Fat Chance (24 page)

My nickname is Zoballs. Which could be better or worse, frankly.

‘Yeah, and she’s got a face on,’ Maz tells me.

‘Yuck. Really?’

‘Yeah. You remember last Halloween when Meems and I decked the place out in pumpkins and witches without getting permission from her?’

‘I do.’

‘Same face she made then. Only a bit more wrinkled around the forehead.’

‘Spectacular. I’ll just go keep my head down and get on with that email to Sanderson Construction.’

Maz gives me a wink. ‘Good idea, flower.’ She then looks me up and down. ‘You’re looking good, Zoballs. And sounding good on the show this morning, too.’

‘Thanks, Maz.’

‘I’m glad I’ve got you and Gregster in the pool.’

‘The what?’

‘The office pool, silly. For who wins the competition? Me and Meems have got you, and I reckon we’re onto a winner.’

‘You’re
betting
on us winning?’

‘Absolutely! Meems has you in her hairdressing pool as well. She’s beside herself.’

I feel cold fingers creep across my neck. ‘There are a lot of these bets going on, are there?’ I say in a squeaky voice.

‘Yep!’ Maz says with a huge smile. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

Fuck, no!

‘I guess.’

‘You should put some money down on yourself. Extra
motivation
.’ Maz looks over my shoulder and the smile is gone. ‘Watch out. Here cometh the Pigdog.’

I turn to see my boss marching across the thin green corduroy office carpet towards me, a thunderous look on her face. I steel myself for the onslaught.

‘I’ve been emailing you for an hour, Zoe!’ Caitlin says when she gets to me.

I figure I’d better try and be as conciliatory as I can, so I affect an apologetic smile and put my hands up. ‘I’m so sorry, Caitlin. The show overran and I’ve only just got here.’

‘Don’t give me that. I’m sick of your excuses, Zoe.’ Her face has gone an unhappy shade of red. It looks like she’s really het up about my lateness this time. I fear a shit-eating grin and a sorry tone of voice may not be enough to get me out of this one.

‘Would you please accompany me to my office?’ she spits and turns on one heel, marching back across the thin green carpet.

‘Oh dear. Batten down the old hatches,’ Maz warns me.

I take a deep breath and meekly follow Caitlin back to her office, preparing myself for the worst.

Once her door is shut behind us, I get it with both barrels.

‘I’ve had quite enough of your attitude, Zoe.’

‘But I—’

‘Don’t interrupt me! The number of times you’ve been late for work is entirely unacceptable.’

‘Four times in as many months?’

‘Yes! And when you are here, your attitude towards work and your colleagues has become lackadaisical.’ I can actually see sweat beads forming at Caitlin’s brow. It obviously took a lot of effort to use that big a word in a sentence.

‘Are you saying I’m
lazy
?’ I reply, not liking the slightly whiny tone in my voice.

‘I certainly think your work ethic has dropped in recent weeks, yes. Your productivity has definitely suffered.’

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ I stammer.

I look down at my feet shame-faced. I hate,
hate
, HATE being told off like this. I pride myself on doing a good job, and when someone in a position of authority questions my ability to do that, it makes me feel about three inches tall.

I guess the competition may have affected my work. Maybe my work rate
has
gone down a bit?

After all, I’m always tired these days thanks to all the exercise I’m doing, and my low-calorie diet may be affecting my levels of concentration.

Perhaps Caitlin is right?

Perhaps I haven’t been doing my job as well as I should have because of—

Hang on a fucking minute . . .

What the
hell
am I doing?

I’m letting Pigdog convince I’m in the wrong . . . and for no good reason!

My work has
not
suffered because of Fat Chance. If anything it’s got
better
. The new Sanderson contract I’ve negotiated, selling all that air time to the local cinema, the deal I struck last month with Makepeace Car Sales . . .

I’ve been doing a
good
job, thank you so very much, your royal Pigdoggyness!

This isn’t about my work: this is all about her not liking the changes Zoe Milton has been going through in recent weeks.

The unlovely truth is that my boss is
jealous
of me right now, and intends to show her displeasure any way she can. This is a
blatant
power play. Caitlin wants to re-exert her authority over me—it’s as simple as that.

And I almost let her get away with it.

My fists clench.

In the back of my skull I can hear the meek and mild obese girl I once was screaming at me to unclench, take the lecture, and return to my desk.

Don’t rock the boat, Zoe. Don’t make waves, Zoe. Don’t do anything risky, Zoe. Girls like you don’t get to win, Zoe. You get to take all the shit thrown at you, and then you get to go home and eat an entire trifle to make yourself feel better.

You swallow down the anger, then you swallow down the calories. That’s the way it works.

Except I’ve lost over three stone. My face is plastered across billboards. I’m on the radio. People are actually betting on me to
win
something.

I don’t have to swallow anything anymore if I don’t want to.

‘Caitlin,’ I say in a level tone of voice. ‘I don’t agree with your assessment of my work.’

‘What do you mean?’ she asks, incredulous.

Unbelievable.

She actually can’t understand how I could possibly disagree with her.

‘I mean I don’t agree with you. My work has
not
suffered. My attitude is
not
bad, and while I have been late for work a few times, I have a very good reason, which you are fully aware of.’

‘Now listen to me—’

I hold out a firm hand. ‘No, please let me finish. I don’t believe you have any cause to question my work, other than because you have a problem with me on a personal level. I believe you are being highly unprofessional, Caitlin.’

