Ready for war

‘Let’s see who’s really going to lose their job now,’ I murmur to myself as I hit the ‘send’ button on the recording I have just made of my conversation with Bertha. ILLUSTRATION | JOSEPH NGARI

What you need to know:

  • I put the phone down and pick up my hair brush; might as well get extra-ready for work with a new style of hair bun and extra lashings of make-up. Some would call it glamming up. I call it putting on my war paint and accessories – we are, after all, about to launch a war.
  • I brush my hair once, twice, and then my phone rings. When I glance at it to see who it is, my heart stops beating for a few seconds; it’s Peter, our group chairman, and he only ever calls whenever it is an extremely urgent or difficult situation.
  • This is a difficult position. I could save myself the trouble and resign – but I really like my job and besides, if I didn’t clear my name first no one else would ever offer me a job. I have to sort this out before I make a decision about staying and continuing to work with Bertha, or whether I should quit and find work elsewhere.

Sitting in front of my dressing mirror early on Monday morning trying to get ready for work nice and early, my mind keeps drifting off… to the events of this past weekend, and to how today is likely to transpire. Jason’s phone call to me set off a chain of events. Although the weekend has been largely quiet, with no contact between us girls, the coming week does not promise to remain the same.

I sigh deeply and look at my cell phone, lying quietly in front of me, non-threatening, completely belying the weapon I am about to turn it into. I pick it up and feel its cold, silver texture in my hands. I remember how warm it gets when I have been talking with someone for a long time. It only ever gets that warm when the conversation is pleasant and the person on the other end is someone I like. My phone will be the central character in today’s events… but there shall be no warmth.

I put the phone down and pick up my hair brush; might as well get extra-ready for work with a new style of hair bun and extra lashings of make-up. Some would call it glamming up. I call it putting on my war paint and accessories – we are, after all, about to launch a war.

I brush my hair once, twice, and then my phone rings. When I glance at it to see who it is, my heart stops beating for a few seconds; it’s Peter, our group chairman, and he only ever calls whenever it is an extremely urgent or difficult situation. I have had the pleasure of having him call me only a couple of times in my life – and none of those phone calls have been pleasant. Now here he is, calling me, and I have a feeling he is not about to offer me a promotion or a raise.

“Liz what is this I am reading online?” Peter is not the kind of man to waste time on greetings, not as long as time is money. “You know how much I hate it when the business is brought into disrepute.”

“Good morning Peter,” I say. “And I totally understand. “It’s just that it’s a vicious rumour that we are working to kill,” I say.

“How are you going to do that?”

SHOTS FIRED

“We have engaged our PR firm to advise on communications,” I lie. I wouldn’t describe Fatma, Jo and Mariam as ‘PR firm’, you know?

“Is that so?” Peter says in that tone of voice people take when they know they are being lied to. “Because I just spoke to Bertha and she told me nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, that’s because I haven’t told her yet. I called the emergency meeting on Friday evening when I saw the blog, and I am about to get to the office and brief her.”

“Hmph,” he says. “OK. But make sure it’s finished today otherwise it’s your job on the line.”

“I understand, sir,” I say, and then hang up. This is a difficult position. I could save myself the trouble and resign – but I really like my job and besides, if I didn’t clear my name first no one else would ever offer me a job. I have to sort this out before I make a decision about staying and continuing to work with Bertha, or whether I should quit and find work elsewhere. Either way, the conversation I was due to have later today can’t wait any longer. I need to call Bertha right now. I do exactly as Jo instructed me when I dial her number, and wait for her to pick up – and feel pleasantly surprised when she does.

“Peter just called me,” I say. “He’s really upset. He threatened to fire me.”

“Oh, did he now?” Bertha says. She sounds amused. “Are you surprised, after that vicious story on that blog?”

“Bertha, I don’t understand why you are doing this. Why did you leak such malicious lies about me? Shouldn’t you protect your staff?”

“Liz, if you had just done as I said all of this would have been unnecessary,” she sighs sanctimoniously.

“But I told you, there’s nothing to report! My friend is not involved with your husband. Your husband is back with you. Why do you want me to spy on my friend or lose my job?”

“I just want to make sure your loyalty is in the right place,” she says. “Make up your mind, Liz, before you really do lose your job.” And then she hangs up.

‘Let’s see who’s really going to lose their job now,’ I murmur to myself as I hit the ‘send’ button on the recording I have just made of my conversation with Bertha. Let’s see what she thinks when she hears our conversation posted on the very same blog site she is using to puncture my professional reputation.