Short Stories

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Glitch

‘Where’s Ian?’ asks Hilary, hanging her slouchy leather handbag on the back of her chair. ‘Is he in today?’

‘Yeah, but not until later – he’s getting his car fixed,’ I tell her. ‘Something about a software problem with his new electric Mini – I think.’

Hilary smirks. ‘Oh, I see.’

The relish on Hilary’s face is apparent as she wedges her considerable rump into her swivel chair with gentle mischief, surveying the near-empty office – usually teeming with staff by now. Half-term seems to have claimed everyone.

Everyone, that is, apart from me: Ian’s personal assistant, on the verge of spinsterhood at the tender age of twenty-four, and a woman whose fertility took its bow and exited stage left long ago – without so much as a standing ovation. I trust that my ovaries are just as shrivelled as this old hens’, if not more so. May my curtain never rise, and may I remain a lifelong member of the No Nappy Club.

I’m not Hilary’s cup of tea, and we exchange awkward platitudes as we simultaneously organise our inboxes.

Accounts payable clerk, Julie, enters.

‘Morning,’ she says, with a fixed stare on Ian’s vacant desk. ‘No boss-man today?’ Julie’s final act was even longer ago than Hilary’s. She pushes the 30-litre bag of kitty litter under her desk aside and cleans her keyboard with a sanitising wipe.

‘Getting his car fixed,’ says Hilary, snatching the words from my mouth. What would I know? I’m just his PA.

And although I may be peeved that my holiday request got gazumped by Gail in admin – again – at least that means I don’t have to endure another week of cooing over her incessant pictures of her “little darlings,” endlessly swiping through on her phone with a blend of social obligation and mild panic. “Aww, look at those cheeks! Isn’t she tiny!” The performance is all in the eyes, the timing, and remembering not to overdo the nodding. Not once has she asked to look at my photos, at my life.

Hilary and Julie talk about their new steam cleaners, their gardens, their cats, with greater eccentricity and volume than usual. With Ian not in, there’s a different energy in the air. Lighter. Freer. They swivel their chairs to face each other.

Mine, on the other hand – a transient PA who hasn’t been with the company long – remains firmly behind my corner desk, like a piece of furniture held hostage by office geometry. How they pine over dear “Becky-Jo,” the previous PA. “Becky-Jo this,” “Becky-Jo that.” “Becky-Jo always used to fix paper jams.” It seems that Becky-Jo left some pretty big shoes to fill. I see how they look at me in my peripheral vision.

With this morning’s formatting tasks complete, I produce a tub of biscuits. ‘Leftover from yesterday’s board meeting,’ I say, popping the lid, placing them on the centre desk. Their side-eye glances quickly dissipate.

Three custard creams in, Julie says, brushing biscuit crumbs off her shirt, ‘I finished this book last night.’

‘Oh yeah?’ says Hilary, swigging coffee from her “Keep Calm and Carry On” mug. ‘What was it about?’

‘This woman who moves to the countryside to find herself after discovering that her husband’s been having an affair.’

I stifle a laugh obscuring my face with my “Out of Office” mug. Julie sees me and shoots a look that could kill. I’ve mistaken her sincerity for sarcasm. I didn’t mean to be rude.

‘Anyway—’ resumes Julie, a biscuit crumb flying from her mouth. ‘It was a real page-turner. A proper tear-jerker. Very moving.’

‘Sounds good,’ I say, my soul dry-heaving as I try to make an effort.  ‘I love reading. I’m reading a good book at the moment, actually. It’s quite strange – quite out there. It’s about this…’

‘You read A Spoonful of Moonlight yet – Julie?’ interrupts Hilary. I get the hint.

‘Yes! Couldn’t put it down! About the bloke whose wife dies, and then he goes back to where he used to holiday as a nipper, right?’

I find this place, these people, so formulaic, so safe, so normie at times, it makes me want to throw up into a scented candle.

‘Yeah, back to Ireland. Back to that seaside town,’ says Hilary, wheeling over in her chair for another biscuit. ‘Ever so sad. Beautifully written. Nothing much really happens, but it’s more about him confronting his past.’

‘Confronting himself,’ Julie adds. ‘His demons.’

Where’s that candle?

I yawn. They shake their heads – this time it’s my sincerity being mistaken for sarcasm. I’m tired. I stayed up reading until 2am.

‘You read Cakes, Crumbs, and Second Chances?’ Hilary asks. ‘Domestic violence.’

‘No, not yet,’ answers Julie. ‘Any good?’

‘Stunning. A stunning book. It’s about this woman who escapes her violent husband to start up a cupcake shop, and then one day, the man of her dreams walks in and proposes to her. But he hides the ring inside a cupcake—’

‘What kind?’

‘Red velvet.’

‘Aww…’

‘I know, and they move to San Francisco and adopt a little boy. Oh, it’s wonderful – really magical.’

