Boss From Hell

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

I like predictable. I like boring.

Changes I’m not prepared for discombobulate me, leaving me wrong-footed. I’ve got a plan—a five-year plan. I like to know what’s coming and what I’m working toward. It’s how I saved enough money in the first place to get a house—all on my own—and how I’ve gotten so proficient as an assistant. Getting fired was not in my plan.

Buying a house was supposed to be a smart commitment. Now I’m not so sure. I hadn’t realized how fleeting stability can be. My old job is suddenly gone, and I’m in debt up to my hairline. If I don’t get this new job, I’ll come close to a meltdown. Damn Toby. I’ve never hated anyone more in my entire life. Even thinking about his smarmy face makes my teeth clench. Karma will get him one day. I’m sure of it. Though, just in case karma is busy, maybe I should get Elisa to put a whammy on him instead.

I rub my chest, feeling an ache in the muscles. Come on, Mig. Push through. I just have to tweak my plan—extend the timeline a little and factor in more unknown risk.

Tonight, I’ll drink a toast to my last day at work and raise a glass to my new job. Well, fingers crossed. If I’m offered the job, I’ll take it—no matter what the new boss is like. At least that way I’ll have a steady pay-check coming in. I can worry about looking for a better job once the dust settles.

I find my laptop under my discarded dressing gown. Step one: freshen my resume. I’ll have to impress my potential new boss with my updated skills. I can hand over a printout at the interview. The itch under my skin lessens with a clear step forward.

A gurgle from my stomach interrupts my plan.

I pull the leftover veggie soup from the fridge, heat it in the microwave and eat while checking my email. I go over the details from Ms. Najee again. After a quick shower, I dress in my interview suit. I suck in my belly. Damn. I pop the button on the waistband and tug my shirt out to cover my slightly lumpy hips. It’ll do. I update and print my resume and jump back in the car. Before driving off, I stare at myself in the rear-view mirror. You need this job, Mig.

As always, I glance at the creepy house next door and a shiver runs down my spine. Though the house itself looks pretty normal—a single story brick veneer—it exudes menace. It makes me avoid going anywhere near the fence on that side. The curtains are closed and the shrubbery surrounding the house and the lawn is overgrown. b****y fire hazard. I bet there are rats inside. I wish someone lived there; having a vacant property beside my own is a little spooky.

I flip on the radio and back out onto the road. Katy Perry comes on. I crank up the volume and sing along.

It’s been five years since my last interview, but I know they are all about confidence. Working for Jack was the longest I’ve ever stayed in the one job. Prior to that, I only managed a year or two before boredom set in and I moved on. Working admin can be a bit of a curse. Once you learn what you need to know about a company, the work becomes a little same old, same old. It’s great for people-watching though. My screenplay has benefited greatly from the different personalities I’ve met over the years.

I park closer to the station this time. Twisting the key off, I let a thick silence fill the car. All of my hopes are pinned to this interview. It’s an insane amount of pressure. What if I don’t get it? And it’s not even the job interview filling me with doubts. I thought—no, I know—I’m good at my job, but . . . Jack fired me. Maybe . . . maybe I’m not as good as I think I am. Maybe I’m just . . . Ugh.

Back on the train, I continue my research into Brian Mackenzie. I get the same results as before—nada. How is it possible to not have any presence online in this day and age? Especially as a consultant.

The notepad I carry in my handbag to write down my story ideas allows me to jot down a list of average interview questions and brainstorm answers. It’s a plan of a sort and helps to settle my nerves.

Before I know it, the train has returned me to the city. Bellbird Tower is a short walk from Southern Cross Station―an excellent point in favor of taking the job. Crowds are starting to thicken as rush hour approaches. I cross Collins Street at the tram stop. Though it’s only quarter to four, the overcast May afternoon brings evening on quickly. The air is colder too. The Antarctic wind blasts off Port Phillip Bay, whipping down Collins Street from Docklands. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and zip my waist-length puffer jacket higher, halting at the loud ding ding ding of an oncoming tram. It rushes past me with a burst of air as commuters madly scramble to get off the tracks in time.

I love working in Melbourne. I wouldn’t want to work anywhere else in the world. The streetlights are popping on already and cars are quickly turning Collins Street into a parking lot. It’s going to be freezing tonight.

