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“Have you forgotten?” she scoffs.
“I’m heading off tomorrow to cover the San-Fran film festival. You did book my flights I hope?” she says sharply, glaring at me until I remember.
“Yes, yes of course I did.”
I’d totally forgotten, but this Barbie witch boss from hell really is going away for three whole days. I arranged it all for her weeks ago, I’m surprised it slipped my mind but this morning has been rather distracting, to say the least.
“Write up a storyline following this contest,” she says dryly, narrowing her eyes again. Deep in thought this time. “It’ll give me plenty of breathing space before you have to write up the film festival.”
“Push the day with Jack contest details on social media, the website too, like the PR wants. We don’t want to be seen to be always trying to knife the great Jack Mercury in the back, he has his fans too apparently and some of them can actually read. This could be Jack’s saving grace, a feel-good story for a change,” she informs me.
But this doesn’t sound right. This isn’t the Naomi who makes me dig up or plain old make stuff up about celebrities before running it past the editors, who run it by the lawyers who calculate the risk of settlement versus the sales in copy and the potential publicity for the paper.
“You want me to follow through on this?” I hear myself asking, trying hard not to smile as she raises her voice impatiently.
“What did I just say? Yes! I want you to follow through on this. CC me everything before anyone else and for fuck’s sake, Fanning don’t you dare screw anything up while I’m gone,” she adds threateningly.
“No, Naomi. I won’t.” I promise, crossing my fingers behind my back and somehow managing to hide my glee until her skinny rake back is turned and I’m alone with Jack again.
With a color copy of his photographs anyway.
Naomi leaves for lunch early, leaving me to my own devices and only calling in the late afternoon to tell me she’s got a headache so won’t be back in today after all.
How convenient, early minute and a three day paid holiday.
That’s the kind of journalism I thought I’d signed up for, but it turns out I’ve got a long way to go in this business before I can get paid holidays or even an early minute.
I tell her everything she wants to hear and forward her the ticket information after confirming her flights and accommodation.
I daren’t leave before time just in case she’s lurking someplace else, trying to catch me out again but something tells me she’s not the only one getting a free holiday.
The thought of three days without her in my life is enough to make me relax for the first time in a long time.
Nobody else in the office even registers my existence, and I have the run of Naomi’s little corner while she’s away.
Publishing the contest details to her social media accounts is simple enough, like everything else with her name on it it’s me who actually does the work.
Once that’s done I figure I’ve got nothing left to lose, and even though it’s against office policy, I use the work phone to dial in my own entry into the contest.
Why the hell not? I’m not gonna miss the chance to meet Jack Mercury in the flesh.
Just one entry won’t hurt.
The call cost is $4.95 though.
Hmmm. Hope nobody really checks the office phone accounts.
One teensy little contest entry, then I’m done.
Promise.
143 office phone contest call entries later…
I’ll pay them back, every cent.
Ah Jesus, what have I done? What am I gonna do?
This is the end of me.
If they find out.
But who else could it have been? Naomi’s away and I’m the only one here the whole time.
Crap!
I should be typing my resignation. Maybe even trying to leave town before someone finds out what I’ve done.
But the office is strangely quiet when I leave, and as per usual nobody even looks up when I walk by.
But there’s something else.
A new kind of feeling inside me as I make my way home, back to my tiny one room apartment.
I feel like 143 is the new magic number, that somehow, and I really don’t know exactly how but everything’s gonna be alright.
It’s leftover takeout and a quart of peppermint chocolate chip ice cream for dinner. Curled up in front of my big screen TV with my favorite Jack Mercury movie playing, I eventually kiss his printed photos goodnight before falling into the first real deep and carefree sleep I’ve had in ages.
Not even worried about being late for work tomorrow or any other day after that, I dream that Jack Mercury himself is here, and everything that usually bugs like Naomi, my crappy job, and even crapper apartment just seem to melt away once I look into his penetrating dark eyes.
