Jackie Oliver's new colleagues changed her life in ways she could never have imagined

PART 1 OF 8 - INTRODUCTION

There is no sex and no pornography in this story. GSD UK Ltd is a fictitious company.

I’m Jackie Oliver - again.

Jackie Musgrove is gone, finished, history; just like that slimy, self centred, selfish bastard Eddie; just like my parents; just like the Animal.

But, of course, they’re not really gone, are they? They’re all out of sight — but never out of mind. They say that time is a great healer. Anybody got several thousand years to spare?

I was feeling very low after my messy parting from Eddie, a few months previously. I contemplated moving away, but I found an advert in the local paper; Global Synthetic Developments, known to everyone as GSD, was looking for a Marketing Administrator. If I got the job, at least I wouldn’t have to look for accommodation in another town, not that number twenty two, Guildford Road was very salubrious anyway.

I was very surprised to receive a reply to my application, and even more surprised to be invited to an interview. I’d already left my previous job. Either my boss or I had to go; my boss was Eddie Musgrove, my ex-husband and a senior manager, so guess who had to do the walking?

GSD was the town’s biggest employer so finding their Head Office - a ten storey, doughnut-shaped building clad in bronze mirror-glass - wasn’t cerebrally challenging. I tentatively entered reception, but was greeted with a smile. I wondered if the smile wore off as the day wore on.

That must be a first; it always seems that you need to get past a seriously paramilitary-looking security guard, to be interrogated by a grim receptionist, who grants grudging admittance only if you can prove that your lingerie meets the Dress Code.

I drew myself up to my full five feet four (plus heels), smiled back and signed in for my appointment.

The receptionist, whose nametag proclaimed her to be Amy Street, made a brief internal telephone call, smiled again and told me that Mr Latham was on his way down to meet me.

I settled myself in a low-backed chair - just comfortable enough to encourage you to rest from your journey, yet uncomfortable enough to discourage loitering. A couple of minutes later, a suit emerged from a lift. It wasn’t a cheap suit as it looked to have been tailor-made for the very attractive young man who wore it. Interestingly, he didn’t wear a tie. His open-necked shirt gave him a boyish appearance; he wouldn’t have looked out of place in a school sixth-form line-up. Slender, and only slightly taller than I am, he had blonde hair - chaotic on top but longer at the sides, over his ears and down past his collar at the back. He added to the smile epidemic as he approached me and took my hand. Strangely, he maintained eye contact all the time. I’m fairly well-endowed and most male eyes tend to stray downwards.

Eddie’s used to do that, in a past life.

“Hello, I’m Nick Latham. Thank you for arriving so promptly.” His cultured, youthful voice didn’t seem at all out of place considering the slightly-built man that it occupied.

I gratefully got up and followed him. We emerged from the lift at the sixth floor, where we collected drinks from the machine in the lift lobby. It was on free vend so he just asked how I liked my coffee or tea and pushed the right buttons.

On the machine, I mean.

We walked past a row of desks, mostly unoccupied, and eventually arrived at a room with just ‘Marketing’ on the door. At first I thought he’d led me to an employee lounge, but the way he claimed ownership when we entered made me realise that it was his office.

A large oak bookcase filled with impressive titles and lush plants occupied one wall. A filing cabinet stood in the corner and remained anonymous as the drawers hadn’t been labelled. Missing was a conventional desk or computer workstation. Also missing were the usual framed certificates testifying to his numerous qualifications. We sat, on either side of an exquisitely carved coffee table, in chairs suited more to a posh living room. His eyes tracked mine as I surveyed the room.

After a moment he smiled and said, “I’ve always felt that conventional office furniture, fittings and layout can appear intimidating and confrontational; I much prefer this as I think it’s friendlier. We also have team meetings in here, and a desk would get in the way.”

He smiled again.

I couldn’t imagine this sort of approach to business at Carlisle Associates; then I thought These people must all be on something

Nick explained. “I’d like you to take over the administration for me and my team. Anything that doesn’t involve managing and selling would be your responsibility. Are you interested?” He rattled off an extensive list of tasks.

I gulped and nodded enthusiastically. This is bigger than I thought; you just don’t get this level of responsibility in most jobs.

I should be well occupied for the foreseeable future and, hopefully, the memories of Carlisle Associates and Eddie might fade a little. I knew, though, that I’d never completely forget them and no way would I ever forget my childhood; I often woke mentally wrecked, having relived the events of my teenage years. I couldn’t see that changing any time soon.

Nick continued. “My team is very successful, and so the company leaves me very much alone to run things as I see fit. I have what many regard as an unconventional approach to business, preferring that we work as a team of equals. So far, my strategy seems to have paid off. I usually ask rather than tell as I find that people’s motivation is higher that way. And everyone’s skill is valuable; there’s no such thing as ‘only a filing clerk’.” He completed the sentence with appropriate little finger movements.

In response to my question, he told me roughly how business fluctuated during the year, ending with “we all help each other and just get the job done. We’d rather you call for help than get bogged down.”

