Fuck it. I guess I’m going on a cruise.
Chapter 19
‘Sophie, can I have a word in my office?’
I’ve been in the office for precisely twelve minutes, barely time to take off my coat and log into my laptop. From across the desk, I see Kieran look up and make a ‘yikes’ face from behind his beard. Usually when owner Rupert Nighy wants ‘a word’ in his office, it’s not good news. Last week Eesha got a bollocking for putting Geri Halliwell on hold. She then deliberately sang the wrong words to ‘Wannabe’ for the rest of the day while he seethed. As much as he likes to throw his weight around, he’s more than aware that every single person in the office is excellent at their job (not you, Shelley) and losing any member of staff would be a disaster for him.
Rupert likes to parade himself around the office, making sure he’s seen at least once a day getting updates from his subordinates. He just loves the sound of his own voice, and we humour him until he gets bored and retreats into his den. However, when it comes to reprimanding staff, he keeps it behind closed doors where no one can take notes detailing his unprofessional bullshit.
‘What’s that about?’ Kieran wonders. ‘Were you mean to his future wife again?’
I smirk. Last month I was run off my feet, while Shelley flounced around the office asking everyone what they thought about her engagement stationery. She took offence and cried to Rupert when I told her that I was swamped and I’d schedule a time to give a fuck.
I sigh and get up, walking the twenty feet to his office. I know exactly what this is about.
‘Take a seat,’ he says, making his way to his chair. He’s wearing an obnoxious, overpriced floral tie, undoubtedly picked out by Shelley.
‘I got your email this morning,’ he informs me. ‘The one you sent at eleven p.m. last night.’
‘Oh good,’ I reply. ‘Glad it came through. I wanted to let you know as soon as possible. Strike while the iron’s hot, so to speak.’
‘So you’ve booked something?’
‘I have.’
‘And you’re leaving next week. For seven days. It’s very short notice.’ He picks up his pen and starts fiddling with it. Is he sweating?
‘It is short notice, I agree. Kind of like when you drop work on my lap the day before a client is due in, to go on a golfing weekend with Boris.’
I’d describe his look as taken aback. I’m certain that sometimes he forgets that people with functioning memories work here.
‘Well, I don’t think—’
‘Or when you went to Lisbon and notified everyone three days into your holiday. By email. I had to jump in and deal with Asher photography, despite having a full workload already. That was pretty short notice too.’
He frowns. ‘I think you’re forgetting who owns the company, Sophie.’
‘I think you’re forgetting that I haven’t used any of my holiday days in two years.’
‘Not true! You were off for four days before Christmas.’
‘I had covid, Rupert.’
There’s a brief silence while his brain tries to redirect towards another way to defend his position. ‘What about Blooms Bridal?’
‘It’s with branding. Next meeting is on the thirtieth. Evian has signed and Walkers are—’
‘We signed Evian?’
‘We did.Idid.’
He bobs his head, smiling as he taps his pen on the desk like he actually did something here.
‘Look, I’m not saying you can’t go, I’m just saying that more notice would be preferable.’
‘Noted.’
He clears his throat. ‘Well. . . keep up the good work. Can you have those files on my desk before six p.m., please?’