Nerves always make me desperate for the loo. I glance into a window as I pass and sigh at my wild hair. The problem with my natural waves is that they always spring in the wrong direction. I distract myself while I walk by going over my interview checklist. A decent pay package, easy to reach via public transport, and a good vibe from my boss. Point three is the big unknown. Elisa would say it’s the most important, and she’s not wrong. You want to respect the person you work for—or, at least I do. Still, no job means no money, and no money means I can’t make the repayments on my mortgage. I can work for someone I don’t like for a little while. Probably.

At this end of Collins Street, if I peer back over my shoulder I can see the Rialto, and at a right angle from there I can see Eureka Tower’s golden top across the river sending beams of light across the city. I approach Bellbird Tower with plenty of time to spare and crick my neck staring up at the purple tinted windows stretching off into the clouds. I feel a little awestruck. Will I actually get to work here?

When I enter the lobby, I’m immediately drawn to a gigantic Aboriginal painting covering the entire back wall. The plaque reminds me that the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation are the traditional owners and custodians of this land. Yellow, orange and red dotted colors create a dry desert landscape. It’s a glorious warmth-evoking painting, and feels out of place in such a cold foyer. I tear my gaze from the artwork to peer around the spacious waiting area. A black-suited man with a buzz cut and frameless glasses stands at a rectangular reception desk at the end, with blue and gray couch chairs forming several rows in front of the elevator banks. I glance around for a public restroom but can’t find any obvious signage. There’s a shadowed corridor. I head in that direction and find what I’m looking for.

I use the bathroom quickly and examine my hair in the mirror. It’s wild. Wispy waves dart off in all directions like I’ve touched one of those science balls in high school. I brush it out but I’m not hugely successful. I wet the strands and roll my eyes in the mirror.

My presence garners a strange look from the concierge as I return to the lobby. I’m early, so rather than approach the desk, I plonk myself down in one of the chairs to review my notes again.

I remove my puffer jacket and scarf and straighten my suit jacket, brushing a hand over my sleeves to check for dandruff or stray hairs. I’m fortunate that my interview suit had been clean. My usual work outfits are a bit like a uniform—black trousers that I can match with a range of business shirts. Today’s is emerald. It brings out my eyes. Elisa loves it on me and it makes me feel confident. I need all the confidence I can get today.

After reviewing my notes, I shove my notepad deep into my bag and do a last compact mirror check. My eyes look a little red—if I sneeze, maybe I can claim I have hay fever? I sigh. Can I sneeze without it coming across as gross or contagious? We’re paranoid enough these days and I always carry sanitizer in my handbag. I don’t want to lose out on the job just because I look sickly.

The concierge approaches me with sharp clacking footsteps. His hand rises to his ear. An earpiece? “Ms. Solder?”

I jerk. “Yes?”

His erect posture relaxes infinitesimally. “You’re expected on the forty-second floor.”

Right then. I stand and hang my puffer jacket and scarf over my arm. “Okay, thank you.” He hands me a visitor’s pass and directs me to swipe onto the elevator.

The slow ride up increases my fears. I step out on the forty-second floor to a buzz of noise and several people rush past me to fill the elevator. Two receptionists sit behind a wall-length desk. Their sleek headsets are practically invisible, making it appear as though they’re speaking to the air. Neither one looks up at my approach.

My footsteps slow. I’m unsure if I should take a seat or give them my name. Three high-backed crimson chairs look uninviting so I just hover. The reception area is gray with bursts of red, and the receptionists both wear dark red lipstick and perfect smoky-eye makeup. The blond straightens her soft-looking heart-covered scarf as her eyes narrow in my direction. The unwelcoming jolt makes me question taking the role. I don’t have to work here . . . I can afford to wait, right? Maybe it will be okay if I don’t succeed today.

“Who are you here to see, darl?” The dark-haired, dark-skinned receptionist has a husky voice like she’s just recovered from a cold. I glance at the blond beside her. She stares back at me without blinking.

“I’m here to see Mr. Mackenzie.”

The dark-haired receptionist’s judgmental gaze roves up and down my body. I’m sure she knows my outfit is not designer label. “You must be Margaret Solder. We’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Take a seat. I’ll give him a ring.”