He then asked me what I knew about the company, about my previous experience and, inevitably, why I left Carlisle Associates.

He seemed easy to talk to and, after talking about the first two subjects for a few minutes, I found myself briefly relating the history of my being spotted by the good-looking manager; promotion from the secretarial pool; the whirlwind romance; the very short time before the rot set into our marriage; the acrimonious parting and the subsequent tearful resignation from work. I didn’t tell him why the marriage hadn’t worked; it was none of his business and I didn’t think he’d want to know anyway.

Hell, I still shuddered at the realisation that my childhood had wrecked yet another relationship, and big time, too. Yep; my parents had a lot to answer for.

Nick gave me a weak smile when I’d finished my severely edited tale of woe. He seemed to put me at ease straight away, and I’d found myself opening up to him much more than I had with any other man.

After a while, he straightened in his chair and absently curled a stray lock of hair behind his ear. It was an odd gesture: I longed to get a pair of clippers and give him a proper haircut. I couldn’t, of course; that’s not my job. I presumed that an attractive young man like Nick Latham had a Significant Other stashed away somewhere. She would, no doubt, either be regularly nagging him to get his hair cut or, more likely, thinking herself lucky that she’d managed to snag such a good-looking bloke, with very nice manners.

“I suppose you’d better drop in to Personnel so that they can test your shorthand and typing. And no doubt they’ll have loads of forms for you to fill in. I presume they’ll write to you and let you know officially the outcome of today. Let me introduce a couple more of the team while you’re here.”

I followed him as he left the office, and we went over to a short man in a blue check shirt and grey trousers. He, like Nick Latham, didn’t wear a tie; he appeared to be in his early forties, was balding and wore spectacles.

Nick greeted the man. “Ben Chapel; Jackie Oliver. Ben is one of my sales team. Jackie has come in to discuss the administrator position.”

We shook hands and Ben’s eyes strayed to the usual place.

Then he turned to the woman at the adjacent desk. “Cathy Hungerford, Jackie Oliver; Jackie has come in to interview for the vacancy.”

Cathy stood and she and and I both did the usual brief summing up that women often do on first meeting; I just knew that I came off worse. Cathy was taller than Nick, had a figure to die for and the clothes to show it off. Nick introduced her as his senior sales executive.

Nick laughed. “No one says “No” to Cathy; she could sell pack ice to a polar bear and persuade him to pay double for it.”

She laughed and offered her hand. “Hello Jackie, I’m sure that you’ll enjoy working with us.”

“I haven’t got the job yet.”

She laughed. “If you hadn’t, you’d be on your way home by now.”

She seemed so certain that my heart beat a little faster. I don’t know why, but I had a good feeling about this place: I thought that maybe I could lay a few ghosts to rest here.

After some further introductions involving a few of his team - “the others are out on business” - we returned to Nick’s office where he made a quick telephone call to Personnel, led me upstairs to the seventh floor, and handed me over to a tall, blonde-haired woman.

”Sally will deal with forms and stuff.” He said. Then he smiled, again looked me in the eye, extended his hand and gently gripped my fingers again, not shaking my hand, I noticed, and thanked me for coming in to see him. He gave me the distinct impression that I was doing him a favour, not the other way around. He turned on his heel and, just before leaving, he glanced back over his shoulder and asked me, “When can you start?”

“W…when you like,” I answered, taken aback by the speed of it all. I still couldn’t believe all that had happened.

“Fine,” he said, “Allow time to get the paperwork sorted. How about the fourth of next month? Monday 3rd is a public holiday.” Then he sniggered. “‘Star Wars’”.

“Pardon?”

“May the Fourth be with you.”

Sally and I joined him as we all laughed at the date.

“Anyway, perhaps a month on both sides?”

I nodded numbly, then said, “Perfect.”

“I’ll leave you in Sally’s capable hands and will see you soon. Goodbye for now,” he said as he left.

I got down to the serious business of filling in forms. Many years ago, in a land far, far away (don’t get me started again), “they” promised a paperless society. We’re still waiting. Now we not only get junk mail on paper, we get electronic junk mail as well.

I did a quick shorthand and typing test, after which Sally asked, “Would you like to join me for lunch? There’s a staff restaurant on the ground floor.”

I nodded gratefully and followed her. It should certainly be healthier than Greaseburger-and-Fries, or any look-alike, that you might find on the high street.

I couldn’t settle to anything over the next few days, neither did I sleep too well. I couldn’t get the thoughts of that office and, dare I say it, Nick Latham, out of my head. I tried all the usual things. I cleaned my room - one small tatty bed-sit with two gas rings, a toilet and a shower just large enough to accommodate an anorexic broom handle. It was on the top floor of a grubby building in Guildford Road. I found the place when I left Carlisle Associates a few months ago, having got the heave-ho from Eddie. I took long walks in the park; I window-shopped and drank a lot of tea, at home, alone.

