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‘Look, this is the hardest part of my job and any supervisory role. We need to make tough business decisions and think about the company as a whole. It’s one job as opposed to two hundred,’ she tells me.
‘But…But…’ I say, struggling to get the words out.
‘But it’s IT. You can’t swing a cat around London without someone looking for an IT technician or engineer. They’ll land on their feet. We will offer good references and a very substantial redundancy package,’ she continues, pushing a file towards me, to take with me. Some Christmas gift, Jan. I’d have preferred soaps but here we are. I look down at the papers in front of me.
‘You don’t need to decide now. I’ve put you on the spot, but I wanted to implant the idea in your head so you canthink about it more over Christmas. I will look at my emails from time to time so run any ideas past me or when we come back.’
‘So the thirtieth?’ I ask her.
‘Oh no, I’ll be in New York,’ she says, reminding me. ‘We need a decision by the second.’
Great. So while she’s taking bad selfies on the Empire State Building, I basically have two weeks to torture myself with this information and make an impossible decision. I suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to get downstairs and download a virus on to Jan’s computer. I pick up the redundancy papers in front of me. ‘The second of January then,’ I say, awkwardly standing up to leave the room. ‘Can I just say something?’ I ask, unable to help myself. ‘I apologise if it’s out of turn, but that Christmas lunch with the three courses and the red-carpet treatment, the fireworks, bells and whistles. If the company is struggling so much then why put that on?’
Jan scrunches her face to hear me challenge what this all means. ‘Not my department, I’m afraid. My guess would be morale. Perhaps they thought a party would soften the blow of any bad news?’
‘Except we weren’t invited to that party,’ I tell her, trying to not let the anger hit my tone. I pause quietly, clutching on to that file. ‘Have a good Christmas, Jan. Don’t forget to shut down your computer fully before you go, please.’
She nods. ‘Merry Christmas to you too, Maggie. I said there were doughnuts, there are some festive Krispy Kremes on the table outside. Do help yourself.’
I nod, leaving the room, almost close to tears. How unfair to do this now. At Christmas. I feel such anger and irritation at the injustice of it all. I saw one of the Wisemans on a yacht the other day on Instagram. The closest I’ve been to a boat is a pedalo at the beach. Sell the yacht. You could have had fewer fireworks, fewer fancy trees in every corridor of thisplace, you could have served people crisps at your party as opposed to tiny blinis with smoked fish…
I can’t do it. I’m not going to choose between my friends. I’ll refuse to do it. No one comes to that basement anyway so they’ll never know. I stand outside Jan’s office, hovering, wondering whether to storm back in there and make an impassioned stand for myself and my colleagues. The intern in the corner sits there and I glance at his screen. If you want to talk about staff we don’t need, he’s playing Solitaire.
I think of my three workmates and I feel completely numb. Do I tell them? Do we make this decision as a group? Draw names out of a hat? I’m going to be spending Christmas now with each and every one of them harbouring this information. I won’t cope.
I don’t know what to do at all, so I follow the only impulse which is clear to me in that moment. I pick up the entire box of twelve elf-themed doughnuts and jog to the lifts. You’re coming home with me.
PART 2
FRANK
EIGHT
21st December
There is something gorgeous about London in the winter. The streets glow with a certain low light all day long. You can feel Christmas in the city’s very bones; there’s a wonderful buzz to see all the shops decorated, children wrapped up in toasty coats and mittens, and lights and festive regalia draped from lampposts and houses.
That said, by god, it is bloody cold. This year, we’ve experienced a frozen snap like no other, the sort of cold that slaps you in the face when you exit a house, that sits in your toes and bounces off your chest. It’s great, but today, when I’m in a red slinky dress and open-toed shoes, it’s less fun. I should have re-thought this black wool overcoat and simply worn a duvet. I’d be giving Christmas-slash-football-manager chic.
As I’m efficient with both money and time, I got the Tube to the wedding today because London is at its most Christmassy on the Underground, but also because I knew it would stop right at the end of this street, down by the Barbican and Smithfield Market, should I want to take in a leisurely coffeebeforehand. I pull my tartan scarf closer into my neck, padding carefully across cobbled streets in my heels, and squint to look down at the phone in my hands. St Bartholomew, St Bartholomew, St…OK. Crikey. That’s the wonderful thing about London. One minute you’re walking down a street, past a Starbucks, low-lying flats, pubs and skyscrapers, then suddenly beautiful pieces of architecture appear, hidden in the shadows. I peer over a black railing at the rather grand church, tucked behind trees with a team of florists still at work carrying in large arrangements of red flowers. This must be the place and I’m here with the florists so I am officially super early. I look around and see a small café overlooking all the action. I don’t want to be some sad eager beaver sat alone in a pew so this is the perfect place to station myself, grab some caffeine and spy on the proceedings from their misted windows. I get out my phone and text Frank.
I’m here!! Super early so waiting in Il Caffe Stella across the road. Excited!!
I maybe shouldn’t have put so many exclamation marks, it might scare him. I push on the old dark wooden door to the place, and walk in, immediately grateful for the waves of warmth that hit me, and the gorgeous scents of caramel and ginger. The tones of some Christmas folk song float in the background. The café owner looks me up and down, the place empty and quiet as it’s a Saturday.
‘You’ve come overdressed for coffee,’ she says, smiling.
‘I’m here for the wedding, across the way. I’m early,’ I tell her.
‘I did wonder what the commotion was. What can I get you?’ she asks, adjusting the ties on her apron. A name badge tells me this is the eponymous Stella who owns this place.
‘Could I get a cappuccino? And…’ I look across the counter tempting me with its cakes. ‘One of those cupcakes that look like a reindeer.’
She nods and smiles. I am not sure why I need more sugar as last night, in a fit of guilt, anger and confusion, I ate four Krispy Kremes in a row. Jan’s words and the sheer weight of the decision I’ll soon have to make, are weighing heavily on me. I briefly wonder whether to bring it up with Frank today but now’s definitely not the time. It’s a special day and he has old ladies to charm and orders of service to distribute. I stand there and unbutton my coat, loosening my scarf.
‘Of course. You look gorgeous, by the way. I only ever get weekday work people and commuters in here so it’s nice to see someone looking festive.’
I blush a little at the compliment, smoothing out the dress with my hands. It looks better without jeans underneath it but I’m starting to wish I’d worn some fluffy leggings at least for the warmth. I look at my reflection in a mirror of the café to check the cross-winds of the Tube haven’t killed my hair. It’s still half-pinned back, minimal frizz, my gold dangly earrings are still attached to me. That’s the problem when you’re not a going-out kind of person. You worry about these little details, scared you’re exuding awkwardness.
