З життя

Her Boss

Published

8 хвилин ago

10 Грудня, 2025

Sophie was sprinting to work, absolutely late a total nightmare! If she didnt get past the turnstile before the editorinchief, Peter Mitchell, shed have to write an excuse note explaining how the employee of the month could possibly show up looking so ragged.

Peter was a bit of a paperlover. He hoarded every kind of slip: excuses, confirmations, congratulatory notes, apologies, shopping lists you name it. Nobody at the office could figure out why he was so obsessed with bureaucracy.

His wife kept sending him grocery lists that would tumble out of his trouser pockets, the staff penned endless memos, and Peter was just thrilled with the paperwork flow.

Why do you put up with this? Lucy, Sophie’s mate from the café they share the flat with, was fuming. You work there, and its like theres no better job out there. Good grief! If you keep this up the forests will be felled! Send him an email its modern and ecofriendly.

Sophie sighed. You dont get it, Luce. Hes literally made of paper. It sticks out of every pocket and spills from his notebook. He seems to enjoy it, andwell, he pays us well and doesnt force us to do community cleanups every spring.

Lucy was sold on that. The café owner forced the crew to paint the fence and wash the walls every April. The paint made Lucy sneeze, the dust made her cough, so the no community work excuse was a real lifesaver.

Now, if Sophie didnt slip just a second ahead of Peter on the tram, shed be stuck writing that excuse note. And it would be a long list

Shed overslept because the alarm stopped when the whole house lost power. She and Lucy chased each other around, mopped up a puddle under a leaky fridge, scarfed down cold overnight oats, and managed a quick washup thanks to the tap still running chilly but still water. After that came the usual girlstuff: mascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.

Lucys jacket was crumpled. Apparently, at night a stray cat named Whiskers leapt onto it from a cold puddle by the freezer, curled up, and then got smacked by Lucys boot, sending him tumbling onto his fluffy rear. Whiskers, affronted, fled to the balcony to sulk.

Lucy was hunting for another jacket because the iron was on the fritz

All that took ages. By the time they realised, it was already late.

Sophie, finally dressed and wishing Lucy a good day, hopped onto the tram steps, got squeezed in like jam, and a wellmeaning bloke tried to hug her to keep her from getting stuck in the doors. She gave him a look, and the hug vanished with the man.

Now she had to dodge traffic lights, avoid bumping into railings, and steer clear of pickpockets anything could happen in that crowd!

If she got caught being late, shed lose the bonus. That bonus was already earmarked: a bit for a seaside break, a bit for a new microwave, a bit for a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus and Sophie had earned it fair and square. One slip could wreck it all.

She kept her stride, trying not to dash ahead of the tram. Shed never beat it, but the effort felt good.

Right in front of her, a bloke grabbed a handrail; his jacket sleeve slipped, flashing a roundface watch with multiple hands and dials.

Sophies eyes locked on the watch, she couldnt look away.

Running late? the guy asked sympathetically. Bit of a rough day, eh?

Yeah, Sophie replied, pressing her bag tighter against her already sweaty side.

You know what they say, he smiled, you cant be late to where youre wanted.

Sophie pursed her lips. Normally shed nod, but now she needed that bonus and the seaside trip.

Names Tom, he said, waiting for her response. And you?

Im Sophie Clarke. Let me through, please, she said.

A woman in a light coat and lace gloves pushed Tom aside with a graceful swing of her bust. She smelled of perfume, her lips bright as if painted with beetroot.

She brushed past, accidentally grazing Toms sleeve with those beetred lips.

Sorry! she muttered. Blustery day!

Sophie finally recognised her the bosss wife. No one had ever seen her in the office, not even a photo on Peters wall, but everyone knew her voice over the loudspeaker.

Shed shouted at Peter that morning about a newspaper article: That mammoth piece is dead, Pete! Someone tossed it in the bin, and a vagrant. She was blunt, colourful, and the staff whispered about her like shed been summoned from a storybook.

The newsroom staff muttered, What now? Your mammoths didnt make the cut, Peter! and the editors voice thundered, calling everyone to the conference room.

The women in the pantry scoffed, Who does she think she is, nagging our Pete? They imagined her stuffing pies, sipping tea, and constantly ringing up Peter for every little thing.

Olivia Mitchell, the bosss wife, stalked the tram, nudged a couple of youngsters away from their phones, and plonked herself beside Peter.

Sorry, were just Peter stammered, clutching his briefcase.

Dont be silly, Pete! Well manage, Olivia cooed, snapping her fingers like a seasoned matriarch.

She was the hidden hand pulling the strings. Peter, when alone, would call her for article ideas, not because he didnt know, but because he respected her. She lived on his stomachache medicines, often in hospital, yet still ran the little empire of The Clean Sheet.

Peter kept trying to get the mammoth story on the front page, calling Olivia for permission, but she was too busy shopping at Harrods.

