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‘Yes,’ I wobble. ‘I do. I do recognise them. And I’m so, so sorry. I’m – I’m .?.?. totallymortified.’
‘Mm,’ Michael grumbles, and I can barely look at Petra who sits, rigid and wide-eyed, as if she’s been taxidermised.
‘But they were just drafts,’ I carry on, barely a space between my tiny, quivery words. ‘I .?.?. I wrote them, but they should have never, ever been sent. And I-Ididn’tsend them, and I wouldn’t everwantto send them, so I don’t understand how they evenwerebecause—’ My voice catches and I swallow, look over at them, like a silly, scolded, lost puppy. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just .?.?. really nervous. This is all so serious and formal, isn’t it? Like .?.?. like,Hawaii Five-Oor something.’ And I laugh now. Totally motorbike-like, totally fake. And not a soul laughs, or even smiles. And now I want to melt into tears and sink to the floor. Perhaps even fall through it to a lovely dark void?
‘Millie,’ sighs Paul, and I like Paul. Paul is kind, like a jolly postman; like someone duped him into a job as company director by telling him it’s just chats and nice lunches, and he only stays so as not to leave anyone in the lurch. ‘You understand we just want to establish officially that you recognise the emails on the screen.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’
‘And you were in work as normal, yesterday, at your desk, working on your designated company laptop .?.?.’
‘Yes,’ I say, nodding madly. ‘Yes, yes, that’s right, everything as normal. I was at my desk,as normal, all day .?.?.’ Except. Oh. Theservers. Yes!There was an enormous Flye TV server outage yesterday. The worst we’ve ever, ever had. ‘Like the Battle of the sodding Boyne, up there,’ Steve in IT had said, as he’d passed the reception desk, cheeks flushed and hair on end.
‘The servers were down all day!’ I blurt at Jolly Postman Paul. ‘Could .?.?. could something have happened with that? Clearing drafts and outboxes?A surge?That .?.?. that makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘We don’t know, Millie,’ Paul replies, measuredly. ‘IT rallied and stayed until late last night to fix that particular issue,’ and there’s something about the beat of silence that follows his flat, too-professional tone that makes my stomach drop like a bowling ball.
Am I going to be .?.?.fired?Cut loose from a job I’ve religiously shown up to for five whole years like the human equivalent of a robot hoover. The last time I saw this many people in a room was last month when Gareth in the warehouse got fired (his giant skate shoe – somehow – got thrown through a production truck’s windscreen). I’d feltsosorry for him as he left the boardroom, gangly and hunched with shame, Jack Shurlock, the operations manager, walking him to his car. Will that be me? Is it about to beme?
Although – Jack isn’t here, right now, is he? So, maybe that’s a good sign. Since Jack got back from backpacking, he doesseemto be in fewer meetings than he used to be, but – well, all the same, it’s surely good he isn’t here. (If only for the fact that worse than getting reprimanded for something like this is getting reprimanded in front of the hot, assured operations manager you once had a crush on. And – oh my God. Did I ever write an email to him? ToJack? After that Christmas party.Did I?Oh, no no no no.)
‘IT will look into any sort of red flag.’ Michael sighs, looking like he would rather beanywherebut here, with me and my sad, strange, bewildering email issue. ‘Something being compromised. Hacked, and so on? I’ll re-highlight the company-wide server issue, too. But, just so we’re clear .?.?.’ He looks up at me then, a green biro in his shovel-hand, hovering. ‘These emails. They were written by you.’
‘.?.?. Yes.’
‘And you often take your work laptop home. Yes?’
My cheeks get hot now, because, yes, I do often take my work laptop home. Officially, because I have a few extra things to do, mostly if Petra asks me (but, unofficially, because I sometimes like to use it as a little TV I can follow YouTube tutorials on, or to watchMarried at First Sight Australiaas I cook dinner). But what is he getting at? ThatIsent them?On purpose?
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ answers Petra for me, and oh, Petra. Lovely, lovely Petra. I wish so much we could communicate with each other in this moment – telepathy or something. A touch of Morse code. What’s Morse code for ‘OMG, Petra, it’s worse than you think because I’m afraid I have inadvertently set my whole life on fire, do you copy? PS, will you still be my friend?’?
‘Millie often works more than her agreed hours,’ Petra continues. ‘And so takes her laptop home under my instruction. She also recently shadowed Marshal Chandra on camera crew, too, at the darts final? He was very impressed with her.’
‘Look,’ interjects Jolly Postman Paul. ‘I think we can all agree that everything else aside, the bottom line is it’s simply unprofessional. Issues you could have officially,responsibly, raised with colleagues, or even HR.’
‘I know,’ I say, swallowing down tears. ‘I know, and I am so,sosorry. They were honestly never, ever meant to be read.’
‘I see,’ Paul ponders.
‘It’s like – it’s like something I do to – get things off my chest, you know?’ Be human. Right? If in doubt, be honest and human, and you’ll appeal to the human in everyone. (I heard that once, onDIY SOS, I think it was, and my flatmate Ralph had sniffed emotionally, and said, ‘Tradesmen really are the people’s philosophers, aren’t they?’) ‘And I know it doesn’t excuse anything at all,’ I carry on, ‘but the emails .?.?. I would never want to upset anyone. I don’t even mean it. Not a word of it. I just .?.?. type to .?.?.to let it out?’
‘Yes, Paul,’ says Head-in-a-Jar Ann-Christin, as if I, and myDIY SOSwisdom, have simply vaporised. ‘According to policy, we’re not quite in the gross misconduct area, and Millie has secured her laptop adequately, also in line with policy, so, unless we get formal complaints from other members of staff .?.?.’ And then her face freezes on the screen, before her head is sliced in two Pac-Man halves. And thank God, because .?.?.complaints?I don’t even want to contemplate the idea of there being complaints. Aboutme.
‘Yes,’ says Petra stiffly. ‘I think this is just a case of having some adult conversations. I mean, who hasn’t perhaps wanted to say certain things to colleagues, to friends .?.?.’
‘Mm,’ hums Michael.
‘Right,’ says Paul.
And the silence that follows then is like a big full stop, rolling into the room. Paul sips his tea from the smugly-smiling sloth. Michael extracts a nose hair between two fingers with aggression. Petra nods.
It’s finally over. And all I can think about now, as nervous sweat studs my back, is that my work, really, is the least of my worries, because .?.?.what?Andwho?What have I written over the last two years? Who in my life, is currently, in this exact precise moment, opening an unexpected email from me?
Michael gets up, sighs as if disappointed the meeting didn’t end in my arrest, and opens the boardroom door. I follow Petra, who follows Paul, who’s flanked by Michael, all of us gradually trailing each other, like some sort of messed-up wedding procession.
And on my way to the bathroom, across the thin, ribbed carpet, through the fug of coffee and the hot plastic of machines, I hold my smile. When I get into the toilet stall at the end, I lock the door behind me and, finally, burst into tears.
*
