Page 57 of Prove You Wrong

‘Getting shit organised? Fuck, I don’t know. I thought you were trying not to stress about this.’

I pause my tirade on the overgrowth. Panting and staring at the shredded greenery. ‘Scott said she might be ghosting me.’

‘Scott’s a grumpy bastard,’ Chunk retorts.

‘He got grumpier, if you can believe that.’ I look at Chunk. ‘Like a bear with a sore head on our shift yesterday.’

‘Dude needs to lighten up.’ Chunk nods over to the barn. ‘You think he’d come to the opening party?’

‘What party?’

‘I’m relocating my annual Christmas Eve party here. More specifically,’ he opens his arms in a gesture towards the ramshackle building in front of us, ‘the barn. Flat’s not big enough anymore.’

I scrub at my head. ‘We’ve gotta get that pile of shit ready in four weeks?’

‘I like how you say “we”.’ I get the sense Chunk’s stopping himself from saying something smart about us becoming partners again. He opens his mouth and then presses his lips shut before finally saying, ‘Better stop whining and get on with it.’

My fuck you retort falls from my lips as I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.

Ella: Can you do Thursday?

‘Is that her?’ Chunk’s eyes are wide. Invested.

‘I thought you didn’t like gossiping like teenage girls?’ I pivot away so he can’t see the ridiculous smile suddenly commandeering my face.

Tackling the weeds and scrub with renewed vigour, I can’t feel the fatigue in my muscles anymore. Thursday. That’s only a few days to wait. I’ll book us a nice restaurant, like a normal fucking person on a normal fucking date.

Chapter 18

Ella

Today, I’m dressed to impress. Or at least, dressed to impersonate a professional looking person. Forgoing comfort and safety, I’m wearing my highest black stilettos, paired with skinny cropped trousers, and a blouse and blazer. Attempting to strike the balance of smart and sophisticated but still sensible. It’s a big day in the office.

Some execs from HQ are here for Boris’ Big Meeting and I’ve been drafted in to pour drinks and bolster numbers. To make Boris seem like he has a posse.

I carry a tray into the meeting room and eye where the best space to leave it is.

With a flap of his hand, Boris tuts, ‘Leave it there.’ Then rolls his eyes to Mr Suit Number One.

I place the tray down and start to unload it.

‘Stop fussing, girl.’ He shakes his head to Mr Suit Number Two. ‘Just our assistant, don’t mind her.’

My stomach clenches with the stab of humiliation.

I might bejustan assistant — an assistant financial accountant — not his PA as he’d implied. And I’m good at my job. I’ve worked hard and been faithful to this company. Under the leadership of the late, great, Mr. Lawrence, I started with an apprenticeship in accountancy, and he’d promoted me to assistant with the promise of more as I worked my way up.

But Mr. Lawrence had a catastrophic heart attack, and Boris oozed his way into the manager’s role. Stealing ideas, shifting blame, and scaring away any good workers with hisleadership skills. So, here I am, still treading water.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s given me experience. He has me working on some of the biggest accounts, given me the responsibility of a much more senior accountant, but he doesn’t give me any kudos for this.

Not in title or pay. And definitely not with any sort of praise.

Boris treats me like a badly performing secretary all day and it’s awful. I’d hoped I’d get the chance to show myself in a new light, perhaps get that promotion since Shaun left. But apparently not. Assistant accountant and coffee maker I shall be, forever.

Yes, I could leave, but where would I work? I doubt I’d get a good reference, so I’d probably have to start in another organisation, at the bottom, spending even more years working up to the level of job security and benefits I have at AWP UK.

My shoulders are in knots and I feel crumpled and hollow by the time I step outside; completely wrung out. The fresh winter wind whips past me, dragging fallen leaves in its wake.

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