Why on earth did he ask me to do this?
He sent me an email about ‘the meeting’ and said that would give me the best opportunity to reconstitute. No, that wasn’t it. It was re-something. What was it he called it? Renaissance? That wasn’t it. Can’t remember know.
Well, it looks like I’m the only one not invited to the meeting. I think something big is happening but I’m being kept out of the loop. Is that a good thing? Mike will let me know if it involves me.
I’m glad no one’s around ‘cause squatting in a pencil skirt is not the most dignifying thing to do, let alone see. I shouldn’t have cocked my leg out like that but there’s not much room to manoeuvre with these thighs. Maybe I should have knelt down. Too late for that, I need to be quick.
I’m squinting. It’s hard to see anything really. I’m trying to wink but I never was good at that. I look more like a gurning Sherlock Holmes. You know what I mean; when he’s inspecting things with his magnifying glass. I could do with something like that or one of those spy glasses. That’s it; spying. It was reconnaissance. Mike said I was to start my reconnaissance work whilst everyone was at the meeting.
Trying each eye doesn’t help as there’s not much to see through the keyhole. I grab the door handle to give me some leverage as I stand up but this is a big mistake. The handle turns and the door swings open with my hand still firmly attached. The momentum causes by body to follow as my weak knees have not the strength to rise quickly into a standing position.
It’s the boogie I blame it on. No, don’t laugh. The boogie was the cause of my knee affliction. The physio said I’d received similar knee damage seen in rugby players as they slam themselves to the ground in a tackle, scrum down or scoring a try. How I wish it were a sporting injury but alas, it was my rendition of a John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever that caused the mishap and thus created this one.
Yes, I must say, my enthusiasm was alcohol related. The cheering revellers should have been a warning; they were baying for blood. After all it was Christmas Eve, and everyone needs photo or a story to show and tell over the turkey dinner. Unfortunately, everyone got the story. They took mobile phone pictures but for some reason none came out fully in focus. Too busy laughing, I guess. The title track came on and like a coiled up spring, I shot off the bar stool, onto the dance floor, pushing people out of the way. This was my moment. Others wanted there moment too, so we lined up and performed the well-known dance like no other. I was doing pretty well, I thought, till it came to the Cossack section. Squat kick squat kick squat. I was meant to kick, but my knees went. Hot pain, rubber band snaps. As I fell backwards the mesmeric disco ball, that pirouettes so bright, was drowned out by the harsh flashes of mobile shots. I felt like Madonna entertaining the paparazzi. I wonder what she would’ve done in this situation. Yeah, she would; she’d do the splits. When someone eventually came to my aid and rolled up my trouser leg, a dislocated knee was revealed. I threw up. Then I fainted.
When I woke up I was in the back of an ambulance with a dreamboat. He kept going in and out of focus. His face was a pink blur within his green uniform. He spoke and I tried to concentrate on his mouth.
‘P R Z Y D K.’
What the heck? I can see his name badge. He’s Daniel. Oh, Daniel, who rescued me, from the lion’s den. What are you trying to tell me?
‘You …saying, pr…z…y…d…ka. What…that?
‘Hoorah. She’s awake. We’re taking you to A&E to get you checked out. You’ve a dislocated knee there, Tracey. Any pain?
I nod my head and shake it when he mentions pain relief.
‘You’ve been mumbling something while you were out of it. PRZYDKA.’
‘Prisyadka,’I corrected. ‘It’s Russian for drunk.’
It wasn’t the truth. It was the Russian dance. I couldn’t be bothered to explain.
So they fixed my knee and I was out of their loop. I feel like I’ve been here before.
I let go of the handle when the door stopped moving and rolled over on to my back, catching my breath. That was close. No popping of the knees, so that’s a plus point. I rolled on to my side and managed to get myself onto my feet again. Back to recon work.
Brenda’s office is a no go area. If you’re called in there, I’m sure there’s a shoot she deposits you in when she’s done. One time, I remember Adam was summoned, via email, to Brenda’s office. He knocked on the door, paused, knocked again, and then tried the door handle. Hot air spilled from the gab as she slammed the door, with him still on the outside. The door opened again by Brenda, who pointed at his chest like a dagger, and pointed down to the floor in her room. It was like watching a dog with its handler. What a dreadful woman, I thought. He was given a harsh dressing down that was muffled behind the insulated walls. What I gathered was no one was ever to enter her room until she opened the door to let them in. What? Brenda wanted to personally invite people into her office. The mighty goddess figure wanted to walk and not shout her visitors to enter? We didn’t see Adam after that.
Theories were abounding. To summarise: she had something or someone to hide, she was a closet chocoholic, or as I thought, she needed time to ‘put her face on.’
There’s a full length mirror in the room but it seems to be placed a little too low for Brenda’s tall frame. Surely, her head will be cut off. Maybe she doesn’t like looking at herself? What? With a face like hers? Beautiful flawless skin, with natural make-up; the airbrush look. Her long, ringlets are fiery, like her temper, and eyes likewise, behind tinted glasses. She’s never to be seen without her signature item, a floaty scarf, worn in a variety of fashions, round her neck. I suppose she could be a vampire. Ha!
I spy what I’ve come in for on the desk, but I want to snoop some more. What is Brenda hiding? The filing cabinet looks favourable, and is it ever. When I open it I am more than surprised to find a sword and shield. Gotchya! She must be one of those dungeons and dragons geeks.
Machinery starts to crank the lift into action. I grab my prize and knock over an ornament on the desk; a stone statuette of a man. He looks like a clothed Oscar. It’s funny, because he looks a bit like Adam. But it’s not. There’s a tag around his neck that says it’s Percy. I rush out as quickly as I can, close the door to the world of Brenda M. Gorgon, sorry, Brenda M. Gordon, hoping never to enter by secret or invitation again. With stapler in hand I make it to my desk and start typing.
Mike detests people using his possessions and now that I have his staple gun back I feel a sense of achievement. This is short lived. Isn’t it always the case? I see him coming out the lift and wave it in the air, only for it to be grasped out of my hand by Brenda.
‘Just what I need,’ she mutters, heading for her office. She loosens her scarf and raises the gun towards her head. As the door shuts I just gleam a wet scar that encircles her neck.