The marriage break-up had left me with hardly any money, no energy and very few friends. Other than parents who now lived in Portsmouth, and with whom I’d rather cross swords than paths, there was really no-one except my old mate Richard - travel agent, queer as a nine-bob note, but with a heart of gold, and shacked up with Anthony, a chef in a swanky hotel - and Emmy; feisty, scatterbrained, florist, a friend since junior school and heavily into punk rock and body piercing. Richard and I go back so far that I don’t suppose he remembers how we came to be such good friends. I certainly don’t. We probably met in pre-school or some such.

Between the four of us, we laughed a lot and hugged often. I still couldn’t figure out why I was fascinated by Nick Latham; that man was somehow a magnet and I kept telling myself not to be so stupid. Hadn’t I had enough trouble? Why go looking for more? Why even consider it?

The letter arrived a couple of days later; could I please telephone Sally? I had to sit down, my head was spinning.

I called Sally, then Richard and Emmy. “I got the job.”

My friends were highly chuffed and promptly invited themselves out for drinks at my expense.

“I haven’t been paid yet, and funds are a bit scarce,” I moaned.

“I’ll sub you,” Richard promised, not for the first time in our lives. And, like the previous times, he delivered that evening at ‘The Globe’. “What’s he like, then, your new boss?” He asked, earning himself a black look from Emmy on one side, and an elbow in the ribs from Anthony on the other. He’d bought a round of drinks and we all sat down.

“He looks very young but, other than that, it’s difficult to tell,” I answered, gratefully getting my throat around a generous helping of dry cider. “He’s the only bloke I know, present company excepted, who didn’t look at my tits when we first met.”

“Is he gay, then?” Richard asked, and suddenly found his left arm caught in a death grip by Anthony.

“I’ve no idea; I don’t think that the sexual orientation of your prospective boss is a subject that usually crops up at job interviews,” I giggled, and then sank another significant quantity of cider.

Boy; that tasted good.

Four pints later, I was decidedly unsteady. At least I’d had the presence of mind to call Sally before I got smashed. The next day, I took the bus to the office and handed in the relevant paperwork. I didn’t feel inclined to entrust it to the postal service; I wanted the contract of employment to arrive before Nick Latham or Sally Williams could change their minds - or I woke from this lovely dream — whichever came first.

The Fourth of May dawned bright and clear and looked as though it might actually warm up later; I took that as a good omen and rummaged in my wardrobe for a suitably stunning outfit. I didn’t find one but did find a short-sleeved lilac patterned sundress and some white sandals with medium heels. I did the best with my hair and, after fighting for about 20 minutes with the contents of my makeup drawer, decided to call it a day and acknowledge that I would never compete with Ms Hungerford, even on one of her off days — if she had any, which I doubted.

The bus was crowded and stifling. Thank God that I didn’t live outside the town and that my journey was a short one. I eventually dragged my glowing body off the bus and, as I was a little early for the first day “photo for the security pass, this will be your desk, have you everything you need?” I sat on a bench in GSD’s landscaped gardens to cool off.

And who should be walking towards me, looking like she’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue magazine, but Cathy Hungerford. “Jackie,” she enthused in a voice that would certainly be at home reading the BBC news, “I’m so glad that you’re coming to work with us. I just know that we’re going to be great friends.”

I sat there, stunned, mouth open like a goldfish who knew that someone had just chucked in a generous handful of fish food, but had no idea where in the pond it had gone. “Err, yes…err…well, umm, I’ll see you soon then. Err…” My language skills had obviously not deserted me that morning.

With that she smiled, gave a little finger wave and walked off towards the main entrance.

‘Daft cow,’ I irritably told myself off, ‘How about making a good impression on your first day? No way, Jose!’ I stood, shook my head and considered retreat. Not a good idea. That would inevitably have led me back into the bosom of my loving family. Bastards! Even I’m not that desperate; I’d rather sleep on this bench. I walked, in trepidation, in the footsteps of Ms Hungerford.

I reported to Personnel. Having completed all the usual formalities, I was taken to Nick Latham’s office and he came out to meet me.

“Jackie, welcome to the team. I do hope that you will enjoy working with us. If you’d like to come into the playpen, we can go over your part in our plans for world domination.”

I laughed along with him and followed him into his office. He sat down and motioned me into one of the comfy chairs. I noticed that he didn’t flop into the chair but sort-of flowed gracefully into it. He didn’t lounge in the chair but sat upright with his legs crossed at the ankles and with his hands in his lap.

Strange.

He didn’t tell me my duties; he just seemed to invite me to tell him what I could do. I found myself taking on more responsibility than I’d ever dreamed of and was becoming increasingly excited about the future. I ended up feeling like I was the leader of the orchestra and he was the conductor.

Cathy chuckled as I walked out in a daze. “Jackie, apart from the lack of injury and bruising, you look as though you’ve just been hit by a train.”

“I seem to have taken on much more than I ever thought I could,” I said, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee that she offered me.

“Yes, he’s a bit like that, it’s no wonder that the team is so successful; after half an hour with him, you feel that you really could conquer the world.”

I wondered if she was the Significant Other that I thought must be lurking somewhere behind Nick Latham.