The Hating Game (4 page)

“No argument there. I'm such a failure—I haven't invented anything.”

Danny laughs, bright and loud. I look from his notepad to his face. This is probably the first time I've looked at him properly. I get a little kick of surprise in my stomach when I flip off the autopilot switch.
Oh.
He's cute.

“Anyway, did you know I'm finishing up here soon?”

“No, why?” The little flirt-bubble inside my stomach bursts. Game over.

“A buddy and I are developing a new self-publishing platform. My last day is in a couple of weeks. This is my last all-staff.”

“Well that's a shame. Not for me. For B and G.” My clarification is as subtle as a love-struck schoolgirl.

Trust me to not notice a cute guy in my midst. He's been sitting right opposite me, for heaven's sake. Now he's leaving. Le sigh. It's time I took a proper look at Danny Fletcher. Attractive, lean, and in shape, with soft blond curls cropped close to his head. He's not tall, which suits me fine. He's a Bexley, but not of the typical variety. His shirt, while crisp like a birthday card, is rolled at the cuffs. His tie is subtly patterned with tiny scissors and clipboards.

“Nice tie.”

He looks down and grins. “I do a LOT of cutting and pasting.”

I look sideways at the design team, mainly Bexleys, who all dress like funeral directors. I understand his decision to leave B&G, the most boring design team on this planet.

Next, I look at Danny's left hand. Every finger is bare, and he drums them lightly against the table.

“Well, if you ever want to collaborate on an invention, I'm available.” His smile is mischievous.

“You're freelancing as an inventor as well as reinventing self-publishing?”

“Exactly.” He clearly appreciates my clever wordplay.

I've never had anyone flirt with me at work. I sneak a look at Joshua. He's talking to Mr. Bexley.

“It'll be hard to invent something the Japanese haven't thought of.”

He considers for a moment. “Like those little mops babies can wear on their hands and feet?”

“Yes. Have you seen those pillows shaped like a husband's shoulder for lonely women to sleep on?”

His jaw is angular and shadowed with silvery stubble, and he has one of those slightly cruel mouths, until he smiles. Which he does now, looking right into my eyes.

“Surely you don't need one of those, do you?” He drops his tone, below the chatter of everyone else. His eyes are sparkling, daring me.

“Maybe.” I make a rueful face.

“I'm sure you could find a human volunteer.”

I try to get us back on track. Unfortunately, it comes out sounding like I'm propositioning him. “Maybe it would be fun to invent something.”

Helene is tapping her papers into order and reluctantly I turn in my chair. Joshua is glaring at me with angry eyebrows. I use my brainwaves to transmit an insult to him, which he receives and pulls himself up straight.

“One more thing before we depart,” Mr. Bexley says. Helene tries to not scowl. She hates when he acts like he's solely chairing meetings.

“We have an announcement about a restructure in the executive team,” Helene continues seamlessly, and Mr. Bexley's lips tighten in annoyance before he cuts over her.

“A third executive position is being established—chief operating officer.”

Joshua and I both do electric-shock jolts in our seats.

“It will be a position below Helene and myself. We want to formalize the position that oversees operations, leaving the CEOs free to focus on more strategic things.”

He casts a thin-lipped smile at Joshua, who nods intently back at him. Helene catches my eye and raises her eyebrows meaningfully. Someone nudges me.

“It will be advertised tomorrow—details on the recruitment portal and the Internet.” He says it like the Internet is a newfangled contraption.

“It's open to both internal and external applicants.” Helene stacks her papers and rises.

Fat Little Dick stands to go, and selects another slice of cake. Helene follows him, shaking her head. The room once again explodes into noise and the cake box is dragged across the table. Joshua stands by the door, and when I stubbornly remain seated, he slinks off.

“Looks like you've got some work to do,” Danny says to me. I nod and gulp and wave good-bye to the room in general, too
overwhelmed to make a graceful exit. I break into a run when I leave the room, taking the stairs two at a time. I see Mr. Bexley's door close as I hotfoot it into Helene's and skid to a halt, swinging the door shut behind me and banging it closed with my backside.

“What's the reporting line?”

“You'd be Josh's boss, if that's what you're asking.”

A sensation of pure elation floods me. Joshua's BOSS. He'd have to do everything I say, including treating me with some respect. I am at risk of wetting my pants right about now.

“It's got disaster written all over it, but I want you to have the job.”

“Disaster?” I sink into a chair. “Why?”

“You and Josh do not work well together. Chalk and cheese. Adding in a power dynamic like that . . .” She clucks doubtfully.

