusion of privacy while allowing a view across the floor. Along one wall are closed doors which I assume lead to offices or meeting rooms. Glass panels are covered in a film of etched city landscapes reminiscent of the city images on their website. Reception’s muted grays and reds extend into this space, and the docking stations have panoramic screens. It’s an administrator’s dream.
Bacitriet gestures to a door on my right and we walk into a six-seat meeting room. Unlike the cold, uncomfortable reception chairs, the meeting room chair devours me and I barely stifle my groan at the comfort. The door shuts us in muffled silence. A screen fills the entire wall opposite a floor-length window that overlooks the Yarra River.
He settles into the chair across from me. It appears no one else is to join us. How odd. I’ve never been in a solo interview before. Not for an initial pass.
“What do you think of the office?”
“It’s amazing.” I work to relax my body and offer him a bright smile. Look interested, keep eye contact, nod a lot.
Bacitriet leans forward. He sniffs a few times and tilts his head. “I am not sure what the agent told you, Ms. Solder, but I am in dire need. My previous assistant left without providing notice and I am a busy man. I have no time to sit through another arduous recruitment process.”
“I see.” He sounds as desperate as I am. “What precisely are you looking for? I was told it’s an executive-level assistant position.”
“How rude of me. Let me tell you a bit about myself. I am the chief executive officer here. The head dog, so to speak.” His voice is thin, and he gasps a little, as if he’s not getting enough oxygen. “I came here with nothing more than a need to survive. No money, no family, nothing to my name but a desire to assist those like me. I started Bacitriet Consulting in the back room of a bar and you can see what has become of us. We have many clients, some of whom I still deal with directly. We perform select services and I require an executive assistant who is punctual, detail-oriented and able to operate under extreme confidentiality. No questions.” Unlike his labored breathing, his stare is that of a raptor, and it is fixed upon my face. I can’t maintain eye contact, and shift my gaze over his shoulder to the sky growing steadily darker outside.
I can see why he is the CEO. The fire in his eyes and the determination in his reedy voice must keep him going. No questions? What doesn’t he want me to ask questions about? I’ve kept confidentiality before. At my level, it’s pretty common, but this description gives me the willies. I look around the room. If he’s doing something illegal, would he do it right out in the open like this?
“Standard benefits, of course, plus many perks such as an onsite gym, massages, café with a professional barista onsite—all free for staff—as well as discounted insurance, travel, and access to an exclusive retail membership.”
Honestly, he had me at the free coffee. “So, I’ll book travel, maintain calendars and phones, and assist with regular reporting—that sort of thing?”
“I assume you are proficient in most programs and systems?”
This was where I excel, and I can’t help but boast a little as I nod. “Yes. I pick up systems quickly and I often end up running staff inductions and training when new programs are rolled out.”
“Excellent.” He sits back and his bones creak. His gaze doesn’t leave my face as he sniffs again. “The salary is extremely generous as I will insist on being able to reach you at all hours. However, I welcome flexible working arrangements and, provided you are fully contactable, I will allow you to work from home when the situation warrants.”
The job sounds ideal. Everything here is so posh; it’s intimidating. I wonder if I will have to shell out for expensive outfits and shoes if I get the job. The package better be good if I do. I won’t wear heels, though. I’m always running around for some reason or another, and as my grandmothers always say, you can’t run in heels. Speaking of shoes, sitting at the corner of the table means I can see Bacitriet’s shoes when I glance down. Shiny black loafers.
Bacitriet slides an A4 envelope across the table. His suit fits him as if it’s been sewn around his body, and the material is so shiny I can’t spot a single crease even though he’s hunched over.
“Well?”
My mind goes completely blank. To stall, I open the envelope. It’s a contract. I’ve got the job? The number on the first page is mind-blowing. That’s an insane number of zeroes, almost triple what I usually make, and an answer to all my prayers. Again, the thought flutters across my mind that he is doing something illegal here. I push it out again. “When would you expect me to start?” I clasp my hands over the envelope, hoping he won’t take it away from me.
“Monday.”
So no loss in my mortgage payments at all. It’ll be like I was never out of work. With this salary, I can even put money toward that screenwriting mentoring course I want to do. “When do you need my answer?”
“I’d like you to sign the contract before you leave,” he says, offering me a glimpse of a smile.
“So soon? What about references?” This might be where the whole house of cards falls apart. Will Jack even give me a good reference after what happened? Maybe he will, but I can’t rely on that.
“I believe you will work out nicely. I prefer to jump straight into a three-month probational period rather than talk to people I do not know about you and take their word on your proficiency. You haven’t lied about your skills, have you?”
My answer is immediate. “No, sir.”
“Then I am comfortable with a trial arrangement. I expect to see you first thing Monday morning.”
My brain shuts down. I’m speechless. No references? Could this job be any more perfect? I tear my gaze from his magnetic stare and the tiny hairs quiver on the back of my neck as I stare out the window, thinking. Elisa’s warning blooms in my mind. Be careful. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, but then again, couldn’t I say the same about him? Trusting my resume on spec without speaking to my references. Still, there is something that niggles at me. “I’m sorry for asking this but my research into your company was a little . . . um, your website is unclear. What exactly is it that you do?”
“We consult.”
“Um, yes, but on what?”
“Anything our clients desire. We are a full service consultancy, Ms. Solder. Our clients are always left satisfied. I trust this is a core value we share.”
“Of course.” I open my mouth to reframe my question, but he interrupts.
“Well, Ms. Solder, what is it to be?”
