Mean Business

Mean Business Part 1

Chapter 1- Tom

I always hear her before I see her. I can then look up from my screen and watch her walk past. Clack, clack, clack. Her high heels powered by her solid legs hitting the hard corridor floor. Her movement was full of intent throughout the day, and it sounded like she meant business. Her head is down looking at her phone again. Not noticing me watching. She makes ignoring me a speciality sport. Emma is constantly reading emails and reports even as she moves around the office. Never not working.

Then there was her smell of power. It's called a

Portrait of a Lady

. I breathe it all in. It's delightful. I find myself leaning forward into it. It's a gorgeous smell. I have recently had to buy a bottle of the stuff for her on her card. The cloud of hazy musk left hanging in the space she has vacated oozes that she is in control. I genuinely love the fragrance. When in the slightly smaller space of her large office it can be overpowering. With her scraped back blonde hair tied up on a huge nest as she moves it bounces along. Her face is thick with well-done makeup, lips battle ready red boldly contrasting against her piercing blue eyes. Even now it makes me jump back a step when she naturally scowls. Emma portrays that she is in control, whilst looking particularly fierce.

Three years ago, I sadly had to drop out of university in my final year. I had to urgently move back closer to home. My dad had fallen ill, and my mum couldn't look after both of them properly. I applied for a role. I was unlucky and didn't get it. I later found out that Emma had got it. At that time, I still desperately needed a job. Within days a job advert went up online for a role in the same building. It was strange sitting in the waiting room with loads of girls. But I was so fortunate that I got it. It was extremely useful. It was close to home and the pay wasn't too bad. The downside being that over time I became Emma's bitch.

Sorry, that's incorrect. I clearly mean the title it says on my email signature-

Personal Assistant to Emma Blenkinsop

. I am the only male in the admin team. I think she has preferred to work with a subordinate malleable man rather than another bitchy woman. Yes, I have some superiority over the secretaries. But only just. I have a slight problem, though- I am almost twenty years younger than many of them. When they gang together, like a herd of cattle, which they often do, chewing gum like cows chew the cud, I am very much on the losing side.

Even though I belong to the team, they shut up their gossiping when I get into the tearoom. I really don't care who fancies whom, at the same time for the older ones, which hormone replacement patch they are wearing, or more importantly couldn't get hold of. I am 100% sure most of the time I am not involved. I haven't done anything worthwhile to create gossip as Emma is my sole focus. I should defend her when they complain about her but in all honesty what they are saying is normally true. She scowls and bitches as she scares most of the staff, including me, into doing their job.

Going back to Emma, I am at her beck and call twenty-four seven. I don't have time for my own social life. No. I can't even think about that. I need to be able to respond to her.

I mean, it has been said that I am mature for a twenty-five-year-old guy. I feel as if I am in the prime of my life. Granted that I am a little under ten years younger than my boss. I am in the office at seven sharp, otherwise it's a dereliction of duty. The fact that I am only paid from nine is neither here nor there.

I have to organise her inbox and her diary at the same time, prioritise the emails and manage her Teams or Zoom meetings. She is forever in meetings. God help me if I get it wrong. I have over time learnt who to flag and who to not. The ones that don't get flagged are the ones I then have to respond to on her behalf. Which ends up being most of them.

Emma will swoop in, at nine thirty, door banging against the wall, and then swinging back on its hinges. We know she has arrived as the rat-a-tat of her high heels clattering on the white marmoleum floor. It would be again my fault she was late. Somehow, I pre-ordered the wrong coffee from the shop downstairs, even though she gets the same one every day. Extra-large skinny latte.

"Tommy, how many times do I ask you for a full fat Cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles?"

"Sorry Miss Emma, tomorrow I'll get it right, I promise." I smile politely, hoping she would agree.

"Are you calling me fat?" She would show a hint of emotion, then huff. A moment where she would show that she is human by teasing me, then roll her eyes while sucking in what is her noticeable belly. In the last three years there have never been any gym sessions written into her schedule. There is however gallons of wine and tonnes of chocolate on her weekly shopping list.

