Must Date The Chef

|| 1.

I'm on an all time low low low . . .

The shrill sound of my phone's alarm jolts me awake. I stifle the yawn threatening to escape and reach for the device close to my pillow which stops ringing the moment my fingers connect with it.

My blanket falls from my chest into a heap at my waist when I switch to a sitting position and the harsh rays pouring out from my phone's screen makes me squint. With the back of my left hand, I cover my mouth but the rebellious yawn still escapes.

Aish! I am going to be late again.

A groan slips from my lips as I glare at the time staring back at me. I had set the alarm for five-thirty and when it rang, I put it on snooze. Today is not my first time of doing that and as my feet find their way into my bathroom slippers, I know that I will repeat the same thing tomorrow and the day after.

It is 7:30 am on a Friday and my work demands my presence at the office by 8:00 am. The traffic in the city of Calabar, where I live, is moderate but with everyone struggling to get to his or her workplace early, it can become static and frustrating.

I don't need an angel to tell me I will receive a query from the Second in Command, SIC, who doesn't particularly like me. The dislike is mutual and is due to no fault of mine.

The day I had come for my job interview, he had slightly brushed my ass, then followed the unwarranted touching with an insincere apology. Going on to tell me about how I only had to allow him to have his way with me and the job would be all mine. The guts of him to think I will stoop so low to sleep with any staff to get a job I qualify for.

I laugh as the image of his face comes to mind, his facial expression when his boss had come out of the interview room and I'd rushed into his arms. He'd looked at us, me especially like I had grown two heads and my childish self had winked at him. I should have also stuck out my tongue.

His boss, now also my boss, is an old family friend of ours who we refer to as our uncle. He was doing us a favour by offering me a job, which I rightly deserved by the way, as my university degree, numerous awards, work experiences, customer representative and project management skills have shown.

The interview was to maintain protocols, which I didn't mind. It also showed how deserving of the job I was, connection or no connection, when my boss told me I got the best results among the other applicants.

It also didn't mean that the SIC stopped bothering me, well, he did. After I gave him a kick where the sun never rises, he was off my case, for good. Bye-bye to movies, restaurant dates and other forms of invites he tried in the past. Not like I honoured any of his invitations but he continued sending them until I violently put him in his place.

I try to redirect my thoughts back to the present so I can hurry up with my preparations. I am already late, late means query and query means chances of being sacked. I don't mean the sack part though.

Rushing into the bathroom connected to my room with the nightgown that I have shrugged off dangling from my feet, I stop at the entrance of the shower. I shoot my leg forward, shaking it furiously like an athlete before his first race but the stubborn satin material remains attached to my feet.

The perky mounds on my chest jiggle as I hop on one foot to access the gown strap wrapped around my other ankle. It comes off shortly, detached from the other parts of my gown. No time.

I don't allow myself to admire the personal effects I added to the walls late last night in a bizarre moment of creativity before jumping into the shower. The cold water hits my face first, sending my teeth into a crazy chattering dance. I brave through it; well, I don't have much of a choice.

Twelve minutes. My new personal record for brushing my teeth, taking a bath and dressing up. The last time it was fifteen.

As I glance at the black clock hanging from the pale blue walls in my room, I know that like all other days in the past, I will reach the office by nine. I curse the fact that the women at my workplace are competitive about their looks and that I care about what they think or say about my appearance.

My job requires that I look good as I always meet new people on behalf of the company. With all the self-acclaimed makeup artists in the office, I will not be left out. Not after painstakingly watching YouTube videos, attending makeup classes that cost a few nairas. I don't mind it anyway; I'm a makeup freak who loves to play with colours. Bright, bold colours for my lips and subtle, more natural colours for my eyelid.

The first and only time I decided to look 'natural', I was greeted with questions like, Are you okay? Are you sick? A bolder person had even gone on to say, you look different with a grimace and scrunched up face that left me wondering if she ate spoilt food.

I am done with my eyebrows, eyeliner, hint of mascara when I pass another look at the wall clock. I shouldn't have done that. One word. Okay, maybe more; I'm fucking late.

8:15! I scream in mock alarm and my foot taps an uneven rhythm into the ground. I skip the foundation, apply red lipstick and of course, my brown powder. It completes my businesswoman look with my black pencil skirt and chiffon see-through white blouse that gives a glimpse of the white camisole I have underneath. I'm good to go.

With my black pumps in hand, slippers on my feet, I hurry to the car -a graduation gift from my father- parked in the garage. The house I live in comes with the job, one of the perks of working with an old family friend.

I am where I am today because of your dad. My boss words, not mine. I had refused the house at first but my heart somersaulted so hard I was scared I wouldn't be able to breathe. My heart did calm down when he insisted and I dared not refuse the offer a second time, my worry about what my fellow workers would say long forgotten.

So, here I am in my office, more like, about to enter my office, after tiptoeing past the elderly receptionist who has gotten tired of my lateness. In my defence, sleep is life.

"Pauline Ifunaya Eneh!" The booming voice of the Second in Command resonates in the near-empty corridor. "You are late. Again."

I really should stop calling him Second in Command or SIC for short, it is way too long. But his name sounds too majestic, too royal for someone as evil as he is.

I take one step inside my office, pretending not to hear him and I'm forced to give him a listening ear when he calls me again.

"Sir?" I say with false enthusiasm. With my palm pressed against my chest and a wide smile, I ask, "Did you call me?"

He frowns. This is not the first time I am doing that. I am sure that if he can, he will fire my sorry ass at this moment but no, he cannot. He has to have strong reasons, plus, everyone knows I do my job well.

"You are late. Again," he reiterates like I didn't hear his annoying voice the first time.

My fake smile widens, his frown deepens and he inserts his hands into his pocket. He is a tall, handsome man with a great fashion sense and hormones of a horny teenager.

"Traffic," I say, "I was held up by traffic."

"Whatever. Get to work."

Well, I was going to my office and you stopped me. His back is now turned to me, so he doesn't see my red lips moving.

I make my way into the empty, spacious office, dump my handbag on my table and lower myself to the rotating chair. Like a Queen on her throne, I command my invisible subjects to chase down the Second in Command and do with him whatever they wish, all of which must be painful.

**********

That star button looking so cute, kindly click on it.

Comment. Share. Vote. Show some love.

I imagine Beverly Naya as Pauline and other casts would follow up soon. It could change but for now, that's what it is.

I also don't mind a volunteer story cover. I made the one up myself, with a picture gotten off Google.

Picture: Beverly Naya