‘I love a bit of romance, me,’ says Julie. ‘Not that there’s much chance of that with my Ken.’

After a brief interlude about their “useless” husbands, it’s straight back to women’s fiction. I try to block them out by burying myself in another spreadsheet, but it’s impossible.

‘You read, Maggie Bloom Starts Again?That was a lovely read. Really emotional. I ran out of tissues I cried so much.’

‘No. Can I borrow it?’

‘Of course. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’

‘Thanks. Does Ken read?’

‘Yeah, but all he reads are spy novels,’ says Julie, on her way over for a biscuit.

‘Boooring,’ they say in unison.

Danger? Double agents? Dead drops? Codebreaking? State-sanctioned killings and rogue operations? Hacking? Honey-traps? Yeah, real snooze-fest. Give me a book about a knitting circle, though, and I can barely contain my excitement. Riveting stuff.  

‘You read Apricots in October?’

‘No. I saw the film. Didn’t realise it was a book.’

Unable to tolerate another second, I grab an early lunch.

Domestic abuse? Divorce and cupcakes? Finding love? Losing love? Never having love? Motherhood? Emigrating? Starting over? All these clichéd silver linings. Marriage, mortgage, motherhood. A gravy train of milestones – marriage, mortgage, motherhood. Misery and martinis. Well, it doesn’t do it for me. Sorry I didn’t sign up for the same pre-packaged life plan as the rest of you.

A cubicle frees up. I go in.

Another day late. I’m basically synced with the moon, what is this? Must be a glitch in the matrix. The simulation’s acting up, that’s all.

I pull my book from my bag and finish the final nine pages on the toilet, waiting for Aunt Flo to Show.

Re-entering the office, I leave Julie and Hilary to talk about bloody crawdads and bloody bell jars while I check my emails.

‘Ian’s coming in at 2pm,’ I tell them. They acknowledge me with a glance.

‘As I was saying,’ says Hilary, ‘it’s about this mother who finds out she was adopted, then puts her daughter up for adoption, who, later in life, adopts a little boy because she can’t have kids, only to find out she was pregnant all along…’

‘Does it feel hot in here to you?’ I say. They don’t answer. I crank up the air-con.

‘What’s that book called again? I’ll write in down.’

‘Beneath The Willow Tree.’

‘Well, you just have to read Bump in the Road. Catherine, this thirty-something, uptight lawyer, gets pregnant after a one-night stand with this hot, young artist called Jack—’

That’s it. I’ve suffered enough.

‘Wanna know what I’m reading?’ I declare. ‘Well, do you? Do you wanna know? I’ll tell you, shall I?’

I stand, push back my chair.

‘I stayed up until 2am reading a book about a possessed vagina. Yes, a possessed VAGINA.’ I enunciate the word wildly. ‘About a woman whose VAGINA acts as a gateway to the world of the dead.’

I begin pacing between the desks. Open-mouthed, their eyes follow me.

‘Either of you read, Pustular Junkies?’ I say, retying my ponytail, still pacing. ‘No? It’sabout this kid with the worst case of acne anyone’s ever seen. But what people don’t know is that his pus is actually a powerful narcotic with hallucinogenic effects, and he turns it into a cream, and his classmates can’t get enough of it, and then he becomes the most popular kid in school.’

Hilary puts down her custard cream.

‘And tonight, I’m starting a book where the narrator’s a cockroach. Yep, that’s right – a cockroach. Living inside a New York apartment…’

On I go, each book stranger than the last.

I pull my copy of The Possessed Vagina from my bag and slap it down on the centre desk. ‘Just finished it on the toilet. Feel free to borrow it.’

‘Eugh. That’s disgusting,’ says Julie. ‘You’ve gone mad. Look – you’re scaring Hilary.’

‘Am I?’

Swallowed by a void of silence, I shut down my computer, throw my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ Julie asks. ‘What about the paper jam that still needs fixing?’

‘You do it for a change. I’m not an engineer. I’m sick of it, sick of this place. Sick of you two. I quit.’

The low roar of an electric Mini pulling in echoes outside the window. I peek through the slats of the blinds and see Ian sliding his sunglasses onto his shiny bald head. I step back from the door, bag slung over my shoulder and sit back down.

‘It’s a scorcher out there today, ladies,’ he says, coming in and closing the door behind him. ‘Nice and cool in here though. How are we all? Many calls?’

‘No,’ I say, barely above a murmur as I log back in, bag still on my shoulder, Hilary’s and Julie’s stares drill into me like I’ve suddenly grown an extra head.

‘What?’ I quietly mouth.

‘The book,’ they mouth back, and as I lurch forward to hurriedly swipe The Possessed Vagina off the desk before Ian sees it, my bag tilts forward. An unopened pregnancy test tumbles out.

‘I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me,’ says Ian.

The silence that follows is thick with unspoken understanding, and somehow, no one mentions it again. Not then, not ever.