Best of 2017

My skin prickles. My eyes meeting his for just a moment as I dither and dawdle, and I must look petrified because he smiles.

He smiles.

Just for a heartbeat.

And then he’s barking at the person on the other end again, pacing back to the windows.

My fingers are shaky as I unload my supplies onto one of the chairs. The polish makes a hiss as I spray, too loud for the room, and I see him turn again, staring as he paces. I can’t look at him, I daren’t. I give it my best as I scrub and buff, stretching over the expanse of glass, my arms tense with effort. I lift his laptop so gently, taking care not to look at his inbox on screen. I lift his coffee cup and buff underneath, wipe down the seat he’s been sitting in, then rebuff the table until my reflection is crisp and clear and I can even see my terrified eyes.

I see him, too.

I see him watching me in the glass.

Shivers. It gives me shivers.

I don’t stop working. I daren’t stop working. I’m like a whirling dervish as I polish and wipe down the side cabinets, the corporate pictures on the wall, the leaves of the ornamental plants in the corners. I empty the wastepaper bin and make sure the new liner is perfectly even. I run a cloth along the skirting to catch any dust.

I’m wiping down the radiator cover as he hangs up the phone, and there’s a lump in my throat, filled with apologies, a hundred words to stop him telling Janet Yorkley to fire my sorry ass.

I don’t say a single one of them.

He clears away his laptop. I watch him from the corner of my eye, and I see that he’s careful, picking up his things without touching the table, being so careful with his fingers.

I don’t know why it surprises me so much, but it does.

He reaches under the table for his briefcase, and he pushes his chair in all the way when he’s done.

And then he heads for the door. The thought of him leaving makes my chest pang, and I turn my head, bold for just a single moment.

He’s looking at me, his elbow already through the open door.

“Goodnight,” he says.

My voice is squeaky. Pathetic.

“Goodnight, Mr Henley, sir.”

He smiles. Again.

He smiles at me.

And then he’s gone.

ALEXANDER

THERE ARE myriad corporate species in this building, and almost all of them exist outside of my awareness. The pools of secretaries, the receptionists, the kitchen staff, the trainees.

The cleaners.

It occurs to me that I’ve existed in this space for more years than I care to remember, and yet not once have I ever seen a cleaner going about their business.

Not until last night.

Corporate efficiency – that’s what my father would call it. The great divide between the lowly minions who clean up our shit, and ourselves, the untouchable lords at the top.

Like I said, my father is a prick.

So what that I saw a cleaner? Some girl in a shitty uniform going about her working life, just happening to collide with my space at the same time I’m inhabiting it – who cares?

What makes it so memorable, I decide as I examine it this morning, is the fact that I spend my recreational time paying an obscene amount of money to women who’ll do my bidding. Women who are there purely to give me what I want. Whatever I want.

And yet not one of them has ever made me feel as powerful as that scared little creature made me feel last night.

I’m so sorry, Mr Henley, sir.

I wish I could recall her voice more accurately. The hunch of her shoulders as she recoiled from my stare. The dip of her head, the jitters almost unperceivable, like a ghost of a scent on the air.

Mr Henley, sir.

The women I pay never use my real name. I’m Ted, or Bill, or Vladimir, or whichever poxy name I fancy for the evening. I could be Henry VIII for all they give a shit.

Mr Henley, sir.

It’s been a long time since someone called me that and really meant it.

My assistant Brenda never means it. She says it with as much of a sneer as she dares without landing herself out of a job.

The cleaner was just a ghost in the machine, I didn’t even see her face, not under the stupid hat I assume we make them wear. Her face doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

And it doesn’t.

Aside from the fact that her meek little apology gave me a hard on, the girl cleaned with more dedication than I’ve ever put into anything.

I wasn’t just hard, I was fucking impressed.

I call up my corporate extension list, wade through the reams of names I’ve never had any reason to take notice of.

Janet Yorkley – Cleaning Services Manager.

I buzz Brenda and tell her I want to see this Janet, and not ten minutes later the woman is outside my door with red cheeks and an expression nothing short of terrified.

I beckon her in and point to an empty chair on the opposite side of the boardroom table. The same boardroom table.

I hold up a hand as she makes to pull herself in.

“Don’t. Touch,” I say, pointing at the glass. It’s still perfect, pristine, untouched. I don’t want Janet Yorkley’s grubby prints on it. I tell her so. I tell her that’s exactly what she’s here to observe. “I want you to look,” I tell her. “At the glass. Tell me what you can see.”

The woman has no idea what I’m talking about, her breath still ragged from the ascent. Lord fucking knows why she didn’t take the elevator.

“Look at what, Mr Henley, sir? I don’t understand.”

Her voice is nervous, but it does

nothing for my dick. It’s gravelly, hoarse. Too confident.

“The glass,” I say. “It’s perfectly clear. Perfectly. Not a single smear. Not a print. Not one.”

She puffs up her chest like a proud little peacock. “Thank you, sir, our cleaning staff are dedicated to the very highest levels of…”

I shush her with a shake of my head. “Yes, yes, Janet. I don’t need the brochure spiel, and this isn’t an award ceremony.”

Her mouth slaps shut, a little bit like a toad’s.

“There was a girl here last night. A cleaner,” I continue.

Her eyebrows go so fucking high. “You saw one of our cleaners?”

“Yes, Janet, I saw one of your cleaners. In here. Last night. I was talking, and she was…”

Janet Yorkley looks mortified. She holds out her hands, dithering in the air so as not to spoil the cleanliness of the table I just pointed out to her, and she’s waffling apologies, assurances that it won’t happen again, that the cleaner in question will be demoted. Fired. Dismissed immediately.

I tell her the table is perfectly fucking clean and she wants to fire the girl.

Imbecile.

I can’t fucking stand imbeciles.

The woman isn’t listening to a fucking word I’m saying, and I hate that. I think it’s probably my biggest hate – people who won’t shut their trappy fucking pie hole long enough to just fucking listen.

“I don’t want her fired,” I tell her, and my voice is irritated as sin. “I want her promoted.”

“Promoted?” Her eyes are like golf balls. “You wish to have her promoted?! The girl you saw? But she’s in breach of–”

“Yes, Janet, I wish to have her promoted. To my house. To my office. To anywhere I’ll get the best personal use of her talent.”

Janet Yorkley bores me.

I can practically hear her brain clunking around her skull.

“To my house, Janet. Do you understand? I have an extensive collection of gemstones. My tumblers are Dalton Crystal. My dining table is antique walnut. I want that girl to clean it. All of it.”

She nods. Her brain chugs around some more.