Her perfectly painted, crisp red nails gesture to the straight-backed chairs. Darn. I’d hoped to avoid sitting in one. As soon as I make contact, I find I’d been right to delay for as long as possible. The cushion feels carved out of wood. I shift and wriggle but nothing can make the chair any more comfortable. I cross my legs. My nerves make a reappearance and my left knee starts bouncing. I order myself to stop fidgeting and smooth my hands along my thighs to dry the sweat on my palms. You never know who is watching.

I glance at the receptionists again. They’ve barely moved. They are a little like two statues made of ice. Their chin-length hair is razor-straight and both wear white, fitted sleeveless dresses. Uncharitably, I wonder if the women were purchased at the same store. Discount for bulk orders perhaps? Don’t judge on appearance. They might be perfectly lovely. Despite the effort, I can’t help but cast them as aliens freshly arrived on Earth, unaccustomed to blending in with humans, and the thought makes me smile.

Cold air brushes my nape and silence falls on the room like a weighted blanket. My head snaps up as a shadow looms in the doorway to my left.

The man who steps forward is the total opposite of my ex-boss in every way, and it raises the hairs on my skin. Where Jack was in his mid-forties, short and a little rotund, this man, in his late sixties or early seventies, is tall, skeletally thin, like a deciduous tree in winter. Reception’s low lighting creates shadows across his sharp nose and jutting cheekbones. I recoil very slightly as he stretches out a hand.

“Brian Mackenzie. You must be the woman I’ve been looking for.”

My instinct is flight. Escape. I even glance toward the elevators—they’re only a few steps away. I take a deep breath and stand up.

I need a job and this man, no matter how creepy he seems, might be just what saves me from defaulting on my home loan. I lock eyes with him as his hand closes around mine, and suppress a shiver at the icy touch of his fingers. I twitch my lips into a smile I don’t feel. “Margaret Solder. I’m excited to hear more about the position.”

He ushers me to precede him through the door and down a long, dimly lit hallway. I hear him shuffling behind me, his shoes squeaking with every uneven step, his breathing labored. Shouldn’t he be retired at his age? I suddenly wonder how permanent the job as his assistant is likely to be.

The hallway leads to an open office that stretches off into the sunset. Giant floor-to-ceiling windows allow a perfect view of the pink and orange tones kissing the sky. Wow. I tear my gaze away to examine the rest of the floor. If I get this job, I’ll end up sitting here somewhere, and for the desk space alone I would walk into hell. I count only forty desks in an area that could easily seat eighty, in rows of four. Low partitions give the illusion of privacy while allowing a view across the floor. Along one wall are closed doors which I assume lead to offices or meeting rooms. Glass panels are covered in a film of etched city landscapes reminiscent of the city images on their website. Reception’s muted grays and reds extend into this space, and the docking stations have panoramic screens. It’s an administrator’s dream.

Mackenzie gestures to a door on my right and we walk into a six-seat meeting room. Unlike the cold, uncomfortable reception chairs, the meeting room chair devours me and I barely stifle my groan at the comfort. The door shuts us in muffled silence. A screen fills the entire wall opposite a floor-length window that overlooks the Yarra River.

He settles into the chair across from me. It appears no one else is to join us. How odd. I’ve never been in a solo interview before. Not for an initial pass.

“What do you think of the office?”

“It’s amazing.” I work to relax my body and offer him a bright smile. Look interested, keep eye contact, nod a lot.

Mackenzie leans forward. He sniffs a few times and tilts his head. “I am not sure what the agent told you, Ms. Solder, but I am in dire need. My previous assistant left without providing notice and I am a busy man. I have no time to sit through another arduous recruitment process.”

“I see.” He sounds as desperate as I am. “What precisely are you looking for? I was told it’s an executive-level assistant position.”

“How rude of me. Let me tell you a bit about myself. I am the chief executive officer here. The head dog, so to speak.” His voice is thin, and he gasps a little, as if he’s not getting enough oxygen. “I came here with nothing more than a need to survive. No money, no family, nothing to my name but a desire to assist those like me. I started Mackenzie Consulting in the back room of a bar and you can see what has become of us. We have many clients, some of whom I still deal with directly. We perform select services and I require an executive assistant who is punctual, detail-oriented and able to operate under extreme confidentiality. No questions.” Unlike his labored breathing, his stare is that of a raptor, and it is fixed upon my face. I can’t maintain eye contact, and shift my gaze over his shoulder to the sky growing steadily darker outside.

