Boss From Hell

CHAPTER ONE

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 s**t. 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 s**t, 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-s***h-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 c***k. 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 s******g 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 Mackenzie 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. Mackenzie. 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.