Buy Me, Sir

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.AlexanderThere 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.