I can see why he is the CEO. The fire in his eyes and the determination in his reedy voice must keep him going. No questions? What doesn’t he want me to ask questions about? I’ve kept confidentiality before. At my level, it’s pretty common, but this description gives me the willies. I look around the room. If he’s doing something illegal, would he do it right out in the open like this?

“Standard benefits, of course, plus many perks such as an onsite gym, massages, café with a professional barista onsite—all free for staff—as well as discounted insurance, travel, and access to an exclusive retail membership.”

Honestly, he had me at the free coffee. “So, I’ll book travel, maintain calendars and phones, and assist with regular reporting—that sort of thing?”

“I assume you are proficient in most programs and systems?”

This was where I excel, and I can’t help but boast a little as I nod. “Yes. I pick up systems quickly and I often end up running staff inductions and training when new programs are rolled out.”

“Excellent.” He sits back and his bones creak. His gaze doesn’t leave my face as he sniffs again. “The salary is extremely generous as I will insist on being able to reach you at all hours. However, I welcome flexible working arrangements and, provided you are fully contactable, I will allow you to work from home when the situation warrants.”

The job sounds ideal. Everything here is so posh; it’s intimidating. I wonder if I will have to shell out for expensive outfits and shoes if I get the job. The package better be good if I do. I won’t wear heels, though. I’m always running around for some reason or another, and as my grandmothers always say, you can’t run in heels. Speaking of shoes, sitting at the corner of the table means I can see Mackenzie’s shoes when I glance down. Shiny black loafers.

Mackenzie slides an A4 envelope across the table. His suit fits him as if it’s been sewn around his body, and the material is so shiny I can’t spot a single crease even though he’s hunched over.

“Well?”

My mind goes completely blank. To stall, I open the envelope. It’s a contract. I’ve got the job? The number on the first page is mind-blowing. That’s an insane number of zeroes, almost triple what I usually make, and an answer to all my prayers. Again, the thought flutters across my mind that he is doing something illegal here. I push it out again. “When would you expect me to start?” I clasp my hands over the envelope, hoping he won’t take it away from me.

“Monday.”

So no loss in my mortgage payments at all. It’ll be like I was never out of work. With this salary, I can even put money toward that screenwriting mentoring course I want to do. “When do you need my answer?”

“I’d like you to sign the contract before you leave,” he says, offering me a glimpse of a smile.

“So soon? What about references?” This might be where the whole house of cards falls apart. Will Jack even give me a good reference after what happened? Maybe he will, but I can’t rely on that.

“I believe you will work out nicely. I prefer to jump straight into a three-month probational period rather than talk to people I do not know about you and take their word on your proficiency. You haven’t lied about your skills, have you?”

My answer is immediate. “No, sir.”

“Then I am comfortable with a trial arrangement. I expect to see you first thing Monday morning.”

My brain shuts down. I’m speechless. No references? Could this job be any more perfect? I tear my gaze from his magnetic stare and the tiny hairs quiver on the back of my neck as I stare out the window, thinking. Elisa’s warning blooms in my mind. Be careful. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, but then again, couldn’t I say the same about him? Trusting my resume on spec without speaking to my references. Still, there is something that niggles at me. “I’m sorry for asking this but my research into your company was a little . . . um, your website is unclear. What exactly is it that you do?”

“We consult.”

“Um, yes, but on what?”

“Anything our clients desire. We are a full service consultancy, Ms. Solder. Our clients are always left satisfied. I trust this is a core value we share.”

“Of course.” I open my mouth to reframe my question, but he interrupts.

“Well, Ms. Solder, what is it to be?”

I need money and a job, and this is both. Besides, if it doesn’t work out, I can always resign. Elisa’s warning returns. I shove it back. “I’ll take it.”

Mackenzie draws a gleaming gold pen from his breast pocket and clicks the end. His lips stretch in a wide smile, teeth razor sharp, and he sniffs. I take the pen from his fingers, startled at how cold the metal is, and sign each section of the contract quickly. As I turn the final page, I let out a gasp at the sting of a papercut. Crap! Even though I’m careful, I swipe a little blood over the last page as I sign my name, and I fold the pages closed, hoping Mackenzie didn’t see.

He leans back in his chair and a sigh escapes his mouth. “Excellent. I’m looking forward to Monday, Ms. Solder.”

In my head, I hear a door slam.