Good grief. I’ve gone mad.

Pigdog’s eyes are like saucers. ‘How dare you say that to me!’ she wails. ‘I will have you up on a disciplinary!’

Now I’ve well and truly got her. ‘Please do. In fact, I insist upon it,’
I reply calmly, and fold my arms.

This throws an ocean of cold water over her towering anger. Caitlin’s expression instantly changes to one filled with doubt. Her bluff has been called. ‘I’m sorry, Zoe. That was uncalled for.’

‘Oh no! Please. I think we should launch a disciplinary
investigation
. That way I can show that my work has not suffered in the slightest.’ My eyes narrow. ‘I can even talk about it—and you—on the radio next week. It should make a
really
good story for Elise and Will to get to the bottom of.’

I’m tempted to pull out my phone and take a picture of
Pigdog’s
face. I’ve never seen pure terror captured in such a glorious manner before.

‘There’s no need for that, really,’ she says.

It’s nice to hear my own apologetic whiny tone of voice from a few minutes ago projected back at me.

‘No? Okay then, Caitlin. Let’s forget about it then, shall we?’ I reply. Let’s face it, I’ve won this argument and there’s no point in pushing my luck.

‘Yes, I think that would be best.’ She straightens up again. ‘Let’s just make sure you’re on time for work from now on and a bit more proactive around the office.’

Incredible. She stills wants the upper hand.

‘You know what, Caitlin? Fuck you.’

‘What?’

‘I said
fuck you
. You’re a bully. And not a very good one at that.’ I point a finger. ‘Come after me again for no good reason and I’ll make sure
everyone
knows about it.’

This is going too far. I know it even as I say it.

Threatening her like this means she’s going to be out to get me from now on. If I even put a foot wrong I’ll be immediately at risk of getting kicked out of my job. The thing is, I can’t help myself right now. Caitlin the Pigdog has become symbolic of all the people who have ever tried to squash me beneath their feet in the past.

I fall silent, as does my boss.

I think we both realise now that this conversation should never have happened. She’s threatened me with a groundless disciplinary, and I’ve threatened her with character assassination on live radio. We’ve both stepped well and truly over the line and need to backtrack as quickly as possible.

‘I think you should leave now, Zoe,’ she says. ‘No more need be said about this matter.’

‘Okay. I agree.’ I pause for a second. ‘Should I send you over the Sanderson contract before lunch?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’ll get back to my desk, then.’

‘Please do.’

I sidle out of Caitlin’s office, breathing a long sigh of relief as I close the door behind me.

What an exquisitely uncomfortable few minutes of my life. Not just because of the argument, but thanks to the realisation that I’ve spent a majority of my life comfort-eating my problems away, instead of confronting them and dealing with them properly.
Caitlin
has unwittingly performed some much-needed shock therapy on me this morning. Her idiocy has made me see my own.

How many times over the years have I substituted standing up for myself with chocolate cake?

How many times has my backbone been made of the same jelly in all those trifles I’ve eaten whole, in one sitting?

Well, not anymore.

Those days are over.

From now on Zoe Milton is not to be trifled with.

I’ve had no further run-ins with Caitlin since our little private discussion in her office. An uneasy but necessary truce has formed—at least while I’m still part of Fat Chance. What happens when my brief flirtation with celebrity goes away is anyone’s guess. I just hope I’ve done enough to assure her that screwing with me is a mistake she might live to regret.

This new-found sense of self-worth is all very well, but it doesn’t help you much when you’re being stalked in IKEA by a lunatic.

I only went out to buy a new wok and some decorative
bookends
.

IKEA is the perfect store to shop in when you want to purchase items as incongruous as that. Sling any two apparently random things together and chances are you can still find them lurking in one corner or another of the blue and yellow megastore.

Tea strainer and a gardening fork? Framed picture of two
elephants
and a cheese board? Bottle of insecticide and super king duvet cover in an odd shade of milky green? You can find them all, right in IKEA—if you’re prepared to tackle the incomprehensible floor plan and are wearing your best walking shoes.

I don’t usually like to venture into IKEA without Greg. His sense of direction tends to be better than mine, and without him there’s every chance I could get lost in table lamps and never find my way out again. This Sunday, though, he is playing rugby for the first time in years with the lads down at the leisure centre, so I’m going to have to go it alone. I reassure myself with the fact my phone has GPS satellite navigation on it, and I have a clear four hours with which to negotiate my way back out again, so I should be alright. I have left instructions to call in the search and rescue teams if I am not heard from by next Thursday, though.

Like the circles of Dante’s Inferno, IKEA descends through
several
floors towards Hell itself (or the checkout, as people with no imagination insist on calling it).

Unfortunately for the unwary traveller, you must venture through every floor no matter what item you wish to procure, whether you want to or not. For example, should you wish, like me, merely to purchase a wok and a couple of bookends to stop Greg’s huge hardback rugby books from falling over all the time, you must also look at every other sodding product IKEA has on sale. You must make your way along the circuitous and
tortuous
route that the sadistic Swedes have laid out between you and t
he e
xit.

No one in human history has ever said the following:
‘I’ve just popped into IKEA and picked up some meatballs. You fancy a spag bol?’

One does not simply ‘pop’ into IKEA. One plans the visit like a military operation.

Make no mistake: shopping there is
not
to be taken lightly. Not if you wish to retain both sanity and a healthy bank balance.