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Subject: Millie, set up meeting room asap
Ummmm, an empty email and an instruction in the subject without asingleplease or thank you?????? Not that I expected anything else of course, because I hear how you speak to other people who work here. YOU ARE THE RUDEST MAN ALIVE!!!!
Kind Regards,
Millie Chandler
Reception
Flye TV, Progress Road, Essex
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From: Millie Chandler
Subject: Sorry, can’t make dinner, clients over from Sweden, can’t go home until I’ve closed the sale!!!
Good. I’m sort of relieved to be honest, Lex. The cinema last week was hard-going. I wish it hadn’t been but it was and I felt like you were mad at me the whole time. You were so contrary and argumentative!? It was like you had a problem with everything I said. And lately, it really feels like we’re drifting apart, and I hate saying this, but sometimes I think that’s a good thing.
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From: Millie Chandler
Cc: All Office
Subject: Update from Team India, week 16!
It’s been four months since we broke up, and I still miss you so much, Owen. So much sometimes that it physically aches. I just don’t know how to forget you.
Chapter Two
‘Millie, last night, you sent a large number of emails,’ says Paul, my boss, opposite me at the boardroom table, ‘and we’d very much like to discuss this.’
Paul seems calm and matter-of-fact, as a miniature, panicky battle takes place inside my chest. Because that’s that then, isn’t it? My worst nightmare: confirmed. Verified. And I know some people might see having their email drafts sent as nothing more than an irk, at most, an ‘Oh, bloody hell, that’s going to ruffle a few feathers, isn’t it? Ha ha ha,’ drama they could do without. But I am not some people. Because my email drafts arenotjust email drafts. For the last couple of years, my drafts have become – mydiary.A confessional. A haunted crypt of unsaid things; things I wish I could say, things I really, reallywantto say, but don’t, in pursuit of a peaceful life. No drama. No risk. No eyes on me. Noheartbreak(and that one’s very important). A life where I just take thoughtful, destination-less walks with my friends, cook, (try to) crochet and get far too emotionally invested in reality TV. A little under the radar. Some might even say, ‘private’, especially nowadays.
But now, or at least from what I can only assume from the screen on the wall emblazoned over and over with my name, it’s .?.?. out there. All of it. Everything I think and feel but keep locked up. All of my email drafts,sent, to real people. And yes, some to colleagues, but worse than that, are –the others.
Oh, the others.
The emails written to important people in my life. People who I really care about;love.
Fuck.
And now, I have to explain it. Somehow, I have to explain the whats, the whys, the hows (and thehowsis what I can’t for even a second begin to understand) to three silent bosses and sci-fi-head-in-a-jar Ann-Christin.
‘I know sometimes, emails do get sent in error,’ continues Paul. ‘A reply-to-all, instead of a reply to a single recipient, for example. But this – you have sent many, Millie, and various company-wide emails. Some of which are .?.?. personal.’
‘The thing is,’ I start.Must. Not. Cry.‘I-I didn’t actually send them.’
‘You didn’t send them,’ Michael repeats slowly, raising a single bushy eyebrow. He’s gone full cop. Full army commander. I should’ve known he might. Michael once arrived at a company winter mud run dressed in animal furs and covered in lard while everyone else ran in waterproof jackets and inadequate trainers. He’s that type. Plus, I havedefinitelybashed out a stupid, snarky email draft or two to Michael in my time, so he’s probably seen them and now understandably despises the very bones of me. ‘They came from your email address, Millie.’
‘Yes, y-yes, I know, but—’
‘And youdorecognise them?’ He cocks his square head towards the screen, at the strings and strings of emails, and suddenly, this seems ridiculous. That this has happened at all – becausehowdoes something like this just happen? – but more, that they’re all staring at me, my colleagues of five-plus years, like I’ve just been found with a corpse sewn into my mattress. ‘Please know I really am a nice person!’ I want to shout. ‘Your nice, normal, diligent, slightly chaotic receptionist who just wanted to come to work and go home again (and maybe buy a fancy pre-packaged prawn sandwich for lunch because that’s as risky as she gets!)’ But it’s like I’m suddenly a criminal. A corporate criminal in smart trousers with a reusable (Love Island) water bottle.
