Haven’t thought of a title yet
This is purely a work of fiction, and is not based upon anyone.
For a friend who will be doing work experience in a years time
“Oh”
His face fell, as he stares I begin shrinking back from the withering gaze, his tone make my teeth grate. ‘Oh this is what I’ve been lumbered with for two weeks.’
‘You and me both pal’ Biting my lip I swallow the retort and force a smile in a vain attempt to create a good impression.
He begins to circle me, his eyes trailing over every detail, I feel like a cow at a country fair.
I can’t see where he can find fault, I haven’t even opened my mouth yet and already he’s staring down his nose at me obviously displeased.
The outfits smart and simple enough to be business like but not showy, I regret having worn a skirt now even though I adored it last night. The heels might have been a mistake; he glances over them briefly and turns his attention to my nails.
His sneer tells me he’s as pleased about this placement as I am.
This grease ball of a man evaluating me makes my hackles rise, I’ll bare it but I don’t know how long I can keep my temper in check.
Of all the things put down on the form they had to choose this for work experience, a bleeding call centre. Out four options and this gets picked? What happened to journalism, dentist or writer?
The sudden snort grabs my attention as he strides off with out a word across the office, his face like thunder towards the small room at the back .Barely noticeable for the oversized mirror next to the door.
As the door slams behind him I flinch. I don’t think I’m supposed to follow him.
If that is the man I have to work for I may just call in sick tomorrow, it’s not like I get paid for this. Valuable work experience for the real world, I find the concept is laughable!, two weeks free labour is more like it.
Searching round I find myself left to my own devices amongst the subtle hum of the computers. Picking a seat in the nearest empty cubicle I wait, for anything really, instructions: maybe a tour round the building. Taking a fleeting look at my new bosses exit I doubt it’s forthcoming.
I suppose its only half eight, no one will show till nine.
Idly I swing my legs back and forth, heels clicking against the chair; watching the hands tick round the wall clock, the tedium irritates me. Only eight hours, thirty minutes and twenty seconds to go. I need something to do; so I’ll take a tour round the place myself.
I count nine other cubicles besides the one I sit at, each one is unique in some way. Slowly I find myself wondering amongst them, each one a little window to the soul.
I try to picture my co workers from these; I wonder how right I’ll be
The first is nearest the door for a quick exit an absent minded man lives here, the smell of forgotten sandwiches wafts from beneath the heap of paperwork and pens. The smile of a small boy greets me on the shelf next to some Werthers originals accompanied by some spare set of keys and loose change.
A blue and white coffee mug perched precariously near the desk edge; pushing it further inwards the papers shift from the pile. Though if there was any organisation there I’ll be surprised, a few papers sport ring marks from the cup the ink smeared on the page. Hastily scribbled post its cover the documents and desk, most are some sort of short hand. This is not a man at home with his computer; the keyboard is almost buried underneath the heap.
I’m amused by this desk; a pink tie with elephants peaks out of the top draw, the desk keys in the lock below. I hope to shadow this man, the collection of ties in the top draw suggest a sense of humour.
I picture a grandfather, short and stocky with a father Christmas face, absurdly bright suits to match the comic ties.
Daring not to intrude further I leave this world for its sterile neighbour, the contrast of this pristine spectacle makes the other seem even more disorganised and haphazard.
No photos grace its surface; minimalist is the only word I can use for this world. Just a high spec laptop and crisp clear ring binders. Though not totally devoid of personality; a sealed bottle of flavoured water stands by a desk toy.
It is irresistible not to touch it. The brightly coloured woodpecker hammers down the pole, feathers bobbing to the beat.
A glint of light shows wrappers tucked forgotten behind the folders. This desk has a secret stash of chocolate, pausing there are no other tell tail signs than the glinting red wrappers.
A young career woman springs to mind, ruthless and determined to put up a steely professional front for her co-workers.
The clock ticks on, eight thirty seven, I imagine this woman appearing at twenty to the hour. Prim and dressed expensively, though within her limits.
I move away careful not to disturb anything from its resting place. The desk draws will be locked for sure, and I don’t wish to face the consequences of being caught red handed snooping on my first day. . Every item is placed with precision, a warning against would be intruders.
The little world behind is a home away from home, the high cubicle shrouds me from observation should anyone enter the main door.
A family man resides here, mugs declaring to be for the best dad in the world hold centre stage amongst the jumble of child’s gifts .Finger paintings are proudly taped to the cubicle wall, shining and luminescent against the pale green.
Pictures of family members scattered like treasures, some photos are older than others. A beautiful brunet appears in each they tell a story.
The wedding photos in monochrome traditional in appearance, white roses line her hair, their hands clasped together; they are surrounded by family; it’s picturesque to say the least.
A hospital bed, years later the first born child held lovingly in her arms. Her eyes are radiant with joy, while he beams at the camera grasping a well intentioned gift, the balloon declaring ‘It’s a boy’.
More tell of how the family grows, a daughter is added; flowing brown curls and a cheeky smile adorn her face. As the girl wears a plaid school uniform another son enters their family.
Something out of place irks me about this happy picture enveloped in the silver frame; everything is so perfect. Like the families in after school specials; I can scarcely believe that everything I see is real, though the smiles are warm and genuine.
I turn to leave and realise: it’s the youngest son, a brown eyed child with two blue eyed parents. Perhaps there is nothing portentous about this, there’s many an innocent explanation. There probably is but my hunger for a good trashy love story makes a different assumption. Perhaps this smiling woman is not as devoted and faithful as she seems. I can make no more assumptions I’ve only dipped a toe into this shallow pool of clues.
Ten to nine, I‘ve lingered over this desk a while; better to stop now and return to my seat. I a fast paced entrance is coming from the corridor.
[chapter one edited, sorry I make no excuses I've left in the uk spellings]
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