My Fake Wedding(19)

‘Isn’t it?’ She screws up her nose with laughter. ‘Of course I’ll have to find a replacement for Audrey.’

‘Audrey’s leaving?’

‘No.’

‘Then?’

‘She’s left. Not ten minutes ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I fired her. She was becoming unreliable. Always racing home early to get back to those snotty brats. Falling asleep in meetings. And she was forever leaking milk over the boardroom table. When she damn well knows I’m allergic to dairy products.’

Any small flicker of maternal instinct is an indication of fatal weakness, in Imogen’s opinion. According to her, it’s on a par with quiche-eating in males.

So poor old Audrey getting the boot is the bad news. But why is she telling me? Unless… Of course. She’s hoping I’ll take on Audrey’s job. As well as my own, no doubt. And probably for less money, knowing this bloody place.

But if I am doing two jobs, there’ll have to be more money, won’t there? And if there is more, I’ll be able to afford somewhere nicer to live. Somewhere with a garden, perhaps. And a cat flap for Graham and Shish Kebab.

And if I am doing Audrey’s job, I probably won’t have to sit opposite David any more. Which’ll be a major relief after last night.

‘You’re probably wondering what all this has got to do with you,’ Imogen says matter-of-factly.

‘Well, I was kind of wondering.’

‘You’ll be wanting the bad news, no doubt.’

‘I thought…’

‘What?’ Her eyes gleam triumphantly. ‘You thought that my sacking that lactating sap was the bad news? Oh no, darling, you don’t know the half of it.’

She stretches lazily, like a cat in the sun, enjoying the fact that she’s keeping me hanging like a fly in a web. I’m slightly put out. Not because I particularly care what she’s got to say but because I’m desperate to get out of here and go for a wazz.

‘The bad news,’ she grins, ‘is that you’re fired as well.’

It takes a second for what she’s just said to sink in. When it does, I feel winded.

‘I would say I’m sorry,’ she says, as I stare at her, mouth lolling in disbelief. ‘But I’m not. And you know me. I don’t mince my words.’

No indeed.

She gets straight down to business. ‘If you have any personal belongings in the office, can I suggest you take them with you now, because I’ll be giving strict instructions to Marsha that you are barred from the building with immediate effect. Got it?’

‘B-but you can’t.’

‘I can, I’m afraid. I’m the big boss now.’

She’s taking the piss.

‘I could become a freelancer if it would help…’

‘Freeloader, more like,’ she scoffs. ‘No thanks, love. This isn’t a cost-saving exercise. I’ve already hired someone else on a higher salary to do your job. It’s your attitude that’s the problem.’

‘You what?’

‘You’re about as reliable as a condom with a pin stuck through it. If it wasn’t for your vast personal phone bill I’d be hard put to know whether you actually bothered to come into work at all.’

‘But I won’t have an income.’

‘No, honey, you won’t.’ She treats me to a cyanide-dusted smile. ‘But this is a profit-making organisation, not a charity. We don’t think much of paupers in here, sweetcakes, so you’d better sling your hook before I call Security. Oh, and I’m off to the editorial meeting now. You can see yourself out.’

And with that, she spins on her heel, leaving me all alone in her office. I pull a lump of hour-old chewy out of my mouth and chuck it on her chair. That’ll be a nice treat for the old bitch’s Prada later on.

The first thought that crosses my mind as I step over the threshold of her top floor office and make my way to the lift is that at least I won’t have to face David. The editorial meeting must have started by now, so he’ll be safely ensconced in the boardroom.

And, much to my relief, he’s not at his desk. As Melanie and Serena watch me pack up my highlighter collection and emergency Kit Kat supplies, I feel strangely detached. I’m upset, yes. Of course I’m upset. I’ve just lost my job. But a tiny part of me feels relieved. Relieved that the decision has been made for me. I don’t have to decide to leave and find out what I really want to do. Now, I’m going to have to look for another job. I really don’t have any choice in the matter.

I feel oddly elated as I leave the IBS building for the last time. Here I am, in the middle of the morning, with absolutely bugger all to do.