“But I can do the job.”

“Of course, darling. I want you to have the job.”

My excitement grows as we talk about the role. Another restructure is looming, but I'd have a direct hand in it this time. I could save jobs instead of cutting them. The responsibility is greater and the raise is substantial. I could go home more often. I could get a new car.

“You should know, Bexley wants Josh for the job. We had a big fight over it.”

“If Joshua becomes my boss I will have to resign.” It comes out of my mouth instantly. It's like what someone in a movie would say.

“All the more reason for us to get you the job, darling. If I had my way we would have just announced your promotion.”

I nibble my thumb. “But how is it going to be a fair process? Joshua and Mr. Bexley are going to sabotage me.”

“I thought of that. An independent panel of recruitment consultants are doing the interviews. You'll be competing on an even
playing field. There'll be applicants from outside B and G too. Probably a pretty strong field. I want you to be prepared.”

“I will be.” I hope.

“And part of the interview is a presentation. You'll need to get started on it. They want to hear your thoughts on the future direction of B and G.”

I'm itching to get back to my desk. I need to update my CV. “Do you mind if I work on my application during my lunch breaks?”

“Darling, I don't care if you work on it all day until it's due. Lucy Hutton, chief operating officer, Bexley and Gamin. It sounds good, doesn't it.”

A grin spreads across my face.

“It's yours. I feel it.” Helene makes a motion of zipping her lip. “Now go. Get it.”

I sit at my desk and unlock my computer to open my woefully outdated CV. I'm lit up inside by this new opportunity. Everything about today has changed. Well, almost everything.

I notice a shape standing over me after I've been editing for several minutes. I breathe in. Spicy cedar. His belt buckle winks at me. I do not break my keystrokes.

“The job is mine, Shortcake,” Joshua's voice says.

To stop myself from standing up and punching him in the gut I'm counting one, two, three, four . . .

“Funny, that's what Helene just told me.” I watch his backside walk away in the glossed surface of my desk, and vow that Joshua Templeman is going to lose the most important game we've ever played.

O
ff-white stripes today, and I've got a big red cross in my planner for Friday. I would bet a hundred dollars there's an identical red cross in Joshua's. Our job applications are due.

I'm half-insane from rereading my application. I've become so obsessed with my presentation I've started dreaming about it. I need a break. I lock my screen and watch with interest as Joshua does the same. We are aligned like chess players. We fold our hands. I still haven't seen his pencil in motion.

“How You Doing, Little Lucy?” His bright tone and mild expression indicates we're playing a game we almost never play. It's a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don't hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don't want to swirl their hands in each other's blood. It's disturbing.

“Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?”

“Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?” He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug.

I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He'd spit in anything he made me. Does he think I'm crazy? “I think I'll join you.”

We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical
footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of
Law & Order
. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives.

“Ah-ha-ha,” we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. “Ah-ha-ha.”

We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. “What's happening?”

Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force.

“Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids,” Joshua says quietly so only I can hear him. To the casual onlooker he is politely chatting. A few meerkat heads have popped up over cubicle walls. It seems we're the stuff of legend. “Sometimes we get excited and argue. But don't be scared. Even when we're arguing, it's not your fault.”

“It's just grown-up stuff,” I softly explain to the apprehensive faces we pass. “Sometimes Daddy sleeps on the couch, but it's okay. We still love you.”

In the kitchen I am hanging my tea bag into my mug when the urge to laugh almost knocks me over like an ocean wave. I hold on to the edge of the counter and soundlessly shake.

Joshua ignores me as he moves around preparing his coffee. I look up to see his hands opening the cupboard miles above my head, and I feel the heat of his body inches from my back. It's like sunshine. I'd forgotten that other people are warm. I can smell his skin. The urge to laugh fades.

I haven't had any human contact since my hairdresser, Angela, gave me a head massage, probably eight weeks ago. Now I'm
imagining leaning back against him and letting my muscles go slack. What would he do if I fainted? He'd probably let me crumble onto the floor, then nudge me with his toe.

Another freeze-frame snaps through my brain. Joshua grabbing me, stopping me falling. His hands on my waist, fingertips digging in.

“You're so funny,” I say when I realize I've been silent for a bit. “So very funny.” I swallow audibly.

“So are you.” He goes to the fridge.

Jeanette from HR materializes in the doorway like a dumpy frazzled ghost. She's a nice lady, but she's also sick of our shit.

“What's going on?” She has her hands on her hips. At least, I think she does. She's shaped like a triangle underneath the jingling Tibetan poncho she must have bartered for on her last spirit quest. She's a Gamin, natch.

