Page 95 of The Worst Guy Ever
It’s a brilliant answer, we’ve all been tripped up by some dickhead who didn’t say what they were really thinking until it was much too late.
“And what about your personal conflict style? You’ve had a few, shall we say, challenges with members of senior management in the past.”
I wish I could say I don’t know what he’s talking about, but every time I’ve raised concerns and pushed for better solutions, it’s been interpreted as negativity. You’d think they’d want people to strive to be the best in the business, not a bunch of pushovers.
My smile never leaves my face as we go back and forth, and the interview ends with a round of handshakes, and Bob’s reassurance I won’t be kept waiting too long for an update. That could mean I’ve definitely got the job, or the opposite, and that they’ve already made their mind up. If there’s one thing Bob is good at, it’s his poker face.
“Hattie?” Andrew calls out when I walk past his office back to my desk. I step inside and close the door behind me. “How did it go?”
“Good, I think. I gave it my best, and they said they’ll let me know soon.” I slump against the wall, my heart rate slowing for the first time all day. “Got any insider info you’d care to share with me?”
“You know I don’t,” he says, “but I’m really rooting for you.”
I let out a heavy sigh. I hate not knowing, and I know I’m going to spend the rest of the day twisting myself in knots. Andrew must sense it, too.
“Why don’t you use a couple of flexi-hours and take the afternoon off, Hattie? Go home and rest up for a bit.”
“Are you saying I look like shit?” I laugh, weakly. I definitely feel like it.
“I’m saying you deserve a break. You’ve put a lot of work into this. You’re allowed to put yourself first for a bit.”
Back home, I change into Rob’s t-shirt that I never returned, and crawl under my duvet. The weight of today hits me fast. The interview, all the prep, the months of circling the drain with Spirited and Lawrence Fucking Desmond.
I want to sleep all weekend, but I don’t dare close my eyes in case I miss a call. Luckily, I don’t have to wait too long, and when I see the number with one of our extensions light up my phone, I sit up, fix my hair, and clear my throat before answering.
“Hello, this is Hattie.”
“Hi Harriet, it’s Michelle here.” I roll my eyes, so bloody formal, nobody ever calls me Harriet, not even my mum. “Bob requested I give you a call before the end of the day, so you aren’t waiting all weekend for an update. I’m sorry to inform you that although your interview was of a very high standard, on this occasion…”
I stay on the line, and Michelle keeps talking, but I barely hear another word.
Hours later, a knock at the door drags me out of my bed. It’s not like Megan to forget her keys, but when I open it Rob is standing there looking hotter than ever in dark jeans and a tight fitting t-shirt, a massive bouquet in one hand.
“Congratulations!” he says, and I burst into tears.
“I didn’t get it.”
“Oh fuck,” he grimaces. “Then maybe consider these commiseration flowers?”
“What are you doing here?” I say through shaky sobs. “I thought you never wanted to see me again.”
“That’s not what I said. Can I come in?”
“Sure, whatever, I don’t care.”Except I do.I care very much that he remembered today was my interview, that he had so much confidence in me, and that I’ve let him down.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, stepping through the doorway and closing it behind him. I shake my head. I’m so tired, so bored with being miserable.
“Can we just go to bed so you can fuck these feelings out of me?”
Jesus, what must he think of me?This pathetic, desperate mess. His t-shirt is damp from hours of crying, but I still use it to wipe away more.
“Oh honey, no, come here.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. Everything in me resists until slowly I soften against his chest. “Hattie, you don’t have to put on a front all the time, and especially not with me. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s OK.”
“I’m fucking furious,” I confess with a howl. “I really wanted that job, I deserved it and now I don’t know what’s going to happen to me.”
In the living room I pick up the bottle of whisky I’ve already been making my way through, and flop onto the sofa. A deep pull burns my throat.
“They walk all over me. I do 80% of the work for none of the credit. I don’t fit a mould, and it doesn’t matter if I try to stay in the box or step out of it, it’s still not enough. They gave my job to some fucking teenager, bollocked me for calling out the injustice, then let me do this other one for months without reward or recognition, only to give it to someexternal candidate. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
