Run To You (14 page)

‘But we were just warming up.’

‘I realise that, but my boss is headed my way and, unlike you, I can’t just send him an icy stare and silence him for all eternity.’

‘I thought your job was mostly answering the telephone.’

‘It is.’

‘Then what could he possibly have to complain about? I am an irate customer, calling to say how terrible I find your service. So terrible, in fact, that I might have to punish you.’

‘I can’t discuss that right now.’

‘You can’t discuss my complaint, or you can’t discuss the possible punishment? Because I really think we need to go over the latter. I seem to recall that during our last encounter you indicated one item you wished to try, when in truth you wanted another one entirely. And that just won’t do.’

‘I see. Well, that’s very serious.’

‘Is he standing over you right now?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘How delightful.’

‘That doesn’t sound delightful
at all
,’ I say, because it’s the best I can manage. I’ve got to somehow answer him without seeming like I’m talking about something other than customer service – but he’s not exactly making it easy.

In fact, he’s making it harder by the second.

‘So tell me, Alissa. Which one was it really? The scarf, the handcuffs, or the cane?’

‘The first one.’

‘Oh, that was a very good dodge. Does he suspect?’

‘I believe so.’

‘But he isn’t entirely sure.’

‘Not quite.’

‘Well, perhaps we should convince him a little harder.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? Does he seem angry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he often angry with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you always make personal calls.’

‘No.’

I pause then, not sure if I should tell him or not. It paints a rather lonely picture of me, if I do. But then I realise: I don’t have to tell him. I’m limited by customer-service-speak, and for the first time since this conversation started I find that, in a way, freeing.

‘You’re the only one,’ I tell him, without flinching.

And for my troubles I get a long, slow sigh, of the sort people give when they’re utterly satisfied. Apparently he likes what I’ve said. He’s read between the lines – just as I read between his – and heard what I really meant.
No one else was worth the trouble. No one else has ever been worth the trouble.

Just you, my Janos
.

It’s a strong and strange moment, fraught with those things called feelings and so ripe for something more. If we were alone now I’d probably confess how much I like him, and maybe he’d even confess something back, and then in this magical imaginary wonderland we would make love on a heart-shaped bed.

But we’re not alone. I’m in my office, with my boss standing over me.

And apparently my boss has something mood-killing to say.

‘I know what you’re doing, madam,’ he snaps, just as Janos is about to speak. I can hear his words hovering on some electric edge, and then Mr Henderson interjects and the electricity dies. Instead of sweet nothings he clips out a couple of words – none of them romantic.

‘Did he call you madam?’ he asks, in a tone I hardly recognise. It’s much lower than normal, like the words have to slip under some mysterious barrier. And he doesn’t wait for an answer, either. After a moment of me trying to figure out how to speak to him without encouraging any further ire, he tells me that we’ll talk soon.

And then he hangs up.

Not that I mind. If I’m honest, I’d rather he didn’t hear the roasting I’m about to get for making personal calls. Of course I’ve only got the roasting he’s given other people to judge it by, considering that this is my first transgression.

But I’m still pretty clear on how this is going to go.

He starts with disappointment – oh, he’s so disappointed in me. And after that comes the dressing-down, with optional commentary on my clothes – which he’s never thought were office appropriate – and some mild shouting, so everyone can hear him being a boss. He prides himself on being a calm, reasonable person, but sometimes his inexplicable rage just bursts through, brightening up most of his face and neck when it does.

It’s a difficult thing to endure – though not because of the anger or the ranting or the way he leans right over you so you can feel the spittle hitting the top of your head. No, no … the worst part is the way he won’t listen. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him I’m sorry and that it will never happen again.

He’s just not interested. He has to say what he’s come here for, all the way up to the point where you know you’re going to cry. In fact, I think he aims for that point. I think he relishes it. He’s practically leaning on me now, in an effort to squeeze it out of me.

Which just makes me wonder: shouldn’t it have happened already?

