Submitting to Her (2 page)

"Tale - T-A-L-E," he said, spelling it out,
resorting to a homophone of all things to get him out of trouble.
"Aide's been writing a novel for ages." With Rona behind his back,
Vic offered me a pleading look to back him up in his little white
lie.

"I keep getting stuck with it," I said, much
to the guy's relief. "I'm not sure I'm much of a writer." I did
have an ounce or two of mercy in my soul when it came to people I
felt deserved it. But I was thinking: how had Vic come to live in
terror of the woman he'd chosen to spend the rest of his life with?
How did that decision get made?

This was a man who used to regularly shove
through three hundred pound buffalo to blitz the quarterback, and
not think anything of it.

"You know your problem, Aiden?" Rona would
say, and at least to start with I'd always remain dutifully calm
and listen, though I knew exactly what she was going to say. "You
always go for dippy little blondes that never answer back and do
everything you say."

"Isn't that the perfect kind?"

"No wonder you get bored after one
night."

"It's not that I'm bored, Rona - it's just
there's so many dippy little blondes out there…"

I'd get a wry grin from Vic and a full
eye-roll and sigh from Rona, but underneath it all, even I had to
admit she had at least half a point. My dates were all pleasing to
look at - but deathly dull. And increasingly these days, I was
finding it harder to do the whole one night stand thing and get out
alive. Girls gunning for guys of my age were generally of the
opinion I was maturing enough to be looking for commitment. It was
something of which I took full advantage when picking them up - but
it got harder and harder to come away with dignity when I suggested
this simply wasn't going to work out.

Or when I snuck out of their apartments in
the dark, leaving them sleeping peacefully in their beds, dreaming
about what we were going to call our kids.

Anyhow, my dating etiquette aside, even Rona
and Marty's wife, Tasha, were oddly supportive of my stubborn
strategy of quiet resistance and noncooperation in the office, both
of the opinion that I should have got the VP job.

"You should give her a hard time," Tasha had
even suggested. "She's got to earn the respect of her team."

"If she can't get you motivated, she doesn't
deserve the job," said Rona as she bounced a bawling toddler on her
knee, and I appreciated the support and vindication, ignoring her
huge bias.

My confidence in being a complete pig to our
new boss was supported by friends, colleagues and after a while,
even my own gut feelings. I came to forget how ridiculous I was
being, the massive sense of injustice evolving into a full
simmering winter of discontent as my strategy of missing targets
bedded in for the long-haul Machiavellian route back to my
birthright promotion.

And then, after a few months, everything
changed.

It was one particular Friday afternoon in
April, just after lunch. The chief executive of the company - of
all people - was bestowing the honor of a personal visit to our
department. It was a two-hour meeting in Zoey's office, just the
two of them. Must have been grueling to say the least.

Out in our maze of cubicles, the rest of us
in the department looked at each other and signaled with small nods
and bouncing eyebrows that something was going down in that room.
It was Friday afternoon, which everybody knows is when people get
fired.

The atmosphere was tense.

Four o'clock came round, and I felt this
curious sense of nausea in my stomach. I knew full well it was
guilt. Somebody was getting roasted alive - and I was the main
reason for it. I wasn't immune to that innate human capacity for
compassion, just because I was the instigator of the crisis. It
wasn't really Zoey's fault she'd been promoted above me. She was
just bright and highly qualified, and was probably always destined
to jump ahead of a journeyman like me. And I'd made her life
Hell.

I could so easily have been compliant, could
have so easily spurred on the rest of the team to work hard and
meet all our targets.

But I have to admit, part of that funny
feeling within my belly was excitement. This was it, something was
happening. Shaking up the constant tedium of life in the office.
Perhaps by Monday, I would be the one with my own office, nicely
sealed off from the rest of the floor with my own name stenciled on
the sign.

Heading into the last hour or so of the day,
the door finally opened. We all waited and watched with bated
breath, as though expecting to find out some great revelation like
the name of the next pope.

The CEO swept out and away without even a
glance at the rest of us.

Silence.

The whole team was watching the clock, and
waiting for that door to open again. Waiting for a certain Zoey
Schoenberg to come scurrying out, tail between her legs, perhaps
carrying a cardboard box with her personal belongings. But there
was nothing.

Five to five, and I was beginning to actually
worry. Had I gone too far? My ears were burning, my face hot with a
rueful blush. What if she'd done something to herself? Jumped out
of the window, or sliced her wrists with a pair of office
scissors.

Now I felt sick.

I tried to hide it from the others, but
silently I was muttering to myself that if everything worked out,
even if Zoey kept her job, I'd cool it. I'd taught her a lesson by
now, if that's really what I wanted to achieve. No point in
sustaining my passive-aggressive onslaught. Suddenly, I was even
calculating an insane strategy overhaul towards high productivity
in the office, thinking if I failed to get her kicked out, the best
plan might be to get her promoted on out of here or even
head-hunted, so I could fill the VP shoes.

Three minutes to five. The other members of
the department were heading out the door now, with me thinking them
rather cold-hearted. They could have waited until five, just this
afternoon. Maybe Zoey would need a final drink to see her off,
drown her sorrows. Then again, perhaps the poor girl was simply
waiting until everyone had gone home before she carried out her
Walk of Shame, cardboard box clutched in front like some kind of
shield.

Two minutes to five, my eyes firmly on the
clock, the hand moving agonizingly slowly around the face.

A little ding from my email - a message from
Zoey Schoenberg, no less. Calling me into her office.

Damn.

Now why would she want to see me so late on a
Friday afternoon?

My stomach lurched down into my legs. I
straightened my tie, and looked around to see if anyone else could
see me, perhaps reassure me. Everybody had gone home already.

I stepped up, knocked on the door.

"Come in."

