I walked slowly through the office I’d so lovingly worked to redesign for my bosses, reflecting on the gorgeous carpet that I’d hired somebody else to pick. It had truly been a labour of love – and now they were firing me for it.
‘Angelica, wait!’ came a deep-throated call from the opposite side of the office. I turned around, frowning – the only person who could ever have felt comfortable yelling like that across the workspace was the man who owned the business.
‘Yes, Mister Anderson?’ I asked, trying to maintain my dignity as I held my cardboard box of photographs and plants to my chest.
He walked slowly towards me, his assistant taking two steps for every one his ginormous ones. He held out his hand, and I frowned at it.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘My hand,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to shake it.’
‘Why would I shake it?’
‘So I can congratulate you on a job well done,’ he said, gesturing at the office around us. ‘I don’t know who else could have come up with an office fitouts solution – in Melbourne, too, of all places.’
‘Right,’ I frowned, hesitantly placing my hand inside his huge, meaty paw. ‘But aren’t you firing me for this office design?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Anderson confirmed, nodding his head. ‘You dropped the ball big time.’
‘But you love it!’
‘I love the end result,’ he shrugged. ‘What I love less is that you hired three separate commercial design firms around Melbourne to do it, and massively went over budget.’
‘But the result?’ I asked, tears rising unbidden to my eyes. ‘You really love it?’
He frowned down at me, pulling his hand back. ‘What’s happening right now?’
‘You think I did a good job?’ I asked through the tears.
‘Okay, alright,’ he said gruffly. ‘Time for you to leave. Security!’
‘I did a good job,’ I whispered to myself, as I was unceremoniously hoisted up by the armpits and dragged to the elevator.