Office Perks (2 page)

Miss Davenport had shut the door so I didn't get a chance to earwig her conversation, although I'd caught a few words. She had a cut glass accent, public school for sure, which went with her appearance: a two-piece skirt suit of fine dove-grey wool, crisp white blouse with a thin black ribbon at her throat, silk tights, maybe even stockings. Little-Miss-Snooty all through, except for the heels. Her heels were four-inch stilettos in shiny black patent with a tiny scarlet logo at the outside, what looked like a burning H.

She came out not long after I'd finished doing my forms, gave me a glance I'd swear was pity, and left. I looked after her, thinking what a stuck-up bitch she was, before answering Mrs Maryam Smith's call. Back in her inner sanctum she took my forms, glancing over them. By the time she'd got to the bottom of the one with all the little boxes, her frosty, formal expression had faded to something approaching affability. She nodded as she put them down.

‘Well, Miss Doyle, you're certainly very well qualified, remarkably well for your age.'

‘The Church set very exacting standards.'

‘So I see. But still, with us you will be working in a business environment, under pressure, often called on to work unusual hours, and in general to maintain a proactive attitude to both ourselves and our clients.'

I nodded and smiled. I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about, except for the bit about unusual hours.

‘I was required to start work at the parochial house at seven-thirty in the morning.'

Her eyebrows rose a fraction.

‘I doubt that will be necessary. But let us say, for the sake of example, a client were to ask you to accompany him for a weekend conference?'

I hesitated. The answer was that it depended how horny he was, but that didn't seem likely to be what she wanted to hear. On top of Miss Davenport's folder was a stapled sheaf of paper headed – Guidelines for Staff.

‘Naturally I'd follow the Super Staff guidelines.'

Her smile grew broader. It was the correct answer. She handed me a copy of the guidelines, three pages of small, closely spaced print. I bit down a grimace as she went on.

‘One last question, Miss Doyle. What would you bring to us here at Super Staff?'

I was ready for that one.

‘First and foremost, commitment, also good personal presentation and a willingness to work to a flexible, efficient timetable.'

She gave another pleased smile.

‘Well, Miss Doyle, naturally we'll need to check your references, but I think I may fairly say that you will fit in very well with us here at Super Staff.'

‘I'm sure I will. Thank you.'

I got up, left and that was it. I had a job, or, rather, I
would have a job if I managed to talk the people I'd given as references into covering for me. That was an itsy-bitsy problem, and something I needed to attend to sharpish. Not that sharpish, because a tot of Power's was called for, to celebrate and to toughen myself up for the inevitable blow-up when I got home.

There was a pub directly over the road, the Bull. They didn't have Powers, but they did have Jameson's. I ordered a double. After all, for the first time in my life I was going to have some money to spare. As I turned away from the bar I realised that among the few others getting an early drink in was Miss Davenport. She was scowling as she read the document Super Staff had given her. I went towards her, hoping her heels said more about her than her dress, her looks, her accent.

‘Hi? You were in Super Staff, over the road?'

‘Yeah, daft bitch.'

She scrumpled up the document and dropped it into an ashtray with a motion of fastidious distaste.

‘Fuck that for a laugh.'

I was a bit taken aback. To hear her speak she might have been royalty, but she swore like my uncles.

‘What was it?'

‘First formal warning.'

‘Oh, right. What are they like at Super Staff? Strict?'

‘The usual bollocks. They expect everything for fuck all.'

‘Don't they pay much?'

‘Depends. Generally ten or twelve an hour.'

‘Ten or twelve pounds an hour?'

‘Yes, mean bitch.'

Not in my books she wasn't. Even at ten pounds an hour I would be taking home ten times what the parochial house had meant to pay me. I didn't say anything, not wanting to look totally naïve, and she went on.

‘You get a specific rate with each job, depending on the skills you'll be using. Half the time you end up filing anyway, and making tea and coffee. You'll find that wherever you go there's some guy on a power trip who wants you to be his personal tea maid. Women are worse.'

‘I can cope. I'm Lucy, by the way.'