He’s currently telling me how useless I am, over and over again. His face is like an angry tomato. And when I dare to glance a little to the right, I can see everyone in the office watching this little tableau. I should be bawling under this much duress.

Yet somehow I’m not.

In fact, I barely feel anything at all. It’s like my skin has been coated with steel, and every silly, petty thing he says simply bounces off it. I find myself looking up at him as though he’s an alien species, and I’ve only just noticed. I thought he was an important member of the human race, before.

But now I know he isn’t. Close up like this he just seems somewhat ridiculous, to the point where I actually want to laugh. I can feel the corners of my mouth starting to tremble, and when he accidentally snorts I almost lose control entirely. I have to put my head down, just so he won’t see.

Though the feeling is still there, burning away inside of me.

And once he tires and leaves me be, I suddenly realise what it is. My skin isn’t made of steel at all. I’m not different in any particular way. It’s just that I’ve spent my life thinking all of these tiny, tiny things – the office, my boss, my colleagues who are all still gawping at me – actually matter.

When really I just didn’t know what mattering was.

* * *

It’s almost five in the afternoon when he calls me and asks me to come to his office. And if I cared, I’d probably find that very unusual. I’d probably be shaking in my boots, expecting a further dressing-down with letters and disciplinary actions and someone from HR pretending to take notes while Mr Henderson strips a layer of skin off me.

But as I’m this new person who doesn’t give a flying fuck, I’m not thinking about any of that at all. I’m thinking about calling Janos again instead. It’s almost like an itch now, and while I’m at work I can no longer scratch it. I have to sit still and act like it’s not there, which is going to be interesting during this meeting.

How can I possibly feign interest when I’ve got this great big urge hanging over my head? He’ll probably ask me where I see my future at the company, and I’ll answer: ‘With loads of phone calls to my semi-boyfriend.’

And then I just have the word ‘semi-boyfriend’ floating around my head to add to my lamentable lack of focus. When I walk in, that’s what I’m considering. Is he my semi-boyfriend? Can the word ‘boyfriend’ ever apply to someone like him? Even with that mitigating ‘semi-’ in front of it, I’m not sure it can.

It’s too childish. It’s too basic. I need something more adult for our situation – like ‘lover’ or ‘paramour’ or another word that hasn’t been invented yet.

He’s my ‘orinthian’, I think, as I sit down on the chair Mr Henderson indicates. It’s the one opposite his cramped and crap-covered desk – much more important than the seat I’m usually offered. Usually he makes people sit to one side like we’re here to see the doctor. If he could get away with it, I’m betting he’d make us sit out in the hall.

But here he doesn’t, and if I was paying any attention at all I’d probably notice that more. I’d probably notice how much he’s sweating too, and wonder why his tie is askew. Typically he’s as neat as a pin, and especially when he’s about to give out an official disciplinary.

Something is wrong, though that fact isn’t quite penetrating. Everything is still glancing off my steel skin, skimming over the surface of me like it’s not even there. I’m looking to one side of Mr Henderson, my mind on newly invented words.

I barely register anything until he speaks.

And then I know. I know something has gone really bad.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘How are you feeling now?’

I don’t think he’s ever asked me how I’m feeling. I didn’t think he knew that other people
have
feelings. Mostly he just behaves like we’re all interchangeable idiots, sent to test his patience.

But I can see he’s not acting that way now.

He looks … harassed. It makes me think that HR have had a word with him about his behaviour, though if they had I can’t see him taking it this seriously. They’re about as effective as a wet rag. Once, they told Michaela that they couldn’t do anything about Mr Henderson, for fear of losing their job.

So I’m not quite sure what’s happening here.

‘I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry about our misunderstanding earlier.’

I’m
really
not sure what’s happening here. Has he ever apologised to me about anything? Has he ever apologised about anything to
anyone
? I don’t think he has. The word seems to stick in his throat on the way up, and his eyes kind of bulge too. For a moment I’m sure he’s choking, and almost get up to whack him on the back.