My career was flashing before my eyes as the
door opened, revealing an impeccably tidy and overly large office,
with our VP sitting in the office chair like a proud empress. I
eyed the room for a brief moment, still with a glimmer of hope this
place would soon be mine, though the optimism was beginning to
seriously wear off. The blinds were drawn to block out the night
sky, giving the place a rather claustrophobic feeling, despite the
enviable expanse of the room.

"You... wanted to see me?"

"Sit down."

I swallowed, closed the door behind me, then
took three paces forward to take up the offered chair in front of
her desk.

Zoey Schoenberg peered at me for a long
moment, and I could do nothing but stare back. Thinking to myself
that actually she was really quite attractive. The clamor of my
unbridled sense of injustice had completely blinded me to that.
Behind her elegant black-framed spectacles she was certainly
pretty, with big mocha eyes quietly beaming dark fury my way, her
long cocoa hair loosely tied back so that stray locks called for
someone to brush them back out of her face. And I'd tell you how
stunning she looked in her suit, but I didn't dare drop my eyes
below her jaw.

I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my
temple.

It was so unbelievably awkward. Was I
supposed to say something? I opened my mouth, but my throat felt so
dry all I could do was croak, then conceal it with a slight cough.
I felt ridiculous.

"You haven't been too happy about my
promotion, have you, Jones?"

I didn't know what to say. The steely grip of
dread encircled my heart.

"No matter, I don't care," she said. "What I
do care about is that you've made it very difficult for me to run
this department."

"I - I don't think..." I was fumbling with a
dry tongue, though I knew full well there were no words I could
find to defend my recent attitude.

"I don't care what you think. You're
fired."

That I was not expecting.

I sat for a moment as a depth charge exploded
inside my chest. Jesus. Wasn't I supposed to get a formal warning
first? Could she do this? My feet, and then my legs went numb. What
the hell was I going to do?

The nausea turned up a few notches, but what
was perhaps most surprising was that I didn't feel any anger
whatsoever. I guess underneath it all, I thought it was probably
fair - with what I'd put her through.

"I assume you won't be asking for a
reference."

Jesus. What the hell was I going to do?

I cracked.

"I can change... Zoey. Really... honestly...
I can turn things around. Get the department working really well
again..."

It didn't look pleasant. I'm not going to
lie, there was a fair amount of desperation there for a few
moments, some sniveling, plenty of pleading, plaintive excuses,
even a little blubbing.

She sat there calmly throughout, hands
clasped tidily in front of her, a neutral expression on her face.
She was loving every minute of this. This was sweet, sweet revenge
on everything I'd dished out to her and more, all in a nicely
self-contained little Friday afternoon meeting.

Eventually, after I'd tried every trick in
the book to wheedle one last chance out of her, from reminders of
my long service to promises of future obedience and productivity,
and ridiculous suggestions of how I'd turn things around, she held
up a hand, a conductor silencing a rowdy philharmonic.

"I don't need you any more," she said.

I hung my head. God, how stupid I'd been. How
the hell was anyone going to take me on without any references,
fired from the only job I'd had in 10 years? How was I going to
survive in this crappy economy? Flipping burgers along with a load
of spotty teenagers in a Burger King somewhere?

After a beat, she added calmly: "What I need
is someone who will do every single thing I ask without question,
without hesitation."

I heard myself catch my breath. Was she
offering me a way back in?

"I can do that," I insisted, by then
completely unashamed at what a crawler I must have seemed. "I swear
to God - I'll do anything you say. I won't question a thing."

She looked at me for another long, long
moment. Drinking in my desperation, those beautiful eyes gazing at
me - languorous, disappointed, yet hinting at pity after my
humiliating display.

"I'll be your right-hand man. I'll make sure
everything runs like clockwork, everything you want is done
double-quick, highest priority."

"I'm not sure I believe you."

"I... I'll show you. Just give me a chance,
I'll prove it."

"I think it would be easier to find someone
new, someone who doesn't have resentment clouding their view of me
as their department chief."

"No," I pleaded, hands together out in front,
praying to some unseen god of business. "I'll show you. Please.
I'll do anything."

She sat a while, and I could see that she was
breathing deeply. Relaxed - or excited? It must have been something
of a thrill to have me wriggling on the hook like this.

Eventually, she rose from her chair, standing
tall, looking down on me. I felt like the lowest of the low - but I
was willing to be, if only I could save my job, my benefits, my
pension.

She asked: "You'll do anything I ask of you,
without question?"

"Anything, absolutely anything."

She nodded again, very slowly. I felt a
flicker of hope warming my pallid face.

"I want to be sure," she said.

"You want something done over the weekend?" I
asked. "I'll see that it's done - you'll see. I can catch up, I'll
stay late."

She walked slowly around the desk.

"I want to see you do whatever I say, without
question."

"Whatever you ask. I'll do it. Honestly."

Now she took a few more paces over to the
door, and I was suddenly petrified she was just going to walk out
of there, go home for the weekend, leaving me fired. Or perhaps
open the door for me to make a final, irrevocable exit.

"Really, whatever you need," I pleaded,
terror quivering my voice a little.

She locked the door of her office.

I didn't even question it, I didn't even
think at the time how strange it was that she should decide to lock
us inside her office. I was sitting poised on the edge of my chair,
waiting for her to tell me what she wanted me to do. I was so
determined to carry out her every order without even a hint of
hesitation.

"Take off your clothes."

Okay, so that was strange. She had to allow
me a slight pause on that one, it would have been unreasonable not
to.

I re-examined her face, seeking out signs
that she was joking.

Her face was impassive.

Maybe this was all a giant prank to put me in
my place, but she wasn't giving any impression it was a joke. A
moment later, and she was already looking impatient, her face
tightening into the kind of stony glare that anyone in their right
mind would take to be a threat.