‘Bobbie. Would you like another?'

‘I'd love to, only I'm a bit broke.'

‘Whatever. When I get kicked out you can sub me.'

‘OK, it's Jameson's.'

She went for the drinks, leaving me a little surprised, and quite pleased. I hadn't expected her to be so friendly, but it was as if working for Super Staff made us instant friends. She seemed to know what she was doing too, which had to help. The moment she got back I put the question which had been uppermost in my mind.

‘Could you give me some advice?'

‘Sure.'

‘How quickly does Mrs Smith check our references?'

She laughed.

‘Did you give email addresses?'

‘No.'

‘Then you've got until maybe Thursday to sort out whatever you've been up to. She never rings, but I wouldn't hang around if I were you.'

I nodded thankfully.

‘How does it work then, with jobs?'

‘It's simple. You get a call in the morning, telling you where to go and who to see, then at the end of the week, or whenever, you get your boss to sign a time sheet.'

‘Sounds OK. What's a “proactive attitude”?'

‘It means you have to give the male clients blow-jobs on demand.'

‘You're joking!'

She nearly choked on her wine, clutching at her neck in her effort not to laugh before she managed to get herself under control.

‘Of course I'm joking! It just means you're expected to volunteer to work late if it would help, that sort of stuff. Basically, be a good little wage slave.'

‘Do any of the men hit on you?'

She shrugged, utterly indifferent.

‘Sure, sometimes. Sometimes I go for it, if they're cute. You're not supposed to, but then it's none of SS's business.'

‘SS as in Super Staff?'

‘Yes. It suits them. Don't worry about it, because if you're good they need you a lot more than you need them.'

I picked up the guidelines.

‘How about all this?'

‘It's churn. Bin it.'

‘Churn?'

‘Stuff that's forever being rewritten, so there's no point in reading it. The only thing they're really hot on is moonlighting, if you accept private offers for work from their clients.'

‘Is that why you got your warning?'

‘No, that was for flashing a window cleaner.'

‘Flashing a window cleaner?'

‘Yes. He was cute too, and he was staring in at me while I was filing. I thought, maybe after work. So I flashed my tits.'

‘Couldn't you just have asked him?'

‘Don't be silly, he was outside the window on the fifteenth floor. He got the message all right too, only there was CCTV in the room. Nosy bastards.'

I couldn't help but laugh, and warm to her. She was as much of a bad girl as I was, propositioning men and
drinking shorts in the afternoon. I just had to top her story.

‘I know the feeling,' I casually slipped in. ‘I got sacked earlier today, for sucking the gardener off.'

‘You dirty bitch!'

It was not a criticism, far from it. She was laughing.

‘Tell all, and I want the details.'

My head was already spinning a little. No surprise, with four shots of whiskey on a nearly empty stomach.

‘OK. I'm going to university in September. To Edinburgh, and my family had set it up for me to work at this parochial house, that's where priests live. It was dead, and I won't even tell you how much they were going to pay me, but the gardener was huge, hands like spades, and just all man.'

‘Rough?'

‘Rough, yeah.'

Her eyes were glittering and her hand was tight on the stem of her wine glass. I suppressed a giggle as her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips.

‘Just how rough?'

‘Rough, but he wasn't a pig about it. You know how some men are, trying to get the whole thing down your throat. He wasn't like that, he stroked my hair and tickled my neck. I love that, with a cock in my mouth and my man's hands holding my head.'

She shook her head.

‘That's nice, but I like really rough, the sort of guy who won't think twice about doing it in front of his mates.'

It was my turn to wet my lips, thinking back to Dalkey, and kneeling in the long, warm grass behind my Nan's house with Shaun Cullen's cock in my mouth while his mates watched me suck him off. I nodded.

‘I know, but there were only the priests. Father Jessop
caught me at it, so I got kicked out. That's why I was at Super Staff.'

She nodded in turn. Her face was a little flushed, and I could feel the heat at my own neck. My pussy was beginning to feel more than a little in need of attention. I wanted to talk.