But then I remember:

He hasn’t actually eaten anything.

He’s just possibly gone insane.

‘Our misunderstanding?’ I try, but only because I don’t know what else to do. This is completely outside the boundaries of our previous relationship, which was mainly him shouting and me cowering. Nowhere in our history has he tried to reframe an incident as a misunderstanding. He hasn’t needed to.

He’s got carte blanche to go postal on anyone whenever he feels like it.

‘Yes, you know. The … ah … little conversation we had earlier.’

Little?
Conversation?

What in God’s name is happening here?

‘You mean the
argument
.’

He laughs, but the laugh is too big. It’s like he’s in an enormous echoing cavern, and the sound is being reverberated back to me a thousand times. And his face … his face still isn’t right. He’s no longer choking, but his eyes are almost popping out of his head.

‘Oh, well, yes, I can see why you might think of it as an argument. But honestly, I meant nothing by it. I think you’re a wonderful employee, Alissa.’

‘You do?’

I can’t help the incredulity in my voice. I think he once wrote on an evaluation that I ‘failed to meet the minimum standards for mediocrity.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Since when?’

‘I’ve always felt that way, I can assure you.’

‘I see. Well … I guess … that’s good to know.’

‘Excellent, excellent,’ he says, then, just when I think he’s calming down, he goes for a third one: ‘Excellent.’

I have to ask. He’s not only saying these insane things – he’s also sweating so much I’m starting to wonder if he’s having some kind of episode. Is that what the start of a heart attack looks like? Or maybe a seizure of some type?

‘Mr Henderson … are you OK?’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘Because you don’t seem OK.’

‘Oh, no, I’m fine, truly. I was just sitting here thinking about the good work you do, and it came to me. Why not reward you for all your wonderful efforts on the company’s behalf?’

‘That sounds really nice, sir, but –’

‘So what I was thinking is that you could take an extra paid vacation – let’s say for a month – and when you return there’ll be a nice raise waiting for you. Because, as you know, it’s company policy to reward exemplary employees.’

It is not company policy to reward exemplary employees. It’s actually more of a company policy to allow customers to try and kill employees over the phone all day every day until you want to die, while paying you a pittance for the trouble.

But, sadly, I don’t think I can point this out to him.

I don’t think I can point out anything to him.

I’m currently sitting there with my mouth hanging open and a noise coming out of my body like a balloon leaking all of its air. Did he honestly just offer me a month’s paid vacation? And a raise? I’ve never had a raise in all my time working for the company – and after he berated me for being awful, too.

This can’t be real.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’re just going to give me a paid vacation.’

‘If you’d like one. Would you like one?’

‘I would.’

‘Wonderful,’ he says, and the relief on his face is so clear it almost makes me relax. I hadn’t realised how tense my muscles were until I catch relief off him, and allow myself to sag a little in my chair. ‘Well, that’s all then.’

‘So I can go?’

‘You can go.’

‘And I don’t have to come into work tomorrow.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Because I’m on vacation.’

‘That’s it exactly.’

He makes pistol fingers at me to emphasise those words, which really only makes me more nervous about this whole thing. There’s just a strange hollowness about his every move, like someone pulled his strings and forced him to dance around for their pleasure.

In fact, that impression is so strong it’s all I can think about as I stumble out of his office. It stays with me all the way down the hall and into the elevator, though at first I’m not sure why. It just buzzes on the edge of my consciousness, like that thing you know you were supposed to do but now can’t quite remember.

What haven’t I done? I think, as I push my way through the double-door entrance and out into the car park. And then I see the limousine, and I realise:

It’s not something I
haven’t
done.

It’s something he
has.

I almost don’t get into the car. There’s something satisfying about the idea of strolling past, like I can’t even see this huge gleaming eyesore stretching out across the car park. I’m not aware that anyone is waiting for me, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. I’m oblivious; I’m aloof; I’m completely cool.