Her Boss: A Tale of Ambition and Desire

Emily was racing to work, terribly latean absolute nightmare! If she didnt duck through the turnstile before the editorinchief, shed have to write an explanation of how the employee of the month, Peter Miller, managed to become such a calamity.

Peter Miller adored paperwork of every stripe: explanations, confirmations, commendations, apologies, and simple shopping lists. No one could fathom where his love of bureaucracy came from.

His wife sent him grocery lists that kept spilling out of his trouser pockets, colleagues tossed him memos of all sortsPeter was in his element, and quite content.

Why do you put up with this? Lucy, Emilys friend, protested. She worked in a café near the flat they shared and swore there was no better job. Honestly! Because of you the forests will be felled! Send him an email! Its modern and ecofriendly.

You dont get it, Lu, Emily sighed. Hes practically woven from paper. It sticks out of every pocket and drifts from his notebook. He seems to enjoy it. Hes in his comfort zone, as they say. Let him be! He pays well and never forces us onto those spring community cleanups.

It wasnt the strongest argument, but Lucy bought it. The café owner forced his staff every April to paint the fence and wash the walls. The paint made Lucy sneeze; the dust made her cough. So the lack of cleanups was a welcome excuse for the bosss meddling, and the topic never resurfaced.

Today, if Emily didnt slip ahead of Peter just for a heartbeatwithout overtaking himshed be stuck writing that explanation.

What would she write? Oh, a whole checklist

Shed overslept because the alarm died with the whole house power cut. Then she and Lucy chased a spill under the leaking fridge, scarfed down cold oatmeal prepared the night before, scrambled to wash their facesthank heavens the tap was still working, albeit chilly. After the bathroom rituals came the usual female accoutrementsmascara, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick.

Lucys jacket was wrinkled; apparently, in the middle of the night, their cat Morris leapt onto it from a frozen puddle by the freezer, burrowed in, and decided to wait out the disaster. The cats sudden retreat into Lucys slipper landed him squarely on his fluffy backside. Morris, never before so humiliated, stormed off to the balcony to sulk.

Lucy searched for another jacket because the iron was broken

All this ate up a massive chunk of time. By the time they realized the hour, it was already late.

Emily, finally dressed and having wished Lucy a good day, barely managed to hop onto the steps of the departing bus, shoved into the crowd like jelly, and a wellmeaning gentleman wrapped an arm around her to keep her from being crushed by the doors. Emily glared at him, and the arm vanished along with its owner.

Now she wasnt dodging traffic lights, bumping into railings, or becoming a target for pickpocketsanything could happen in that crush!

If she were caught late, shed lose her bonus, which shed already earmarked: a slice for a seaside holiday, another for a new microwave, and a third for a pair of shoes. The girls called it the rubber bonus. Emily had earned it, but one slip could ruin everything.

Emily kept her composure, trying not to dash ahead of the bus. She knew she couldnt actually beat it, but the illusion of effort was comforting.

Just as she reached the bus stop, a chap clutched the handrail, his coat sleeve slipping to reveal a roundfaced watch with numerous hands and several dials.

Emily stared, bewildered, at the watch and the minutes, trying to look away, but her eyes kept drifting back.

Running late? the young man asked sympathetically. Its a dreadful day

Yes, Emily replied, pressing her bag tighter against her already sweaty side.

You know the sayingwhere youre expected, you cant be late, he smiled.

Emily pursed her lips. In any other situation shed have nodded, but now the stakes were a microwave and a holiday!

Call me Colin, he said, pausing for a response that never came. And you?

Olivia Fletcher, a woman in a light coat and lace gloves announced, sweeping past him with a flourish. Her perfume smelled of cheap aftershave, and her lips were a shockingly bright beetred, as if someone had painted them with beet juice.

She brushed against Colins sleeve with those beetred lips.

Sorry! Its stormy today! Olivia blurted.

Emilys eyes widened. It was the bosss wife. Nobody had ever seen her; not even a photograph hung in Peters office, yet everyone had heard her booming voice over the intercom.

Peter, I saw your newspaper this morningabsolutely useless! The mammoth story is dead, get it? Someone tossed it in the bin, and a vagrant

She continued, unashamedly splashing colour into her critique, while a hapless subordinate, now an unwilling witness to the bosss domestic tirade, faded into the shadows of the reception area.

Right? his coworkers asked.

