Tom walked the corridor back to his desk from the canteen, trying to slow his steps down. That walk back from lunch was the slowest he walked each day. Stretching out the minutes until his lunch break was over. The staff noticeboards took on new levels of interest at that time each day.
Pilates classes, Tuesdays at 7 pm in the atrium. Female wanted for flat share, non-smokers only, call Carole after 6pm. For sale, Ford Sierra, 1 previous owner.
"Will you be joining us this afternoon, Tom?"
Tom looked up into the eyes of Mr Matthews, his boss. Eyebrows arched, a smirk on his face. He was pleased with himself and his joke, Tom thought to himself. He knew he would hear it many more times that afternoon now.
Tom took his seat at his desk in the back row bank of brown wooden desks amongst the other members of the admin team. There were another three and a half hours to go until he would finally be free, three hours of dealing with letters and faxes about toilets. Tom had worked at Flusha, an outsourced waste and water processing company since he left school. He spent his days in perpetual boredom daydreaming of a better life.
Mr Matthews was fond of his jokes, all of them revolving around the subject of toilets, which the staff in his office would hear repeatedly. His favourite joke was “This was the only job where it was a positive to flush your career down the toilet.” or "In this business, we take crap from everyone." Mr Matthews always laughed at his own jokes, and his staff would smile and make positive noises, cursing him on the inside.
If this attention wasn’t already bad enough, that lunchtime Tom had been cornered by Sheila from the design department in the office canteen. Sheila had taken to Tom in the two years that he had worked at Flusha. She joked that she was his office mum, much to Tom's displeasure. Sheila liked to talk to Tom at length about her daughters, or jam making or cross-stitch, or anything else Tom had absolutely no interest in.
He always endured her out of politeness. He sat there eating his premade sandwiches, cursing Sheila for ruining the one part of his day that felt like his own.
"What did Sheila say to you today then?"
Barry, who sat at the desk opposite Tom, leaned over the desk, peering around the computer terminal. Barry, who was closer in age to Sheila than Tom, had caught Tom's eye in the canteen as Sheila was mid-sentence, Tom had to look away for a moment so that he didn't laugh.
"I don't know. I try to nod along politely, but I wasn't remotely interested," Tom leaned over his desk and lowered his voice, "She is so boring, I only let her sit down so I could ask her about that new girl in her office, Sarah. But I couldn't get a word in."
Barry smiled, "Sheila is okay, you know, she's a nice lady, maybe not to a youngster like you, who's only interested in beer and Duran Duran."
"God, how old are you?" Tom laughed at Barry's outdated reference, "It's not 1984 still, you know, it's the nineties now. Things have moved on."
It's like working in the land of the dead here sometimes Tom thought to himself, he was the only staff member under thirty working in the department, at least he was until the new girl had arrived the month before. Sarah was the one shining light in a sea of greyness. Tom tried to play down his interest but, in truth, was infatuated with Sarah. He often found himself daydreaming about kissing her and running his fingers through her long red hair. He had to talk to her somehow. How would he cope after the next two weeks if he hadn't spoken with her?
"So, Casanova, what do you know about the new girl so far?" Barry asked with a grin on his face.
"Well, all I know so far is that she's temping in the design office to earn some cash before she goes back to university in September. Oh, and she's single."
"I don't know why you just don't talk to her. She's the only person in the building your own age. You must have plenty in common."
"What do I even say, though? How do I just talk to her like that?" Tom asked in a half whisper. He didn't want the office to know how awkward he truly felt around women. "I always feel so self-conscious, and I am certain I'll end up saying something stupid."
"Just make a joke with her, about the office, or us oldies, or anything that may lead to you having an actual real conversation. I can't believe you haven't already spoken with her. God, you kids these days make me laugh."
"But how do I talk to her without feeling like an idiot?" Unlike Sheila, Tom did appreciate working with Barry. It felt more like working with an uncle than just a colleague.
"Just picture yourself as a film character or someone fearless as you talk to her, and just do it."
Tom knew Barry was right. Sarah had worked in the office opposite in the corridor for a month now and have only managed one hello, and two smiles and occasional nod. September was looming, and he knew he only had a couple of weeks left to make a positive impression and ask her out before she was gone.
The next day, Tom walked the corridor to the office canteen, sandwiches in hand. And looked for an empty seat. Somewhere in the corner where he couldn't be disturbed by Sheila. Then, as he scanned the
half full tables, He saw Sarah sitting on her own reading a book on a corner table, and all he could think were Barry's words, "Just do it."
Suddenly, an urgency overtook Tom. It was now or never. But as he strode purposefully across the canteen, the burst of confidence started to drain from him. He felt the eyes of other colleagues on him. He remembered Barry’s words, "Picture yourself as a film character..."
So, in his mind he became James Bond, to Tom the epitome of suave, sophisticated, calmness. Instead of walking through the canteen. He was walking across a casino floor in Monte Carlo towards an attractive Russian spy. His right foot connected with a canteen chair, and he stumbled slightly but then corrected himself and continued.
Sarah looked up at him and smiled as he reached her.
"I don't think we've ever actually spoken before, I'm Tom," he reached out his hand, and Sarah shook it.
He was happy to be facing the wall, and away from the rest of the canteen and watching eyes.
"Hi Tom, I'm Sarah."
Tom pulled out the chair opposite Sarah and sat down.
"I know who you are," He realised that sounded quite menacing, "I mean, I've seen you about the office."
Tom was feeling hot and itchy in his suit suddenly.
"So, how did you get the job here?"
"My mum works here, too. She arranged it for me."
Tom was not feeling very Bond-like and searched his mind for something else to say to make things right. But he realised his mind had gone blank. Sarah was looking at him in anticipation, and Tom realised that the silence between them was growing. What else had Barry said? "Make a joke with her, about the office, or us oldies."
But what did he know about her? What could he say that she could relate to?
Then he thought of something. A killer line. A joke they could share a laugh at someone's expense, and the conversation would go from there.
"You work in the planning office with Sheila, don't you? Is she the most boring woman on the planet or what?"
He settled back in his chair, a smile spreading across his face. Ah, Mr Bond, I've been expecting you.
"Actually, that's my mum." Sarah had a look of disgust on her face as she spat out the words.
Tom sat open-mouthed, feeling as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs, like he had been punched in the stomach. He could feel his face burning crimson and felt the urge to run away and hide. Tom heard all the talking stop behind him, he didn't turn round, but he knew the whole canteen would be looking their way.
He tried to think of something to say, anything that would make things better, but no words would form in his brain. Sarah stood up angrily, the chair falling back against the wall and stormed away from the table. Tom could feel his face burning a crimson red, and he put his head in his hands, on the table. Tom could hear people behind him muttering in hushed tones.
For the next ten minutes, Tom faced the wall. He waited until he could no longer hear anyone behind him before he got up and scanned the canteen. Mr Matthews was sitting by the exit, and although he said nothing as Tom passed him, his raised eyebrows reading his newspaper told that he had seen everything.
Tom walked back to his desk, for once, walking at pace. His desk at the back of the office now would become his refuge rather than his prison.
He knew, though, that it was going to be a long afternoon and an even longer couple of weeks until September. How would he survive the next two weeks? He cursed himself and his own impetuousness as he walked back along the corridor.
"If only I'd listened to Sheila more and not just ignored her, this all could have been avoided. Another dream down the pan." He almost smiled; Mr Matthews would have approved of that joke.
Comments
Post a Comment