He turns on a shiny Ted Baker boot heel and heads back towards his office. I hope my meal is still there when I return.
My hands rise to my chest, and I have to immediately hold my breath as my nose wrinkles from the offending stench of warm fish. There’s a window cracked open letting in a breeze, which ruffles a bunch of papers stacked on the ledge, but nothing is helping the smell. Dwarfed by his black ergonomic chair, Clive is typing away on his Mac computer. A sticker on the back reads: ‘Property of Clive Flock. Do not touch.’ Hanging behind him is a poster of himself, titled: ‘Winner of best animator 2002.’
We work at a company that animates for corporate clients and children’s TV. There’s talk of branching out into illustration and the book market, too. I somehow ended up here after deciding my degree wasn’t aligned with what I wanted to do. My college illustration BTEC swung it. I wanted to draw; I wanted to animate the stories I wrote.
I don’t do any of that. Not on an official, employed basis anyway.
Clive squints at his computer, shaking his head as I stand before him, looking down.
‘How are you?’
‘Well, hungry, and I just found out my ex is?—’
‘Will, I’mgoingto need you tostaylate this evening.’ He doesn’t even look at me. ‘We need to get thelistof shots to the client before the day is out.’
‘Okay.’
I rub my nose, trying not to sniff as my eyes water in response to the stench in the room, though I’ve shed plenty of tears over my mind-numbing job, too. My job is to keep track of the animated shot numbers, to ensure that the real professionals don’t use the wrong animation sequences.
Typing numbers into documents that never get read is soul-crushing.
‘I… understand.’ I pause. Clive pushes his glasses up his crooked nose with a short, stubby finger. His nose broke years ago in a boxing match. Apparently, people once called him Nimble Clive in the ring. Now they call him Sly Clive because he sneaks about, eavesdropping on conversations. By ‘they’, I mean me, because only I call him Sly Clive. ‘I could send them from home?’
Clive inhales, spluttering with a theatrical air that makes me think he once tried and failed to be an actor. Or maybe he justinhaled some pungent fish. I wait for him to finish. ‘No.’ Clive’s eyebrows are reaching his thinning hair. ‘Companypolicy.’
‘Company policy?’
‘Noworkingfrom home.’
‘You do it.’
‘I do not.’
‘The entire office next door is working from home right now.’
‘No, no.’ Clive covers his ears. ‘Theyneeddoing and sending tonight, Will. It’ssuperimportant.’
I grit my teeth. I hate when Clive says super. It’s said with a squeak, his voice inflecting higher on the last syllables.
‘Can I get paid overtime?’
‘No.’
Clive snorts, inhaling what I can only imagine was a big glob of snot. His contorted face makes me recoil, afraid he might spit it out onto his office floor. There are some rather suspicious looking stains there. Is that old tuna mayo?
‘I’veactually called youinabout your role,’ Clive says.
My heart beats as if I’ve run a marathon. This is it. He’s finally listened to my incessant pleas to promote me into a role I am passionate about, because right now I’m at the end of my tether.
‘Take a seat,’ Clive instructs.
I purse my lips. Unless Clive wants me to sit on his lap, something I absolutely will not do, then there isn’t anywhere else to sit. Old coffee mugs litter the only windowsill, flies buzzing around them.
Clive points to the mountain bike leaning against the wall. ‘Sit.’
I twist my fingers together, stepping slowly over to the bike. I reach for the bike, pulling it as I try not to think of Clive in his sweaty latex, which hangs from a hook on the door. The tyre hits a cupboard, then a box, and I have to wrestle it into the middleof the room. Clive places his hands together. I straddle his bike, tall for such a short man, and sway from side to side as my legs dangle, trying to keep myself up. I stand on tip-toes, gripping the handles.
‘Now, you mightbewondering what role you havetoplay in this company. Don’t lie tome. I see your frustrations sometimes.’
