Writing group story

Christine had worked for Lindman and Co for over thirty years now. She’d joined as a secretary, working part time in the typing pool when her youngest child had started school, and was now PA to the Director, though she’d seen enough directors come and go to count on two hands. Though her job wasn’t glamorous, she enjoyed it, being right hand woman to the man in charge - for it had always been a man. It gave her a sense of power, knowing she was the one who sent those all important contracts and emails. And though her sense of self-importance might have been misplaced, she knew she was better than the young girls they hired and fired at will; after all, she had her own office, and she’d made herself utterly irreplaceable.

The current director was Bob Rawling, a large, slovenly man who used his size to intimidate the staff into doing his bidding. He was polite enough to her though; so long as she had his morning coffee ready on time, and his documents ready for the daily meeting, he could even be quite kind. And she’d never let him down. Okay, she wasn’t as good on the computer as the younger girls in the sales office, and she sometimes had to bribe one of them to put together a spreadsheet for her, in exchange for cake or their favourite perfume, but that was a small matter. For her, trust was everything and she’d worked hard to earn his trust, and give hers in return. And because she was so dependable and reliable, she had access to everything - the company accounts, the director’s diary, even his email accounts. For he had two - the official one that clients were contacted through, and his personal one, often used to fire off scathing critiques of his colleagues and competitors. Of course, he didn’t know she had access to this second account, but it hadn’t been hard to guess his password. After all, he talked about his dog Richmond all the time.

The company bought and sold land for major housing projects and had thrived, especially during the recession when farmers were desperate to offload unprofitable agricultural sites, and developers were keen for plots to build so-called affordable housing on. They were currently bidding on a site on the outskirts of Bristol, a flood plain admittedly, but then the buyers often didn’t care about such matters so long as the site was officially approved by the surveyor they used. And somehow the reports she sent off always seemed to include approval, no matter how waterlogged the site might be. It was a huge project and if it went through, they’d all be guaranteed a good Christmas bonus. Rawling was especially keen to win this one, supposedly for the benefit of the company, but she knew the truth. His soon to be ex wife was demanding a huge alimony package, he had credit card bills large enough to sink a small nation, and the three legged race horse he’d bought some time ago was proving harder to sell on than he wished.

Of course, none of this was public knowledge - it was only through reading his emails that she knew the seriousness of his situation - and he was doing a good job of hiding his mounting panic. But lately he’d been more agitated at work, an air of desperation creeping into his attitude. He’d complained more than once about the coffee, claiming it tasted like old bath water, despite it being the same brand she’d ordered for the last few years, at his request, and when she’d asked for an afternoon off to accompany her mother to a hospital appointment, he’d bawled her out. “Time off?” he’d yelled at her across the room. “We are dealing with the biggest deal of our lives and you want time off?” It all seemed rather unreasonable to Christine, who was only there to type up the reports and send emails, after all.

But today had been the final straw. She’d been idly flicking through his inbox when she spotted a message to a recruitment company. She wasn’t aware anyone was leaving, and her interest was piqued. It seemed Bob wanted to recruit an Executive Assistant, whatever that might be, but as she read through the job description she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. For it was her job he was describing, down to a T.

She scrolled through the email thread, desperate to find out why he needed this Executive Assistant as well as her. After all, she did everything for him and was happy to stay after hours to get things finished. What on earth would be achieved by having someone else working alongside her, doing the same tasks?

And then she read the last line of the last email. “I know it’s vey non-PC but make sure you don’t interview anyone over thirty. My current PA is an old biddy who doesn’t know her Excel from her eggshells, so make sure her replacement knows their stuff when it comes to IT.”

A cold chill washed over Christine. Replacement? For her? After all this time? And all because she wasn’t a master at that dastardly computer programme?

Over a cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit - her usual afternoon treat- Christine considered her options. She could confront Bob, ask him what the hell he was playing at - but that would reveal she had been reading his personal emails. Maybe she could take a course in Excel, learn whatever it was he wanted her to do. But that would take time, and time wasn’t something she had. After all, she was close to retirement , and though she resented the phrase, she was one old dog who wasn’t willing to learn new tricks. And anyway, it sounded like he’d already made up his mind. As confusion turned to frustration turned to anger, Christine decided to take drastic action. She’d be okay, they’d have to pay her off and after all these years that was a pretty packet to take home but why should Bob be so lucky, after the way he was treating her? No, it was time to take matters into her own hands.

Searching through the folders on her computer, she found the files for the Bristol project. They’d received the surveyor report just that morning, and of course it had approved the site for housing despite the flooding risk. She’d already condensed the 18 page report down to one short line, “the surveyor has recommended this site for housing”, and added it to the contract, and Bob had signed it off; it just needed formatting and sending over to the client. Christine set to work, adding paragraphs, headings, footnotes ... and one tiny amendment- the word “not”.

Opening a new email in Bob’s business account she attached the document and added the client’s email address. Her finger hovered momentarily over the mouse before she and paused for a moment before pressing the send button. Then, with a smile, she shut the computer down, picked up her bag, put on her coat and left the office.