And tomorrow she will claim the opposite preference.

"I always have the skinny latte!"

I can never get it right.

She still drinks it.

Come the end of the day, I can't leave the office until she does. My contracted hours are nine till five which was theoretically perfect for looking after the elderly family. Time in the morning to help out and then get back to cook dinner.

If there is an evening event she has been invited to, I normally have to come along too. She will leave early to go home and get ready. Only for her to come back to the office to get me before going out. I've found that there isn't time for me to get home and back as I need to man her phone until five. As such I'm stuck until Emma returns.

At the evening events, they are often at an art gallery, or it could be a charity fundraiser. She is busy networking. I am effectively the purse boy. It always contains her business cards, phone, wallet, paracetamol, hair band, lipstick, ChapStick, and, if needed, her "feminine" products. I walk three paces behind her. Let her do the important chat. I might get introduced, but only if she wants a business card from her purse. There will be a flick of the fingers, the sign I need to step forward.

I will hand her the card and step back. I can admire her from behind. She has that perfect hourglass figure. Her bodycon dress has the outline of the expensive underwear I had bought the previous day highlighted against her body. I literally know everything about her. Size 12, more recently a 14. When needed, I buy both sizes online for her. I will then send or take one back to the store. She is 5.6". Her shoe size is a 6. Her chest is 36C. Her monthly cycle is on average twenty-seven days. Her favourite colour is maroon. She loves Nordic Noir television.

The list goes on.

She was wearing a subtle pink nail varnish on her toes and fingers that was done at her weekly appointment. I would guess she has done that, so it matches the lacy pink underwear underneath her stylish black dress.

There is one advantage standing back a few paces. I can admire both the art on the wall and the art of her. To me she is beautiful, almost sculpted from my position. I can take it all in. Like the pictures on the wall, I know I can't touch it, but from where I am, I can safely enjoy the view. I am comforted in the knowledge that she can't glare at me using the back of her head just for admiring quite how sexy she is.

Emma will also get me to hold her drink for her, even though I can't drink at these events. She thinks it uncouth if I am standing there with her handbag and beer. Not the right look. I might sneak a half a glass of lemonade when she isn't looking.

The number of times people mistake me for her husband has become hilarious. A running joke. Emma would laugh it off, degrading me further by saying

"why would she marry someone like him?"

The dismissive arm wave she performs, just how small does she want to make me feel?

Then at a time of her choosing, normally gone eleven, it will be time for her to leave. She will be particularly giggly, loud, but equally grouchy. She is also very touchy feely after more than a couple of glasses of wine. My role is to unpeel her grip from my waist and whilst holding her up, get her safely into a taxi. Emma will drunkenly ask for me to get in with her. I am polite when I decline. I don't want to be the reason for gossip, however much I want to jump in with her. Just to experience being that close to her.

I walked past her house the other day, it's one of those modern designer places with large windows looking out over the valley behind it, looked up at her windows and wished to be inside with her.

It's the sort of place that I envisage being spotless clean. Maybe she even employs a cleaner to keep on top of everything? Everything has its place. All neat and tidy. Just like she relentlessly demands that I maintain standards at work.

I have to find my own way home from a night out, back to my parents 1930's house. It's still as if it's the 1970's. It has not been decorated since. The bathroom is still salmon pink. After two and a half years away being back it was suddenly very constraining. Especially with my dad being so unwell. Even now, I feel the need to move out again. But I can't really afford it.

On the nights out I could drive into town and back, but then I couldn't have a drink. It is preferable by bus as it's cheaper on expenses. The least expenses I put in the better. So, I don't. Even in the pouring rain, if I miss the bus, I find it easier to walk.

You would think that after 5.30 on a Friday, I would be able to relax. No, not for me. The weekends are not particularly relaxing as she doesn't really drive. Or, as I have come to understand, she doesn't

want

to drive. On Saturday mornings I have become expected to take her shopping and take her to the hairdresser's every other week.

Three hours sitting in the saloon waiting is mind numbingly boring. There is only so much doom scrolling on Twitter to be done. I'm grateful it's not every week.

I could go home, sleep, and then come back, but I don't. I loyally stay.

I wait, not convinced that her hair has grown from the previous fortnight but, apparently her roots need colouring constantly and the loss of volume over time bothers her greatly. I have to be on top of the details as I book the hairdresser, making sure it's added to our shared calendar. But once we arrive, I don't listen in too much.

She will go her own way at lunch time, giving me a day and a half of Emma-free time. I managed to get out of food shopping by helping her order online during work hours. So now, it's only every other Saturday that I am required.

The idea of me having time to see my own family for more than is necessary, is certainly not a good one. She is a workaholic. Holidays do not seem to occur. However, her sister lives in London and a couple of times a month she goes to visit. I can then relax. Finally, I can sit in the pub and drink myself silly. It's my time but I can't help but think of Emma. Especially her delightful curves and how they must look in that very expensive lacy underwear alone.

However much I want to drink myself into a stupor, in the back of my mind, I'm very aware I still have to be at my desk and ready for work at seven on Monday morning.

Even if she isn't.

Chapter 2- Emma

Oh, one has to laugh.

Tom is desperately trying so hard to please me, almost bending over backwards to make me happy. Every morning, I get to see his puppy dog-like eyes as he sits at his desk, freshly showered and shaved, just wanting a pat on the head. He looks as if he wants to be stroked behind the ears and told he is "such a good boy". The way he stares at me I want to give him a bone he had a tail I am sure it would wag. All I really want him to do is his job and well, also grow a pair. Stand up to me. But as he sits there, I can't help but say that he certainly looks good.

Sometimes he acts like as if he is my butler. And some days, I feel as if he is practically bowing at me as I walk in or when I am moving around the office. I am his boss, not his Queen. He is just employed to help me. Assist me. It's all in the title. Personal Assistant.

It has to be said, he is so good at organising me. Every morning my emails are perfectly set out, flagged in order of urgency as to who I need to reply to. He deals with all the fluff for me, and I can focus on the nitty gritty. There is nothing that is too much trouble for him.

I am convinced that he doesn't overtly ogle me because he is so much younger than me. He is handsome, but he's obviously not

Harry Styles.

I am convinced that he is not interested in the slightly older women. Or women at all. Also, I am sure that he is still either a virgin, a nerd, or gay. Or a nerdy virgin gay guy who still lives with his mum. Not that there's anything wrong with that. As far as I am aware, I don't believe there is a man, or a woman in his life. Sadly, it was his dad that passed away a few months ago. I really should find out one day what is going on. He did take a day off for a funeral recently, but still spent most of the day in the office before briefly leaving to attend the service. I would have coped for one day if he wasn't here. He was so thoughtful, actually bringing in some leftover flowers the following day. It made my office bright and pretty for a week.

I have never asked about his love life and, obviously, we have never discussed mine either. It would be a very short conversation on my end as there is nothing to tell. I have spent the last ten to fifteen years focusing on my career and even so, I was lucky to get this management position. It was a stressful promotion; I wasn't sure I was up to it. I am and it has been worth every minute. My dad installed it in me from a young age that I didn't have time for messing about with men, or even women. Just work. Dad was always telling me to focus on what is important. And that was one thing, work. I am still trying to make him proud of me. Other Men were not a focus. It was the same with housework. There is certainly no time to chase boys or clean the house.

Of course, this line of logic made for a life of very lonely evenings. I don't have a social life. I have dropped everything for work.

The fact we have never discussed relationships, means Tom has never said anything about his love life. I would have latched onto any little detail he let slip if he had. Like the other ladies in the office, I have never been above a little fun chatter or gossip.

Anyway, he would make a delightful husband.

His ability to choose my outfits is astonishing. I can send him off into town with my card on his lunch break and he comes back with the perfect pieces to make a stylish look come together. It almost always fits like a glove, and he even finds shoes to match. He makes sure I look genuinely stunning almost like I have a world-renowned personal shopper.

