Fraser Mountain - Living the snow life

Chapter One

‘Alexa! Aleeeeeeeeeeexa! WHERE ARE YOU, FOR CHRISTS’ SAKE?’

I hear the high-pitched whine, knowing that tone only too well; something akin to the Cuban Missile Crisis has happened and Susannah hasn’t had her usual mug of strong, black coffee.

I gather the latest proofs from my cluttered desk, trying to give my work space an air of ‘minimalist chic’ rather than ‘panicked and overworked’. No matter how hard I try, I can’t pull it off. Clicking the save button on my beloved Mac, I narrowly avoid disaster with a can of Diet Coke whilst trying to cram used Post-It notes, estimate sheets and approval forms into one of my many in-trays. I’ve spent the last two hours trying to wrestle with the most uncreative brief I’ve ever had, working up a ‘funky’ concept to promote Bostock’s latest mortgage deal. For starters, how on God’s great earth do you make a mortgage look ‘funky’? And, let’s be honest, the word ‘funky’ should have been banned from any creative brief circulated after 1998. I look briefly at the large flatscreen monitor, the large blank blinking at me as if to say ‘doesn’t-matter-what-typeface-you-use-its-still-going-to-look-shit.’

‘ALEXXXXAAAAAAA!’

‘I’m coming, hang on…’ I mutter, smoothing down my suit jacket. I walk hurriedly through the open-plan office, moving past row after row of identical grey cubicles that house my colleagues, all of whom are sensibly keeping their heads down and refusing to make eye-contact with me. When Susannah is on the war-path, you find something to occupy yourself with, and pronto.

As I round the corner and enter the communal kitchen, I’m confronted by the worrying sight of my boss sitting at one of the tables looking decidedly ‘un-Susannah’ like.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Oh God! It’s awful!’ she cries, tears streaming down her usually serene face.

A horrible queasy feeling at the bottom of my stomach starts to rise steadily as my mouth is suddenly like a desert and I find I’m really hot all of a sudden. I try and swallow. Surely my latest proofs hadn’t been that bad? Maybe there’s been a family tragedy or something that’s not work-related. Maybe her dog died? That would be really sad. I really like Susannah’s dog.

‘Are you okay? What’s the matter? Is it Minty?’

‘It’s got nothing to with the dog, you fool!’

I start talking really quickly, conscious that my temperature has definitely shot up a few degrees. ‘Look, I know the designs aren’t quite up to scratch just yet, but I just need more time. I’m really…’

‘I don’t give a shit about the bloody designs!’ she explodes, snapping her head up and glaring at me. ‘It’s much worse than anything you could ever come up with.’

Susannah just swore. Oh. My. God. In the four years that I’ve worked for her, she’s rarely used the word ‘Hell’. If she says ‘botheration’, it’s a bad sign.

More tears start to tumble down her face, making a mess of her expensive and heavy make-up. Between sobs, she explains: ‘They’re…. they’re … getting rid of the marketing department…They’re making us all… redundant!’

My boss puts her head in her hands as her shoulders begin to shake, dissolving into a sobbing mess again. ‘They’re outsourcing the work! Getting some bloody Soho agency to do it.’

I tentatively place a hand on her shoulder and pat it awkwardly. I don’t really hate Susannah, because hate is a strong word. I hated Timothy Whittacker, because he puked on me in Primary School and made me cry. I don’t really hate my boss because I’ve learnt not to take her criticisms to heart. She’s got a nasty habit of looking down her nose at everyone other than herself, and her manner is far from pleasant, but that’s just something I’ve learnt to live with. After all, everyone hates the boss, right?