‘Miss Green, would you come into my office?’
A stern expression on the solicitor’s face. Stacey shrugged. Parker was a jerk. That wrinkled spud of a face and those tiny full stops of eyes: she bet he had no kind of life outside the office and his wife henpecked him.
‘Really, some of your typos.’
‘My what?’
‘Typing errors. Look here. Evidence-based farts. It’s facts Miss Green. And here, look. This is a price we should balls at. It’s balk at.’
‘Maybe they read better that way?’
‘They don’t make sense that way. Get them altered please and pay attention to your work.’
Stacey scraped her chair noisily as she got up. Stupid man. Stupid job. She wished she was on set like her sister. But then Becky had a degree in drama and she only had a manky BTEC secretarial certificate. Becky worked on tv crime dramas like ‘Body Count in Pleasant Valley’. She did stuff with the scripts, edited them, or corrected the spelling, or something. The best bit was she got to hobnob with the beautiful and the glittering, stars like Zoe Phunk and Bobby Chewster. It was a gas: parties, dates, drugs. And just a smidgeon of work, Becky said.
Stacy glanced around the admin room where files, bookshelves and cabinets crowded about her like a jeering audience. Bobby Chewster! Camera, action, and there was Bobby, handsome young face looking at her, only her.
She’d got so bored with the daily typing and filing that she’d begun to amuse herself by taking creative liberties with the letters and documents. Putting the wrong word in here and there gave her a moment’s relief from the tedium. It was her revenge on Parker Clarke Solicitors for not being Glimmer Studios. The miserable jerk Parker didn’t find it funny. Shame!
Her mobile rang. Becky!
‘They sacked me,’ her sister said tearfully.
‘But…?’
‘The director said I was never there when he needed me. I was only off-set now and again, in Bobby’s caravan, or having a drink with Zoe. It’s not like I neglected my duties. What am I going to do, Stacey? I got rent to pay, debts. What am I going to do!’ And the tears turned into a deafening wail.
The next morning when Stacey came to work she was pale.
‘Something the matter?’ Mr Parker asked.
‘My sister’s in hospital. An overdose.’
‘Oh?’
‘She lost her job and… kind of went to bits.’
‘I hope she’ll be OK.’
All day Stacey thought about it: swallowing pills because of a job. Was it about having no income? She could find other work: solicitors’ offices for instance. Was it losing touch with the celebrity set? That stuff was just shallow. Ultimately.
At the end of the week Mr Parker told Mr Clarke that the admin girl was improving.
‘Her spelling’s better; no more moods.’
‘About time.’
‘Knuckling down. She’ll fit in.’
Mr Clarke hmmed. Any female could twist Mr Parker around her little finger. Evidence-based farts indeed!