Itll ruin you. Your mammoths didnt make Aunt Olives cut! a snarky reporter remarked. But my porcelain exhibition melted the heart of that crocwoman!

A nervous thump landed on the nose of a downonhisluck junior named Grey, followed by the thunderous roar of Peter Miller demanding everyone to the conference room.

Olivia never set foot in the newsroom, but her spirit seemed to haunt every corner.

Who does she think she is, criticizing our Pete? the canteen staff huffed. The poor thing will rush home, stuff herself with pastries, sip tea, and shes already on the blower, interrogating everything! What a drama queen

Megan, a towering woman, pushed through the bus doors, shoving a couple of smartphoneglued youths aside, and sat down beside Peter.

Sorry, were just Peter mumbled, clutching his briefcase to his knee.

Like a schoolboy! Emily thought, marveling at the sight of the infamous Megan.

What are you mumbling about? Hand over your bag, Peter! Olivia snapped, snapping a lock onto her own bag. And the keys? Pete, where are the keys? Are you going to sit by the door while I stroll around Harrods with Simmy? Youve lost your mind!

Emily and the watchguy watched as Peters face turned a shade of embarrassed crimson.

Lola, calm down. Nothing to shout about. Go on, have a stroll, Ill pop round to Mums, he stammered.

Which Mum? Olivia barked. We visit Mum every third Saturday. Is it the third Saturday today? she asked him sternly, like a teacher scolding a slow pupil.

Its Wednesday, Nicholas, the young man with the watch, replied.

And you, sir, they never ask you anything! Olivia roared.

Colin sighed, shrugged, and whispered to Emily, Funny, huh? I still dont know your name

The bus lurched; Colin nudged Emilys cheek with his unshaven, prickly one.

What the! Emily snapped.

Im terribly sorry. Its stormy, as some have rightly noted, Colin muttered, giving Olivia a sideways glance. And excuse the scrufftwo days on night duty, couldnt shave.

Emily noticed how greygreen his tired eyes looked.

You should get some sleep, she said sympathetically.

Not the word! Ive got to dash to my mates, walk the dog, then home for a cuppa. Cheers for the concern, Nicholas grinned.

Meanwhile Olivia, like a witch from a folk tale, rattled through a pile of paper.

Peter, remember this listdrycleaning, my masseurs address, dont need that, the order for my sisters nieces, were heading there Sunday, right? Peter nodded. Got it.

She shuffled papers again, and Peters eyes met Emilys with a pleading look, begging her not to broadcast this humiliating scene. She, in turn, promised to keep his secret.

Thus, a private pact formed between boss and subordinate.

Why did Peter endure his wifes tyranny? Why tolerate such control? Hed been madepromoted from humble reporter to editor by her subtle machinations, spotting talent early, marrying into influence, and leveraging family connections.

Olivia never actually worked a day; she was perpetually on the phone or in cafés, orchestrating her familys life.

She was the one who, seven years earlier, called up FiftyTwo (a senior editor) who then pushed Peter into the role he now occupied. FiftyTwo, a newspaper bigwig, had a soft spot for the energetic Olivia and used her to his advantage.

Fifty, you must set this up! Peters not a boy anymore, hes aiming high. Find him a spot, will you? Ill take him out for dinnerfine, Ill just stay home, Olivia cooed.

Fifty obliged, sent a memo to the retiring editor of The Clean Sheet, and the appointment was sealed.

Olivia was delighted, though she skipped the dinner, citing a migraine. Peter, on his first day in the oakpanelled office, muttered, Olivia, I cant run this machine! Its beyond me

Olivia inspected the waitress, smirked, patted him on the shoulder, and declared, Dont worry, Pete. Not even gods burn pots. Well manage.

She was the greycardinal behind the scenes. Peter, when alone, would call her for story ideas, not because he lacked judgment but out of habit and respect for his wife, who filled her time with hospital visits for her chronic stomach issues while still ruling the newsroom.

The mammoth story, pushed in by a journalist named Grey, had accidentally replaced a piece on daylightsaving bulbs, which Peter (via Olivia) deemed dull.

Mammoths will sell! Grey danced around the editors desk. Everyone loves prehistoric beasts! Peter called Olivia repeatedly for confirmation, but she ignored him, busy shopping at Harrods.

The mammoth piece made the front page, jabbing Olivia with ivory tusks. She was not pleased.

