Power Play. Charlotte Stein

and said hello to Kelly on reception. Today, I am going to be normal. Perfectly, respectably normal. I’m not going to practically masturbate at my desk to fill the void Woods has left. I’m not going to think mad thoughts about the people under me in an illegal and inappropriate way.

      No. Today, I’m going to do ordinary things. Like speak to Aidan Harcroft about his promotion, for example. And then maybe speak to Anderson the doucheknuckle about his lack of one.

      All of which will go something like this, I believe:

      Anderson, I know it’s a terrible tragedy that I got the managing director position ahead of you. But if you just remember what an absolute toilet of a person you are, I’m sure you’ll understand why.

      And as for my conversation with Aidan Harcroft … well. That can’t possibly be predicted. Nothing about Aidan can be predicted, because he’s the human equivalent of quicksilver. Fantastic eye, of course, but the problem comes when you’re trying to imagine what’s behind said eye.

      Mercurial thoughts, I believe. Mercurial thoughts about not taking the bullshit job I had. I mean, in all fairness, no one wants to babysit people like Derek Hannerty. He’s tried to get that book about the guy who likes enemas past me so many times … and he’s going to ride Aidan just as hard.

      ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Harding.’

      Or maybe he’s not going to get the chance to ride him at all.

      ‘You think there’s someone better for the job?’ I ask, as he presses the phone to his chest. He’s talking to some author, I believe – though the author isn’t going to mind in the slightest that he or she has been put on hold. I’ve known newbies faint during a conversation with Aidan.

      Not that I blame them. He talks so fast and so smoothly, it’s like having a discussion with the magical emperor of a world that doesn’t exist.

      ‘Janet,’ he says, but I can tell he’s just throwing it out there. He doesn’t really mean it at all, because Janet Everly regularly falls asleep at her desk in the middle of the day. I could pretend to overlook it, back when I was just the gatekeeper.

      But now I’m the actual fucking gate.

      ‘You may as well have pulled a name out of your ass. Come on, Aidan. Even you can do better than that.’

      He sighs, and swivels his chair around – but him doing so only gives the game away. He’s not annoyed at all. That shark’s grin is cutting its way across his sharp-boned face, and when he answers there isn’t a hint of weariness anywhere in his words.

      ‘I’m not going to have long discussions with Derek about Endless Enemas,’ he tells me, while doing something that seems to have an ever so slight hint of lewd – like maybe rocking in his chair a little until I can’t help flicking my gaze down to his groin.

      It doesn’t disconcert me, however. It’s just the way Aidan is – louche, I would call it, and the rather unsubtle hints he gives about his sex life only back this one word up. There are rumours he fucked James Wentworth in the men’s room, rumours that he had a threesome with the two girls from marketing, rumours that he banged our receptionist in the underpass down by Collingham Street.

      And I know at least one of them is true, because last Christmas said receptionist poured an entire bowl of punch right over his head.

      ‘Fine. He bothers you, send him to me. I’ll fire him.’

      That grin gets broader, as does the faint lilt of his half-Irish accent.

      ‘So that’s the kind of boss you’re going to be, huh?’ he says, and for just the briefest moment I go cold, before he quite suddenly follows his question up with: ‘Knew you were on the cusp of some epic ball-breaking. Don’t go easy, OK? I won’t respect you if you go easy.’

      Of course he uses the jolting pause I then descend into to return to his phone conversation. But unfortunately, I can’t do the same. I don’t have a phone conversation to return to, and if I did I’m not sure I’d make it. Instead I go hot and cold thinking of how close he’s just come to a slightly more personal issue I seem to be going through.

      I’m on the cusp, I think, and then I walk over to his desk on new feet, and push the hold button on his phone.

      ‘I’m not asking,’ I say, and that shark on his face tries to eat me, I swear.

      ‘Good,’ he tells me, as I stride back out of his office.

      * * *

      My second conversation of the day goes even better than the first one. I tell Anderson that I really do not give a shit if my promotion has bent him out of shape, and he doesn’t lose it. He doesn’t threaten to murder me, or the board of directors, or all of us in one big clock tower massacre.

      No – he just has a nervous breakdown instead. He actually cries in front of me, which is so completely the opposite of what I was expecting that I leave his office wondering if I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. One where Woods is gone and I’m in charge, and Anderson the doucheknuckle is actually a guy who’s just had someone he’s never been respectful to promoted over him.

      I can see why he’d think it doesn’t bode well for his future.

      Though naturally, I reassure him. Sales are up by two per cent since we went digital, and a lot of that is his work. Despite his bullish attitude and his hideous two-tone shirts, he’s a reliable member of the team.

      And I’m going to need reliable, if I’ve got a prayer of getting through this month. This week.

      Today.

      Aidan might have faith in me, but I don’t. I feel suddenly small inside the grey pinstripe I picked out this morning, these dagger heels making me less sure instead of how they usually make me feel. Strong, I think, strong, as I stride down the hall between sales and marketing, back to where I’m safest.

      The mess that is editing.

      It’s not an open-plan office really. It’s just a big jumble of egg-carton cubicles, most of which have been knocked through into three or four massive spaces as the editing staff declined and the mad grab for power rose.

      You get a couple of egg cartons knocked together and you’re practically a junior no longer. You’re a senior, just waiting for Aidan or Janet to die so you can take their place and publish eight hundred undiscovered masterpieces.

      All written by you, most likely.

      ‘Harding!’ somebody hollers as I pass by – though they quickly seem to gather themselves. ‘I mean, uh …’ Sir, I think, but of course silly little Terry Samson doesn’t go with that. He goes with something more normal, like this is high school and I’m now his teacher. ‘Miss Harding, is there any word on whether we’re getting a little extra to the autumn budget?’

      I answer without looking. I have to, because Benjamin is coming from the opposite direction and by God I need to build up a head of steam. His trousers are too short for his massive legs today, and when he sees someone he knows in editing he waves at them. He actually waves.

      I can’t let him get his mad, awkward hooks into me.

      ‘No chance,’ I say, as I barrel on by.

      Or at least, I try to barrel on by. I really do. I get as far as my office door, breathless and flushed with victory.

      Only to find that Benjamin has actually followed me, as though my single-minded expression said yes, come right up and bother me. I cannot wait to relive every moment of the fantasy I had about you directly to your face.

      ‘Um, Ms Harding?’ he starts, which is promising. At least he doesn’t lead off with sir, though the question he packs in there is a bit much. It’s so tentative, I think. So lacking in confidence. And then of course there’s the um at the front of it all, like a big red sign: