Brand Trafalgar

“Thanks a lot,” said the delivery driver as the receiver signed his proffered tablet, then he waved and left. 

The box with the Brand Trafalgar logo had been sitting proudly and unexpectedly on the step as the receiver opened the door. The bell had rung and there it had been, the driver standing by for a signature.

Puzzled, the receiver wondered what on Earth it could be, and who might have sent it. The box was quite large. It wasn’t heavy and was not too hard to slide it in through the door. After some hesitation and head-shaking, the receiver went to work, scissors scoring through the parcel tape. The box flaps fell open. The receiver burrowed into the polystyrene chip packing and pulled out what lay beneath.

The huge vermilion teddy bear seemed unfazed by its confinement and equally unmoved by its release. The receiver’s attention fell to a card, tucked beneath the teddy’s left arm. Simple and cryptic. You can thank me later.

The giver’s phone vibrated. Order #2021111800037521 delivered. Thank you for using Brand Trafalgar. To return your order, please scan the QR code you can find in your email receipt. Click here for our customer satisfaction survey.

The giver smiled a very satisfied smile. There was no need for a survey.

The receiver sat the vermilion teddy on the sofa. There was nowhere else to put it, really. Besides, it had a certain appeal. Perhaps that was because toy designers knew how to excite protective instincts, to help persuade parents to buy their products for their children. Weren’t teddy bears supposed to d efend sleeping infants against all manner of demons, evil spirits and hobgoblins?

But who had sent the wretched thing? It had to be someone from the office. Who else knew the address, and what kind of gift to choose, to make a passive-aggressive statement like this?

A quick glance at the bolted and chained front door. How quickly, the receiver thought, we slip into our polar personas, stalker and victim, hunter and hunted.

The bear could damn well stay in the living room. Defender or not, it was getting no further. And neither would the giver, whatever pretensions might lie behind their generosity.

A welcome, familiar, comforting drowsiness flowed over the receiver, shattered a moment later by the phone’s clarion chime. SMS received. Number withheld. I really hope you like it. Think of a name and let me know. When you wrap your arms around your new friend in bed, pretend it’s me.

Tall, suited and impressive to those who did not know him well, Section Head Giles Field strode across the Brand Trafalgar office floor, taking in the array of open plan desks. He headed toward his own space, right at the centre, sectioned off from the rest by part-frosted glass partitions, connecting the four pillars that supported the ceiling and the floor above. Unsurprised, he noted the dark bags under Amanda Thwaite’s tired eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t sleeping well. She must have something - someone - on her mind. Someone like him. 

Giles was an alpha male, in his own estimation and surely in his colleagues’. He knew that no-one at Brand Trafalgar had any doubt who was in charge. Here, in this office, he was undisputed king. If anyone so much as contemplated farting, he knew about it before they did. Every day, as he shaved before his bathroom mirror, he told himself he was getting better and better, in every way. No-one would ever tell Giles what to think, what to like or whom to look up to. The central office door closed behind him. He was safe in his controlled space, the working day about to begin.

Amanda Thwaite’s heart rate started to return to normal. As a rule, Giles Field did not emerge from his glass partitioned office before eleven o’clock coffee time, so she could probably count on two hours’ safe respite. Amanda had no plans to sign another contract with Brand Trafalgar, if she was offered one. Counting the days, she ached to be free from his sphere of influence.

“You OK, Amanda?” Julia Castle plopped her handbag on her desk and took off her topcoat. Julia’s work space was a little larger than Amanda’s, her seniority signalled by the square of grey carpet beneath her desk.

Amanda nodded. Julia smiled warmly. “Let me know if you need any help. It can take a while to settle in here - especially with folk like him around.” She inclined her head toward Giles’ office, passing the younger woman a knowing smirk.

The last of the B team to arrive was Brent Gower. Perspiring, he unshouldered his backpack, polished his misted spectacles and set them down on his desk - the same size as Amanda’s and facing hers, both under Julia Castle’s matriarchal gaze. “Hi, Amanda,” he said, diffidently, then stepped back and tripped over the backpack, ending up sitting down hard on the desktop and narrowly missing crushing his glasses. Amanda giggled demurely. Brent blushed and looked awkward. Julia could see he’d hurt himself and was trying his best not to show it. She crossed the floor between them. “Here, come and sit down and we’ll see how you feel after a cup of tea. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Incoming text. The receiver froze, safe personal time and space violated. I still don’t know his name. If it’s a he. How do you tell, with teddy bears? But then, gender identity is a fluid thing these days, wouldn’t you agree?