Olivia kept tabs on staff attendance, demanding the IT admin grant her access to the entryexit logs. Shed scold Peter whenever someone was a minute late.

Mate, it was just a situation Were all human! Peter tried to explain.

Ah, so youre staying? Then Im leaving. If you defend them, Im done, Olivia shrieked, hanging up.

Peter, a bundle of nerves, gulped pastries that Olivia had forbidden, downed tea without stirring sugar, and summoned offending staff, demanding explanations. Hed read those explanations aloud to Olivia, sugarcoating, embellishing, then cooed with her until she softened and agreed not to fire anyone.

He could quit, but it seemed hed forgotten how to live on his own. Everythingfrom attire to meals to workwas now Olivias domain, and he, though still in love, leaned on her.

Peter, isnt that journalist the one who got the bonus? Olivia suddenly asked, eyeing Emily. The one who nabbed the prize.

Emily raised an eyebrow, then frowned.

Where? Olivia, youve got it wrong! That bonus was Emilys all along! Peter shook his head. Olivia, I need to go. Hand me the briefcase, please.

Olivia scrambled for the scattered papers while Colin nudged Emily toward the doors. She gave a grateful nod.

What a woman! What a bulldozer! Nicholas mused, handing Emily his arm to help her out of the bus, then lifting a soggy Peter onto the pavement, waving a finger at Olivia, and blowing her a kiss.

Olivia snapped a finger at him, turned away.

Off I go, the young man said, heading toward the highrise on the right.

Me too, Emily replied, pointing down the lefthand alley.

Peter shuffled, unsure whether to say goodbye properly.

Bye! See you later! Nicholas beamed at the pair. What a woman what a bulldozer he repeated and walked off.

Dont let this ruin you, Emily. Let what you saw stay between us, alright? No judgement, no mockery. Everyone does the best they can, Peter whispered behind her. Without Olivia Id be nothing

Emily wanted to retort that shed become nothing because of him, but she stopped, meeting a plaintive, pleading glance.

Im a grave, Peter. Lets go. Can I slip in ahead of you? Or maybe through a back door? she stammered.

Go on, Ill tell Lottie, shell adjust your schedule. You know we always take taxis, but Olivias driver is ill, so were on the bus. What happened to you? Peter asked kindly, taking Emilys elbow and leading her forward.

Emily recounted the power outage, Lucys jacket, Morris the cat, and the puddle under the fridge.

Peter listened, smiling. He missed a lighthearted chat, the youthful laugh, the cat anecdotes.

Peter had grown up with cats, but Olivia could not stand them and had banned them.

Dont badmouth Morris. He acted out of desperation, poor thing Peter sighed.

Oh, whos scolding him? Hes our beloved mascot. We dont touch him. A story about Morris followed.

Emily kept talking, Peters shoulders relaxed, his face flushed, and he felt like cheering up with a snack.

He bought Emily a coffee and a scone.

Just then his wife called, curious about his coffeeshop expenses, having received a notification of his frivolous spending. He muted his phone, slipped it into his pocket.

Right then. You go ahead, Ill follow, Peter said. Have a good day!

He roamed the streets, only arriving at work around lunch. He hadnt divorced, hadnt changed, just took a deep breath and moved on.

That evening, when Olivia, exhausted and scented with a cocktail of perfumes, returned home, she realised how much she missed him. She loved him, devilish as it was, just like a cat.

Emily, having turned in a couple of smashing stories on Mayan mysteries, left the office late, utterly spent. Creatives often feel that way after sleepless nights.

Emily! Ive been waiting for you Nicholas emerged from the shadows. I didnt know your favourite flowers, so I bought these

He handed her a bright, mismatched bouquet that Emily dubbed a mixed salad.

She smiled, accepting the bunch.

May I walk you out? I know I seem pushy, but after that kiss on the bus I feel I have a right he teased.

Emily frowned, almost discarding the flowers, then decided to keep both the blooms and the man.

They strolled down the lanternlit street, chatting, laughing, admiring shop windows glittering with coloured bulbs, grateful that life still held promise, and perhaps a love not quite like Peters.

Honestly, your boss is a great chap! Nicholas said earnestly. You know the sayingbehind every man is a woman. Without her, he might never have got up.

Emily shrugged. To each his own

He loves cats, she added quietly.

That makes him a good person, Nicholas agreed. Hope he stays healthy.

They darted toward the bus, laughing for no reason at all, simply because everything was alright.