Over the past eighteen months, or actually three years now, he has never once made an advance towards me. He is professional to his core, even after I've had several glasses of wine. Normally in desperate need to relax, I rarely have less than three glasses when he accompanies me. Tom's frame is strong and sturdy, I can feel it through his arms as he holds me up on my feet gently, and never inappropriately, just there to help me into the taxi before me he waves me off.

I have offered to share the ride with him, I could drop him off on the way, but he always refuses. By then I really need my evening cigarette. It's a long night without, but I won't bite him.

However much I try to flirt with him, it's like fluttering your eyelashes at a fucking mannequin. I get nothing back in response. He just stands out the way, holding my stuff as if he was my personal purse rack. I find it silly that I have to click my fingers to bring him nearer, but it works.

Tom is loyal to his work. He is diligent and delightful. He has never put in an expense claim as he must innocently think that he is paid enough. I may moan about expenses, but I have suggested that he put them in several times.

For all the good things about me, for which there are countless wonderful things. I also have a couple of major weaknesses. Firstly, time and organisation. I am forever running late. I find it never waits for me. I know I should set my alarm a little earlier, but I feel like I need to sleep as much as I can. It's lonely on my own since both my parents died. I used the inheritance to buy myself a nice sized plot of land with a cute, single-family home built on it. The place is far too large for just me with some rooms left empty for storage, boxes and clutter stacked high in a couple.

Over the years I have managed to fill it. I will get home, open a bottle of wine, and stay up drinking whilst watching awful foreign TV until the dead of night, when I finally try to get some sleep. Just another weakness of mine.

Holding the sofa down with a nearly empty bottle of wine. That is a very easy task.

My other, big but thankfully, personal weakness is that I will smoke a couple cigarettes in the evenings, just to relax. To take the edge off the day. Nothing more. A nasty habit of mine that

no one

needed to know about. Just a couple before bed to help my tight muscles grow looser and my busy brain shut down shouldn't be that bad. Near constant stress from work would surely cause more harm in the long run.

It was stressing over my GCSE's gave me my first taste. My best friend at the time, Rachel, had snuck a pack of Marlboro Lights from her older brother's smokes to school and I had a couple with her. Of course, neither of us became suddenly addicted after like I'd been made to believe. That early experience made me view the vice as more of a tool to help with certain situations. Being a manager, I have been taught to use the right tools for the moment. I just need their help to deal with the stress. I don't have anyone to unleash in the evenings. I find lighting up just helps. Plus, I prefer sitting on the sofa with them to the idea of going to gym and, and at my age, I have to use something to curve my appetite if I want to stay in a size 12 for which whilst currently failing, I very much want to do.

All this means that I might have to rush home from the office some evenings, a gentle craving for one of my cigarettes starts after lunch. It's a long wait till I get home, but

I am not a smoker!

After work it's finally

my

time. A couple glasses of wine and the occasional cigarette throughout the evening, I have to be sure a good shower and a couple extra sprays of perfume hides the evidence on me in the mornings.

On the weekends, I get my hair done if needed or go shopping. I aim to do nothing more with my off days. Though about once a month, I visit my sister, miles away in London.

Regarding organisation, it is why I have to have a great PA, I am useless at organising myself, and when I try, I never seem to have time for anything. Then, in the mornings getting into work by nine is a constant struggle. I need to look presentable; my hair and makeup always seem to take longer than I planned for.

I tried to joke with Tom several times, that he ordered me the wrong coffee, which provides a silly excuse for me being late. Somehow, he never seems to get it.

The coffee is perfect. He knows that because he knows not only my morning coffee order, but everything about me!

Maybe I should suggest a different excuse. Elephants blocking the road or something? That might be on the nose enough for the uptight young man to realise I'm only teasing.

When at home any home cooked meals I make for myself are only possible because Tom had the ingredients delivered and even printed out a recipe.