Cold sweat. Breathless. This was intolerable. Never a moment’s peace. Hell, was this all there was to expect after getting a good job with a leading firm? It had to be someone here, in the office. An inside job. The parcel had borne a Brand Trafalgar logo. Hyperventilating, the receiver realised the giver had to be mere feet away - probably someone on B or C team - maybe someone they had spoken to or seen this very morning.

It could be any of them. With a dreadful sense of utter isolation, the receiver realised there was no-one here they could share this with.

Julia was back with Brent’s tea. There were two cups on the tray. “The other’s for you, Amanda,” she declared, with benevolent authority. “Keep Brent company while he nurses his bruised bottom. I know you iGen types. You never have any breakfast. A hot drink will do you both good.”

She watched from a distance as they sipped and talked, awkwardly at first. Amanda was all the sweetener Brent’s tea needed. The moment was almost shattered when Amanda took out her phone and glanced nervously at a notification, before putting it away and resuming her conversation with Brent on who was likely to win this year’s Formula 1 world title.

The morning wore on; business as usual at Brand Trafalgar. Brent and Amanda worked separately, analysing order trends and customer surveys, their brief to find out why customers migrated to other online delivery services rather than BT. Julia, chained reading glasses perched on her nose, kept a watchful eye on them both as she typed up her sales figures.

A little before eleven, Giles’ inner office door fell open and his presence swept into his team’s work space. Each of them stiffened a little - one perhaps more than the other two - and busied themselves intently upon their work.

“Amanda,” Giles intoned. “I need to go over the customer migration figures to our rivals. I’ll order us a coffee. Go on in, please.”

As Giles waved across to the office boy to get the coffee, Amanda gave a distressed glance to Julia, already rising to her feet, and then to Brent, who looked helpless.

“It’s OK, dear,” said Julia. “I’ll keep an eye on you. I’ll check up in a few minutes if you’re not out.”

Amanda nodded, relieved. Then Giles was back, holding the door open expectantly, and she trotted obediently inside.

The door closed with, Amanda thought, dreadful finality. Giles dropped into his high-backed executive chair and came straight to the point. “Amanda, why don’t you answer my texts?”

Amanda swallowed. “Erm, Mr Field, er... I like to concentrate on my work during office hours and not get distracted by texts, social media and stuff. I’d rather catch up with my other messages after work.”

He shook his head. “But you never answer me after work, either. How about a drink tonight when we finish?”

Her brain raced. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid I’m meeting someone. Sorry.”

He held up his hands, elbows at his sides. “Ok, ok, so I’m playing second fiddle to young Brent Gower.”

Amanda shook her head. “No, no, it’s not Brent, I’m...”

Giles was back on his feet, moving toward the door. “I don’t want to hear it, Amanda. Let me know when you’re ready for some quality company, rather than that spotty faced youth, and I’ll see if I’m free. And before you say anything about sexual harassment at work, this conversation never happened. We discussed customer attrition by Amazon and your plans to reduce it.”

Lunch time. Alone for a moment, the receiver glanced at the vibrating phone. Another text. I’m watching you right now. Blink twice if you think I’m sexy.

A supreme effort not to blink. Eyes like sandpaper. The receiver scanned around. Janitor in the corner, just visible. Julia Castle at her desk, head bowed, busy. Brent Gower’s desk empty, probably gone to the bathroom. Inner office door closed so no-one could easily see in.

It was going to be a long afternoon and the giver decided it was time to up the ante. Fast fingers flew over the phone’s touchpad. Enough of this. Meet me in the Dog and Peacock at five thirty and tell me that bloody bear’s name. I won’t take no for an answer.Send pressed. Message delivered. Message read.

Five twenty-nine. It was not quite mild enough to sit at a pavement table unless desperate for a smoke, which he was not. Giles Field pushed open the bar room door, with more trepidation than he thought he ought to be feeling, given his seniority and swagger. Would the other be here yet? He saw straight away that she was, sitting erect at the bar, his drink waiting next to hers.

“Thank you for sending me the teddy bear,” said Giles, flatly. “I’ve decided to call her Julia.”

A huge, white-toothed smile. “I knew you would,” replied Julia Castle.