Dominion

Dominion: Wednesday [3]

The meeting drags on forever, it seems, like the boardroom came with a time warp facility that makes the hours pass at a snail’s pace. She came in here at ten, and it’s now half past eleven. Violet bites down on the inside of her lip, hard, as she tries to hold back a yawn.

She’s not entirely successful – with her face half stretched and mouth parting slightly and sleepy eyes, it’s fairly obvious – and her director gives her a dirty look. She averts her gaze and reaches out for the glass of water before her; the cool drink should refresh her senses.

The speaker drones on, not having noticed her little slip. He talks about the company’s technology infrastructure and bandwidth capacity and need for future expansion, but Violet is not listening. Their quarterly performance meetings are always a chore as they bring together all divisions of the firm and have everyone report back on progress and major news. Being sales manager, unfortunately, her attendance is mandatory. And what does she do at these meetings? Present for fifteen minutes, make a couple of notes, then spend the remaining two hours in a semi-conscious state struggling not to fall asleep while other departments yammer on about matters unrelated to her.

Her eyes idly wander down to her notepad and her fingers loosely gripping the pen. She admires her manicured nails momentarily but starts to frown at the way the skin on her hands is looking dry and rough. Looking her age. Creams and moisturizer can only hold it off for so long before time catches up to her.

An imperceptible shudder runs down her spine.

The meeting finally ends before twelve. The finance director pulls Violet aside to double-check some numbers and then she’s free to head out for an early lunch. Before she does, though, she makes a stop at the ladies’.

She sets her bag on the counter and places her palms flat on the surface, leaning in towards the mirror. A sophisticated businesswoman peers back from her reflection. Chanel suit. Impeccable chignon. Pearl earrings. Lipstick by Dior. Mascara by Lancome. Crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes, masked by powder but standing out to her like a roadmap to deterioration and retirement.

She sighs. That’s not to say she doesn’t look great for forty-two. She knows this, and takes pride in it. It’s no secret that she maintains her appearance carefully, works out to stay in shape, eats healthy, and has tried every anti-ageing product under the sun to use only the very best. Still, some things are inevitable.

Clacking heels signal another entrant before the restroom door swings open and someone walks in. Violet catches the other woman’s eye in the mirror, then smiles.

“Gosh, what a morning,” Paula joins her at the sink, setting aside a stack of folders and turning on the water. It’s then that Violet notices the blooming coffee stain on Paula’s sleeve.

“Oh, no. How did that happen?”

“Bumped into that idiot, James Wiley.” Paula drenches her shirt sleeve, scrunching up her face at the negligible effect it has on removing the stain.

Violet offers some sympathetic noises. She watches the older woman make do as best she can with some soft soap and paper towels. Paula Frankfurt is known as the grumpy frump in most circles at the office, but she has taken a liking to Violet somehow. Violet has no reason to complain – being in the HR manager’s good books has its perks – but she also suspects that Paula perceives her as a younger version of herself. That’s the part that scares her. Violet can’t imagine anything worse than ending up like a fifty-year-old Bridget Jones spinster, pitied by friends, family and co-workers alike.

“You’ve got your leave coming up soon, haven’t you?” Paula asks.

“Yes, starting next week. Well, leaving this weekend, actually.”