“Jeanette! Making coffee. Can I tempt you?” Joshua wags his mug at her and she waves her hand irritably. She hates him deeply. She's my kind of lady.

“I got an emergency call. I'm here to referee.”

“No need, Jeanette. Everything's fine.” I dunk my tea bag gently, watching the water turn brick red. Joshua dumps a spoonful of sugar into my mug.

“Not quite sweet enough, are you?”

I make a fake laugh at the cabinet in front of me and wonder how he knows how I take my tea. How does he know
anything
about me? Jeanette is fisheyed with suspicion.

Joshua looks at her mildly. “We're making hot beverages. What's new in the human resource field?”

“The company's two worst serial complainants should not be left alone together.” A corner of her poncho gestures to the kitchen.

“Well, that's a bind. We sit in a room together alone, all day. I spend between forty and fifty hours a week with this fine woman. All alone.” He
sounds
pleasant, but the subtext to his dialogue was
Fuck Off.

“I've made several recommendations to your bosses about that,” Jeanette says darkly. Her subtext reads the same.

“Well, I'll be Lucinda's boss soon,” Joshua replies and my eyes snap to his. “I'm professional and can manage anybody.”

The way he enunciates
anybody
implies he thinks I am mentally deficient.

“Actually, I'll be
your
boss soon.” I am syrupy sweet. Jeanette's little hands appear from under her poncho. She rubs her eyes, making a mess of her mascara.

“You two are my full-time job,” she says softly, despairingly. I feel a stab of guilt. My behavior is unbecoming of a soon-to-be senior executive. Time to repair this relationship.

“I know in the past, communication between myself and Mr. Templeman has been a little . . . strained. I'm keen to address this, and strengthen team building at B and G.” I use my best smooth professional voice, watching her face pinch suspiciously. Joshua flicks his eyes toward me like laser beams.

“I've drafted a recommendation for Helene outlining a team-building afternoon for corporate, design, executive, and finance.” We call it CDEF for short, or the Alphabet Branch. This is my latest brainstorm. How excellent would this sound in the interview? Very excellent.

“I will cosign to show my commitment,” Joshua says, the goddamn hijacker. My wrist trembles with the need to flick hot tea in his face.

“Don't you worry about a thing,” I tell Jeanette as we stand
in front of her. “It'll all be fine.” Her poncho jingles sadly as we stride off.

“When I'm your boss, I'm going to work you so fucking hard,” Joshua's voice is dirty and rough.

I am struggling to keep up with him now, but I make myself. Some of my tea spatters onto the carpet. “When I'm
your
boss, you're going to do everything I say with a big smile on your face.” I nod politely at Marnie and Alan as we pass them.

We round the corner like racehorses.

“When I'm your boss, any more than three mistakes in your financial calculations will result in an official warning.”

I mutter under my breath but he still hears me. “When I'm your boss, I'm going to be convicted of murder.”

“When I'm your boss, I'm implementing a corporate support uniform policy. No more of your weird little retro costumes. I've already got it circled in the Corporate Wear catalog. A gray shift dress.” He pauses for effect. “Polyester. It's supposed to be knee length, so it should reach your ankles.”

I am insanely sensitive about my height and I absolutely hate synthetic fibers. I open my mouth and a cute animal growl comes out. I hustle ahead and bump the glass door open to the executive suites with my hip.

“Is that what it would take for you to stop lusting after me?” I snap and he looks up at the ceiling and lets out a huge sigh.

“You got me, Shortcake.”

“Oh, I've got you all right.” We're both breathing a little harder than the situation warrants. We each set down our mugs and face off.

“I will never work for you. There'll be no polyester dress. I'll resign if you get it. It should go without saying.”

He looks genuinely surprised for a fraction of a second. “Oh, really.”

“Like you wouldn't quit if I got it.”

“I'm not sure.” He's gimlet-eyed with speculation.

“Joshua, you need to resign if I get it.”

“I don't quit things.” His voice gets a galvanized edge to it and he puts a hand on his hip.

“I don't quit things either. But if you're so certain you're going to get it, why would you have a problem with promising to resign?” I watch him mull this over.

I want him to be my subordinate, skittish with nerves as I review a piece of his work, which I'll tear up. I want him on his hands and knees at my feet, gathering up the torn shreds, burbling apologies for his own incompetence. Crying in Jeanette's office, berating himself for his own inadequacies. I want to make him so nervous he's tied in knots.

“Okay. I agree. If you get the promotion, I promise to resign. You've got your horny eyes on again,” Joshua adds, turning away and sitting down. He unlocks his drawer and takes out his planner, busily sorting through the pages.

“Mentally strangling me again?”

He is making a mark with his pencil, a straight single tally, when he notices me.

“What are you smirking about?”

I think he makes a mark in his planner when we argue.

“I'
D BETTER GET
to bed.” I'm talking to my parents. I'm also gently cleaning the two-dollar eBay Smurf I got a few weeks back with a baby's toothbrush.
Law & Order
is on in the background and they are currently pursuing a false lead. I've got a white clay mask on my face and my toenail polish is drying.

“All right, Smurfette,” my parents chime like a two-headed monster. They haven't worked out they don't have to sit cheek to cheek to fit onto the video-chat screen. Or maybe they have, but they like it too much.

Dad is dangerously suntanned, bar the white outline of his sunglasses. It's a sort of reverse-raccoon effect. He's a big laugher and a big talker, so I get a lot of glimpses of the tooth he chipped while eating a rack of ribs. He's wearing a sweatshirt he's had since I was a kid and it makes me ridiculously homesick.

My mom never looks properly at the camera. She gets distracted by the tiny preview window where she can see her own face on screen. I think she analyzes her wrinkles. It gives our chats a disconnected quality and makes me miss her more.

Her fair skin can't cope with the outdoors, and where Dad has tanned, she has freckled. We have the same coloring, so I know what will happen if I give up the sunscreen. They dapple every square inch of her face and arms. She even has freckles on her eyelids. With her bright blue eyes and black hair, tied up in its usual knot on top of her head, she always gets a second glance wherever she goes. Dad is enslaved by her beauty. I know for a fact, because he was telling her roughly ten minutes ago.

“Now, don't worry about a thing. You're the most determined person there, I'm sure of it. You wanted to work for a publisher, and you did it. And you know what? Whatever happens, you're always the boss of Sky Diamond Strawberries.” Dad's been explaining at great length all the reasons why I should get the promotion.

“Aw, Dad.” I laugh to cover the leftover bubble of emotion I've been feeling since the blog meltdown in front of Joshua. “My first act as CEO is to order you both to bed for an early night. Good luck with Lucy Forty-two, Mom.”

I caught up with the last ten blog entries while I ate dinner. My mom has a clear, factual style of writing. I think she would have been working somewhere major one day if she hadn't quit. Annie Hutton, investigative journalist. Instead, she spends her days digging up rotting plants, packing crates for delivery, and Frankensteining hybrid varieties of strawberries. To me, the fact she gave up her dream job for a man is a tragedy, no matter how wonderful my dad is, or the fact that I'm sitting here now as a result.

“I hope they don't turn out like Lucy Forty-one. I've never seen anything like it. They looked normal from the outside, but completely hollow on the inside. Weren't they, Nigel?”

“They were like fruit balloons.”

“The interview will go fine, honey. They'll know within five minutes that you live and breathe the publishing industry. I still remember you coming home after that field trip. It was like you'd fallen in love.” Mom's eyes are full of memories. “I know how you felt. I remember when I first stepped into the printing room of a newspaper. The smell of that ink was like a drug.”

“Are you still having trouble with Jeremy at work?” Dad knows Joshua's actual name by now. He just chooses to not use it.

“Joshua. And yes. He still hates me.” I take a fist of cashews and begin eating them a little aggressively.

Dad is flatteringly mystified. “Impossible. Who could?”

“Who even could,” Mom echoes, reaching up to finger the skin by her eye. “She's little and cute. No one hates little cute people.” Dad seamlessly agrees with her and they begin talking as though I'm not even here.

“She's the sweetest girl in the world. Julian's clearly got some sort of inferiority complex. Or he's one of those sexists. He wants to bring everyone else down to make himself feel better. Napo
leon complex. Hitler complex. Something's wrong with him.” He's ticking them off on his fingers.

“All of the above. Dad, put the Post-it note over the screen so she can't see herself. She's not looking at me properly.”

“Maybe he's hopelessly in love with her,” Mom offers optimistically as she looks properly into the camera for the first time. My stomach drops through the floor. I catch a glimpse of my own face; I am a clay statuette of frozen horror and surprise.

Dad scoffs all over the place. “Ridiculous way of showing it, don't you think? He's made that place a misery for her. I tell you, if I met him, he'd have to do some groveling. You hear that, Luce? Tell him to shape up or your dad's gonna get on a plane and have a few words with him.”