Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Done.
The bling, sparkle, and glitz that hits me when the elevator doors open nearly catapult me into the back wall. It seems everyone’s made it into the office for Christmas Jumper Day, despite the snow still being ankle deep. And they’re all currently in the corridor checking out each other’s efforts. It’s no surprise that the chatter dies down when they spot me. It’s no surprise that every set of eyebrows shoot up in shock when they see I’m wearing a Christmas jumper.
“Let’s not make a big deal of it,” I say, laying my coat over my arm and stepping off the elevator. “It’s just a jumper.”
“And what a wonderful jumper it is,” Thomas says, serious.
I look back over my shoulder when I hear a collection of suppressed sniggers, rolling my eyes at the culprits. All of them. “Oh, do grow up.”
My office door hits the frame with more force than I intended, and the sniggers turn into full-blown belly laughs. I frown and look down my front, wondering what the fuck is so funny. As far as Christmas jumpers go, this one’s on the classier side of god-awful, unlike the garish horrors adorning every one of my colleagues. It’s me. They’re laughing at me trying to make an effort.
Indignant, I hang my coat and put my hat and gloves on the radiator, leaving my boots on—heels really won’t work with the jumper—taking a seat at my desk, irritated by the buzz outside my office. So I rootle through my bag for my AirPods and drown it out with some RIOPY, settling down to work through my emails and bracing myself to go over the company credit card statement that’s landed.
Six hours later, I’m bursting for a wee and have redlined a dozen transactions on the statements that I have questions about. This has got to the busiest statement to date. And the largest. My God, Anthony and Barbara have absolutely no respect for my job, Thomas, or this company. It’s a fucking free-for-all.
My Christmas jumper and I can no longer hide. I send the statement to the printer and take a breath, pulling my AirPods out and leaving my office. Debbie peeks up, the corner of her lip quirking. “What?” I ask, knowing I sound hostile. “Jesus, if I’d known my partaking in the dumb Christmas Jumper Day was going to cause such a drama, I wouldn’t have bothered.”
Her shoulders drop on a small sigh. “Camryn, you terrify most of the people at this company.”
“I don’t talk to half the people at this company, so how can I terrify them?”
Her expression is something that could only be interpreted as really?
I shrug. “I don’t like Christmas.”
“What’s your excuse for the other eleven months of the year?”
“Ouch.”
“You know, it would be helpful if people had some context,” she says, quietly, almost reluctantly.
As she should. “Not gonna happen, Debbie,” I motion to the printer. “There should be a credit card statement for me.”
She kicks off with her feet, rolling herself to the printer, and pulls off the sheets. “What about the flowers?”
“What about them?”
“Oh my God, Camryn, crack a smile, for the love of God.” She slaps the papers down, a wave of annoyance I’ve not seen on Debbie before twisting her round face.
“Are you done?” I ask, swiping the papers up, my jaw a little tense, making Deb remember herself and wilt.
“Yes.”
“Good. I have a job to do.” I march onward, armed, and pass Crystal’s desk, my attention on Thomas’s office.
“Oh, oh, he’s in a private meeting,” she calls out urgently as I burst through his door.
“We need to talk.”
“Camryn,” he says, rising from his chair as I wave the papers in my hand at him. “What’s that?”
“The latest business card statement.”
“Can it wait?” He motions to the corner of his office, where Barbara and Anthony are reclined on the black leather couch, sipping coffees.
Ah, the wife and son. The Board. Perfect. “Actually, this concerns you two as well,” I say, helping myself to a seat.
“Oh.” Thomas retakes his chair, showing the ceiling his palms when his wife gives him a sharp look. Of course, Barbara is bejewelled in red sequins. She looks like an angry zit, and Anthony looks like he wants to launch me into outer space, as usual.
“There are a few things on here I need more information on.” I flick to the second page. “Like this transaction for ten thousand five hundred pounds on November first to Royal Caribbean.”
“How much?” Thomas blurts, as Anthony starts squirming in his seat, diverting his eyes from mine.
“Ten thousand five hundred,” I confirm, my pen poised and ready, my expectant look pointed at Thomas, making him look across to his son and wife.
“Any offers?” he asks.
Anthony clears his throat. “That was me,” he says quietly.
“Pardon?” I turn my ear toward them.
“It was me,” he says, louder this time, doing a terrible job of hiding his scowl. “I have a meeting in Miami in January.”