Jane's Secrets

 “Can you keep a secret?”

The flat voice came suddenly, like the heart-attack Jacob thought he was about to have, while he was squatting over a broken mug in the empty — or previously empty — office kitchen.

He looked up. Jane, the office’s oldest and most senior finance officer, stood by the door, towering and somber. Jane’s sudden appearance and hovering was a cross the team had had to bear daily, which meant Jacob should already be used to it after two years. Instead, like Pavlov’s dog, Jacob had begun to associate Jane’s voice with psychosomatic chest pain.

So, coupled with the eerie coincidence of malfunctioning lighting throwing them momentarily into darkness; Jane’s thin body framed by the roiling black sky visible from the window behind her; and a sudden flash of lightning; well, it was an accomplishment, really, that Jacob had held himself from screaming. He had, however, failed from not nicking his finger on one of the sharp shards.

The light flickered back on. Jacob gathered himself, complained internally about poor utilities, and wondered if it was appropriate to suck on his finger while having a conversation with a colleague, albeit an involuntary one.

What was it that she said again? Something to do with a secret?

“Er,” he managed, looking around surreptitiously. To his dismay, the kitchen remained as empty as it was ten seconds ago. Nobody walked in to save him either; not even Leslie from payroll who seemed to always be in the kitchen refilling her tea whenever Jacob needed her for anything.

“Er,” he said again, belatedly aware that he sounded retarded. He decided to stand up, even though he would need to squat again later to tidy the mug’s remains. “Can I help you?”

“I said, can you keep a secret?” Jane repeated. Her tone was thankfully unpatronising, but also devoid of any emotion. In fact, apart from her mouth moving, she remained completely still. Jacob was inexplicably filled with apprehension at the sight and, for a brief moment, he had a mental picture of Jane shoving a body into the trunk of her car. He blinked rapidly, willing the sinister image away before he did something stupid like throwing a mug at her and running to the police.

Jacob took a deep breath; his mind running. He clearly did not want to be part of whatever Jane was about to get him involved in, but it could also be a trick question. Maybe Gutenberg was hiding somewhere, and if Jacob said no, he’d jump out with a pointed finger, claim that he could not be trusted with the company’s confidential information, then fire him on the spot.

What a dilemma. And at ten in the morning, no less.

“I’m pretty good at keeping company’s secret,” he decided to say. “However, I’m probably not a good confidant— socially, I mean, not corporately, of course, because keeping corporate secrets is actually one of my many talents, along with numbers crunching and taxation laws,” he almost lost his train of thoughts here, “but, I’m, uh, not very… sympathetic! Yes! That! According to my primary school teacher, Mrs. Norris. Since I was a kid apparently. It was probably hereditary.” 

Jane did not say anything for a few seconds. Jacob hoped it was a good sign; he was too worked up to look her in the eye.

She crossed her arms. “Can you sympathise with Gutenberg, though?”

“Excuse me?” Was the secret his boss’? An unbidden image of Gutenberg shoving a body into his car trunk flashed in his mind. If Jacob had not been completely certain that he did not want to be involved, he was now.

Fortunately, Jane merely pointed to the broken mug. “That was Gutenberg’s favourite mug. He got it from his last trip to Italy.”

Unfortunately, Jacob finally saw this for what it actually was: a blackmail. 

Now, he was sure he would have to shove bodies into trunks and dig graves in the middle of nowhere in exchange for her silence. A life on the run. Days filled with anxiety and terror, looming shadows and promises of death. Oh, how his life had crumbled, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

“O-of course,” Jacob said, squatting again, because somebody really needed to clean the evidence away before anyone came in and blabbed it to Gutenberg, or demanded Jacob to listen to more sinister secrets. He tried not to think about how it might look like he was kneeling in surrender to his new evil queen.

Jane stepped forward. Jacob flinched, but she merely squatted down and helped him with the broken mug. Great. Now Jacob also owed her his life. The ritual to his doom was completed. 

“Thanks,” he said when they were finished. One ought to be polite even in the face of persecution, his mother had always said. Or maybe it was Gandhi or someone else.

Jane nodded minutely. She remained standing between him and the door, blocking his escape. Looking for something to do as he waited hopefully for Jane to leave him alone, he washed his hands slowly. Then, he dried his hands, even more slowly. Eventually, once he was sure he would rub his hands raw if he continued, he braced himself and asked, aiming for a casual tone, “So, how’s life?”

Jane’s throat worked, and for a split second, her Ice Queen facade fractured. “I suspect that my husband is seeing another woman behind my back.”

Jacob’s first reaction was surprise. Because, while there were no bodies mentioned, this wasn’t something that one should unceremoniously unload on an unsuspecting colleague. The second, briefly, was fear, if talks of bodies disposal would follow soon, after all. The third was — and this would surprise Mrs. Norris — sympathy. Jane was apparently so bothered, and desperate, to corner, of all people, him, in the office kitchen (which, should’ve been a safe space). Not to mention that he had never seen Jane look this vulnerable before. The fourth was awkwardness. In spite of the unexpected sympathy, Jacob was still an inexperienced comforter and he found himself at a loss of what to do or say. Hopefully looking shocked and vaguely disapproving was good enough for her.

Alas, Jane took a deep breath, then stared at him expectantly. 

Jacob raked his brain.

“That bastard,” he said eventually. He tentatively reached out his hand, intending to give Jane the friendly half-hug James from IT used to forced on him, then paused as an alarmed expression appeared on her face. However, because his hand was already outstretched, he patted her shoulder. “There, there.”

Even by his own standard, that comforting method was disappointing. He should at least give her some sort of solutions. “Do you want a contact for a private investigator?”

“I already have one,” she said, sighing, but tension fell from her shoulder, so Jacob considered that a success. What else? Oh, right–

“Tea?”

Jane smiled at that. Good, another success. And now he had something to busy himself with. Well done, Jacob!

Jane shifted closer. Jacob shuffled away, on the pretense of grabbing sugar.

“I had a huge fight with my eldest daughter yesterday night.”

The sugar tin clattered as it slipped from Jacob’s hand and he scrambled to catch it, lest it turned out to be Gutenberg’s favourite sugar tin from France or something. He turned to Jane, breathless, “You’re telling me more than one secret a day?”

Jane frowned in response, which wasn’t a good sign.

“Tea?” he lifted the mug as a distraction.

While Jane was adequately preoccupied with her steaming mug, Jacob’s fervent prayers were answered. Leslie sauntered in with her empty mug, oblivious to Jacob’s relief-laden expression.

He proceeded to fake a disappointed expression, said “Talk to you later, then, Jane,” then bolted from the kitchen, actually hoping not to talk to her later, or ever again.

He sat back at his desk, heart still thumping, immediately on the search for a cheap ticket to Italy. Surely it wasn’t going to be difficult to find a similar mug? Why did he decide to make tea with that particular mug anyway?

He blinked.

He had forgotten his own cup of tea.

Fantastic. Because he would have to settle with being tea-less for the day, or perhaps for the rest of his entire life. He wasn’t sure he could step back into the kitchen without at least a few therapy sessions.

Speaking of therapy–

He messaged Sandra for the therapist she recommended to his mother a while back, jotted her details down, and, when Jane was away, slipped the paper on her desk.

There. He hoped the therapist would do better than offer tea and probably-unwelcome shoulder pats.