Fait Accompli

It was only a yoghourt. I mean, what’s a pot of curdled dairy product between work colleagues?! The ‘consume-by’ date on the lid was almost up anyway. And it wasn’t even very nice. But I was peckish, what can I say? When the hunger hits, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?

There it was, at the back of the fridge in the break room, neglected, forgotten … I thought. No. It belonged to Beasley of all people – a stickler for the rules if ever there was one. Should a pen of his go missing – I say ‘his’, but they’re actually company-issue – there’s a helluva kerfuffle.

I chose a moment when most of the office were in the weekly status meeting (I wasn’t at it because I’ve only been here a month; I’m on probation, as it were). I grabbed the yoghourt and a spoon and sat in a corner – against the same wall as the door-less doorway, hidden from the prying eyes of anyone that might pass along the corridor.

I was scraping the last bits from the sides of the pot when Mandy came in. Mandy’s the receptionist, which is why she wasn’t in the meeting either. She was the first person I met on my first day. I didn’t expect such a gushing greeting from her, to be honest. I know that receptionists have to be pleasant to anyone arriving, but her face lit up when she raised her eyes from whatever it was she was doing. And she seemed to go beyond the call of duty by taking me personally to the general manager’s office, pointing out the various departments on the way, and introducing me to random people we bumped into.

Since then, I’ve come to know why I got the VIP treatment: she has a thing for me, and it must have been crush at first sight. On my second day, I arrived at the office to find a small package on my desk: a cream cake with a message: Sweet On You. She didn’t sign it, but later in the day she saw me in the corridor.

“Enjoy your cake, Stuart?” she said, putting on a voice that I imagine she thought seductive.

“Er, yeah. It was … lovely … thanks,” I replied, effectively acknowledging who’d left the cake, and that I apparently found it acceptable to be receiving a gift from someone who was, at the time, practically a stranger. She smiled a much-too-wide smile and made her way back to reception, happily humming a tune to herself.

I didn’t have the presence of mind to question her about it. If I had done, I might have been able to nip the business in the bud. As it was, I kept receiving little offerings – not every day, but often enough for it to feel like a routine. There might be a chocolate bar waiting for me, or a can of cola, or a football magazine (she soon found out that I love football). And a short time after each gift, she made sure I knew it came from her.

Now, I joined the company because I desperately need the job. I was out of work for 18 months and was forced to run down my savings. As I said, I’m on probation; I just want to keep my head down, do my work to the best of my ability, and try to impress enough to be kept on. Mandy would be a dangerous distraction, and while fraternization with colleagues isn’t overtly forbidden, I’m afraid it would be frowned upon by the powers that be; it’s a very conservative company.

I’ve spent the month trying to avoid her as much as possible, and I’ve turned down invitations – to have lunch, to go to the cinema, to have a walk in the park. She’s quite attractive, as receptionists often are; in other circumstances, I might be tempted, but the possible complications have so far trumped any desire I might have to accept her advances.

Not to mention the fact that this apparent obsession of hers fair gives me the willies, if I’m honest; I’ve seen that film where the lover boils the family’s pet rabbit! So I’ve managed to fend her off … until today, that is.

Beasley reported the stolen yoghourt to his line manager, who brought it up with the general manager. An impromptu general meeting was called, this time with all members of staff present.

We were packed into the board room, some sitting at the table, most lining the walls, two or three deep. When we were all assembled, the general manager – Mr Stones, as hard as his name – called us to order.

“Good afternoon,” he said, surveying the room; I found myself staring out of the window to avoid uncomfortable eye contact. “This won’t take long as I know we all have work to do. It has come to my attention that there has been a theft of an item of foodstuff from the break room.”

Foodstuff? Stones keeping it classy, I thought.

“Now,” he went on, “We here at Bartlett & Baker pride ourselves on our teamwork. Without that, we might as well pack our bags and go home. And teamwork depends on trust in one another. Theft – however minor it may be in terms of the value of the item stolen – undermines that. Which is why we need to stamp it out before it corrodes our mutual trust. To this end, we shall be offering a small reward to anyone who may have information about the incident. Once again: it may seem like a minor matter, but we don’t need to be reminded that corrosion starts with the tiniest spot of rust.”

He paused there to scan us again with his eyes. This time I turned and saw Mandy gazing at me unflinchingly from across the room. My heart sank.

When Stones had subjected us all to his scrutiny, he finished off his address.

“You can speak to your line manager if you have any ideas. Alternatively, if you wish to remain anonymous, there will be a box left in reception. Once again, I want to stress the importance of this matter, and the need to clear it up as quickly as possible. For the moment, that is all. Now, back to work.”

With that, he picked his way through to the door and exited, leaving behind him a hubbub that spilled out into the corridor as we filed back to our desks.

I found myself looking over my shoulder for the rest of the day, half-expecting to see my line manager bearing down on me with figurative handcuffs. After all, there was someone who had information about the theft, and after my rebuffing of her overtures…

But the afternoon wore on and no ‘arrest’ came, so it was with some relief that I packed up my things at five o’clock and made my way out.

Past reception.

I can’t begin to describe the depth of the unease I felt to see the finger tapping the box, placed on the reception desk, and Mandy’s trademark much-too-wide smile.

Then came the conspiratorial wink.