‘I don't know why I'm telling you this, because I haven't even told my sisters, but last summer, in Ireland, a man I'd been going out with got me to suck him off – with three of his friends watching.'

I giggled. Bobbie had closed her eyes, her face set in dreamy pleasure. When she spoke it was a sigh.

‘Yes, please. Where they very rough with you? Did your boyfriend make you take your clothes off?'

‘He pulled my top up. I wasn't wearing a bra.'

She purred.

‘I wish!'

‘Haven't you? Like that?'

Suddenly her tone had changed completely.

‘No! Men are such cowards, or else stupidly jealous, or they can't get hard in front of their mates.'

‘Shaun Cullen didn't have any trouble. He was well up for it, so he could show off in front of them.'

‘He didn't . . . make you do them too, did he?'

‘No!'

‘Pity.'

‘You're terrible, worse than me!'

‘I want it like that, but I seem to scare them off.'

‘Maybe because you're too tall, and you do sound . . . you know . . .' I'd been going to say stuck up, but decided against it. She made a face.

‘It's just me,' she said, anticipating what it was I was going to say. ‘I shouldn't complain, I suppose. The window cleaner, Jack, he was good. He still had his overalls on, and he took me down a back alley, right in the
middle of the city, behind a church. I went up against the wall. He just picked me up, under my bum, pulled my knickers aside and lifted me onto his cock. All I could do was cling on tight while he had me. It was like being fucked by a bear.'

‘How do you know? Do you often get fucked by bears?'

‘Very funny.'

‘Are you going to see him again?'

‘I don't know . . . maybe. I don't want him to start thinking I'm his. Do you want another whiskey, or shall we share a bottle of wine? The Sancerre here is OK.'

‘Fine, that would be great, yes.'

I'd glanced up to where a list of wines was written on a blackboard, with the names in red and white chalk within a fringe of grape leaves. The Sancerre was a white, and cost twenty-five pounds a bottle. Bobbie wasn't bothered, making sure the barman took a really cold one from the back of the fridge. He brought it back with two glasses on a tray. I knew it was stupid to drink wine on top of whiskey, but I didn't feel I could refuse her. She poured and we chinked glasses.

‘Here's to big, rough men.'

My response was a giggle. I felt happy, accepted, and had no desire whatsoever to start for home. Much better to drink with my new friend, and talk dirty, only the pub was beginning to fill up as people came out of work. A group of young men had sat down at the table beside us, five of them, talking in loud, brash voices about money, cars, girls. I caught a snatch of conversation.

‘. . . and the girls go down under the table, right. Blow-jobs all round, right, and afterwards, they get up on the stage to do a strip, only one of them's a tranny!'

The others burst into raucous laughter and I found myself giggling, imagining the men he was talking about, all as pleased as punch because they'd had their
cocks sucked, and then finding out one of the girls was really a man. Two of them were quite attractive, in a slick sort of way. I glanced at Bobbie, wondering if she was thinking the same, just as the buzz of general conversation and the music hit a lull at the same instant. The voice of the biggest of the five came to me, clear as a bell.

‘Who d'you reckon on, Pinky or Perky?'

It wasn't hard to guess who he was talking about, or why. Talking sex with Bobbie, my nipples had gone stiff, and were sticking up through my top as if making a determined effort to escape, upwards. I could see why Bobbie was Pinky too, because she was flushed from her neck up. So was I, as my temper flared with my embarrassment. I rounded on them, wanting some really biting put-down – just the sort which always comes ten minutes after you need it. Bobbie just laughed.

‘Show them what they can't have, Lucy!'

I didn't even think. My hands went to the hem of my top and up it came, tits bare to the room, perky nipples pointing more or less at the ceiling. There was a wonderful moment as the guy's jaw dropped and his eyes went round. The guy next to him saw too, and swore. Their mates realised something was up and jerked around, too late. I'd already covered up, trying to look sweet and innocent as I raised my glass to my lips. Bobbie dissolved in laughter, and so did I, unable to stop myself.