Finally the mammoth piece made the front page, slamming into Olivias face like a set of ivory tusks. She wasnt happy.

Shed even gotten the system admin to give her access to the staff clockin system, tracking every tardy minute. Its just a situation, Pete, the staff would plead. Were all human.

Olivia snapped, If youre protecting them, Im out. Im done! and hung up.

Peter, now a nervous wreck, fled to the kitchen, wolfed down forbidden pastries, gulped tea without sugar, and called for explanations. Hed read each excuse to Olivia, sugarcoating it, then she’d soften and spare any firings.

When a paper landed on his desk, hed read it aloud to her, pretending it was all fine.

Later, Olivia, like a hag from a fairy tale, shuffled a pile of papers onto her lap. Remember the drycleaning list, the address of my masseur, the order for my sisters kidsgrab it all, make sure its fresh, got it? Peter nodded, eyes meeting Sophies across the room. In his brown eyes was a plea: keep this mortifying scene between them.

Now the two shared a secret. Why did Peter endure Olivias bulldozing? Hed helped her climb the ladder, spotting talent at university, nudging her into senior roles. Olivia never worked a day herself; she spent her time on calls, meetings in cafés, and keeping the familys life in order.

Shed been the one who called the old editor, Fiona, to get Peter the top spot. Fiona had a crush on Olivia and, well, Olivia used it.

Fiona, you have to make this happen! Petes not a boy anymore, give him the editors chair, Olivia had laughed, promising a dinner that never materialised.

Fiona had sent an appointment order to the office, and the new editor, Peter, walked into his oakpanelled office on his first day, whispering, Olivia, I cant run this machine! before tea and scones were delivered.

Olivia gave the waitress a onceover, then patted Peters shoulder, Dont worry, love. Well sort it.

She was the grey cardinal behind the scenes. Peter, in secret, would phone her for story tips, not because he didnt know, but because he valued her opinion. She suffered from chronic stomach problems, spending time in the hospital, yet still ran the papers fortunes.

The mammoth article, shoved in place of a piece about daylight bulbs, had Peter calling Olivia five times for approval, only to get no answer she was out shopping again.

The piece hit the front page, and Olivia bristled.

She kept tabs on every employee, demanding the admin grant her access to the attendance logs. It was just a moment, Pete. Were all human, the staff would beg. Olivia would reply, If you protect them, Im out. Goodbye! and the office would erupt.

Peter, exhausted, would sprint to the canteen, scarf down pies banned by Olivia, gulp tea, and then summon the offenders for written excuses. Hed read them to Olivia, embellish them, and shed soften, sparing anyones job.

At one point, Olivia, eyes flashing, asked Sophie, Is that the journalist who grabbed the bonus? Sophies eyebrows shot up, then she frowned.

Wheres that article? Peter asked. Sophie, youve been out on a dream job for ages now, he muttered, gesturing to Olivia.

Olivia shuffled papers, Heres the list from the drycleaner, the address of my masseur, the order for my sisters kids Remember Sunday were visiting them? Peter nodded. Alright, moving on

She kept riffling through the sheets, while Peters gaze locked with Sophies, pleading her to keep this humiliating scene secret.

Now they had one shared secret.

Peter had helped Olivia climb the ladder, nudging her into the editors seat, promoting her slowly. Hed spotted her talent back at university, married her, and fell in love. He couldnt live without her, even if she was a bit of a tyrant.

Olivia never worked a day herself, but she was always busy: phone calls, facetoface meetings in cafés or homes, and supervising her familys life. It was all on her.

Shed been the one who, seven years ago, called Fiona and got Peter the job he now held. Fiona had a crush on Olivia, and Olivia knew how to use it.

Fiona, sort this out! Petes not a kid any more, get him the editorship! Olivia had giggled, promising a dinner that never happened.

Fiona promptly called the paper, The Clean Sheet, and the secretary typed up an appointment order.

Olivia was pleased. She didnt go to the restaurant, citing a migraine, but Fiona still dreamed of meeting her.

Peter, now editor, entered his oakpanelled office, muttering, Olivia, I cant run this thing! Its not my level! before tea and biscuits arrived.

Olivia inspected the waitress, smirked, then patted Peters shoulder, Dont worry, love. Well manage.

She was the unseen power behind the throne. Peter would phone her for story ideas, not because he didnt know, but because he respected her opinion. She suffered from chronic stomach issues, often in hospital, yet still ran the tiny empire of The Clean Sheet.

The mammoth piece had been swapped for a story about daylight bulbs, and Peter called Olivia five times for the green light, only to get no answer she was out shopping again.

When the mammoth article hit the front page, Olivia was livid.

She kept a tight grip on staff timekeeping, demanding the admin give her access to logs. It was just a situation, Pete. Were all human, the staff would plead. Olivia would snap, If you protect them, Im out. Goodbye! and the office would erupt.