Cindy-Lou Dale

 

It happened during my second week of employment at C Laing & Associates, Financial Advisors. It was one of those temporary to permanent assignments that I knew, within a few hours of arrival, was not for me.

 

The CEO, Chelsea Laing, was a recently divorced lady of around thirty-five, whose face wore a permanent scowl and was combined with an expression indicating a bad smell was somewhere nearby. Mrs. Laing, as she preferred to be addressed, was a vertically challenged and somewhat rotund lady with a disposition of unrelenting disapproval.

 

Right from the start she had it in for me. “We prefer our female staff not to wear trousers to the office,” she had said. The next day my skirt was too tight and my lipstick to loud. By the end of the week I was looking around for another assignment.

 

“Give her a chance, Lilly,” said Jane, my consultant. “I’ve had four other temps in there and so far you’ve lasted the longest.” The conversation concluded with a promise from Jane to call Mrs. Laing and establish “how I was coping.”

 

It all changed after Jane called back. “It appears she doesn’t like you one bit,” she advised. “Mrs. Laing’s four main complaints were that you don’t answer her calls within the first ring; she says you are snooty and dress trashy. She also felt you looked down on her.”

 

“Oh for heavens sake, I’m nearly six foot tall and look down on most people! What should I do, go down on my knees? Don’t answer that.” I assured Jane I would stay for another week and extracted a vow from her to find me another placement.

 

I spent the weekend scanning local newspapers and emailed my CV to numerous companies.

 

On a blissfully hot Monday morning Mrs. Laing advised she had a working-lunch meeting with a Fortune 500 company and was hoping to secure their business. She handed me a list. “Those are the stores I need you to buy the foods from. Be sure it’s ready by 1pm. And don’t forget the drinks.”

 

I felt my jaw drop. Not only did I need to bus from one end of the city to the other to obtain the ingredients but I had to make lunch too. But who was I to complain or suggest a Fortune 500 company may frown on a sandwich and a limp salad. Gluten-free bread, only available at a deli 11 miles away, cold meats from a specialist deli, four miles in the opposite direction, the makings of a salad from a over-priced store seven miles further, then there was mayo from somewhere I’ve not heard of, feta cheese, fresh herbs, ground coffee, cream and a certain type of Belgian lettuce. But there was not time for hanging about; grabbing a wad of petty cash I heading off to the bus stop.

 

A couple of blocks from the office I passed a deli that I knew carried all the ingredients – okay, maybe it wasn’t gluten-free bread, but it was bread, perhaps it wasn’t Belgian lettuce, but it was lettuce. Who would know, I wondered but thought better of it and did as I was told.

 

Three hours later, weighed down with several heavy shopping bags I staggered back to the office where I immediately set to work on preparing lunch.

Mrs. Laing appeared in the kitchen and inspected each item carefully and compared the receipts to the shopping list, to make certain the goods were purchased at the stores listed.

 

“Why did you purchase the red onion from Thomsons? I gave strict instructions to buy it from Lavenstoke!” she yelled, pointing at the receipt accusingly.

 

“Lavenstoke didn’t have any, so I backtracked to an earlier store where I’d seen them – they only sell organic foods so I thought it would be okay,” I replied in defense.

 

Mrs. Laing was angered. “What gave you the right? I gave you an instruction and I expect you to follow it. If there was a problem you should have spoken to me.”

 

I stood my ground and enquired if she expected me to return to the office – thus incurring an additional 14 miles travel, not to mention the time wasted to enquire where else I should go for one red onion. I continued and calmly explained that if I had done so I would have been accused of not being able to think for myself.

 

“You are not paid to think, Lilly but you are paid to do as you are told. But if you truly must know, I read somewhere that Thomsons use certain natural soil enhancements that don’t agree with me. Now kindly exclude the red onion from our salad.”

 

Whilst rinsing the Belgian lettuce I thought about what she had said and felt certain one of us was way overdue on therapy. You don’t go around speaking to and treating people like dirt and expect them to like you, let alone respect you, I thought.   

 

Then I saw them -- four large green worms squirming about at the bottom of the lettuce. I shuddered and shook them out onto the breadboard and was about to scoop them up with a tissue when a vengeful thought entered my mind.

 

Mrs. Laing’s guests arrived at precisely 1pm; soon I was beckoned to serve lunch to which her guests passed polite comments about the sandwiches being served.

 

“Did you make my salad dressing Lilly?” enquired Mrs. Laing.

 

She turned to her prospective clients and informed them of her delicate constitution and how she enjoyed salad with a basil, pepper and olive oil dressing.

 

I returned with two salad dressings – one for her guests and one for Mrs. Laing.

 

After they had left Mrs. Laing popped her head into my office. “That salad dressing was awfully bitter Lilly. Was that finely chopped olives you added – my stomach can’t cope with olives you know.

 

I smiled inwardly and said, “Perhaps I put in too much pepper. I’ll take extra care next time.”

 

Word count: 1,009

© Cindy-Lou Dale 2006