Storm of Bells

05. Spiffing Statistics

Saturday arrived, and then Sunday. I awaited the start of the work week with trepidation. Last Friday, Mr Ambrose had thrown me out of his office before he could get around to a certain ritual of the business world involving 'fire' and the syllable 'ing'. A small oversight which, I was sure, he would remember to remedy today. He didn't seem overly pleased with my performance as an ad campaign director.

It's not fair! My sweets are great! Ella liked them, and so did Eve and the rest of my friends!

In fact, they seemed to like them a little bit too much. And one could also say that they behaved slightly, um...eccentric after tasting them. But surely that was just a coincidence.

Anyway, the people who should have liked them didn't. I spotted no long lines of hopeful mothers in front of apothecaries, waiting to buy my fabulous new product to soothe their child's cough. But then—maybe that was not surprising, considering that there didn't seem to be a single bloody sick child within a hundred miles. Damn! Once in a lifetime you actually need a plague, but does God oblige? Of course not! He keeps all the good stuff for the ancient Egyptians.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the moon shining in through the window, one question running through my mind, over and over:

What if he really does it? What if he fires me?

The mere thought sent a wave of fiery rage through me. I didn't deserve to be fired! I had done good work over the years! More than that! I had done things no normal secretary could be expected to do! I had travelled with him to the farthest corners of the earth, stood by him through thick and thin, risked my bloody neck for him over and over again—

I froze.

Something went click in my mind as the facts shifted to form a very simple picture. Of course. How stupid had I been to not see it before?

Risking my neck for him over and over again...

The silly, chauvinistic son of a bachelor! He really was in love with me, wasn't he?

The problem was that he was about as good at knowing what a woman truly needed as a rock was at dancing ballet. Well...worse, actually. A rock wouldn't be too stingy to buy proper ballet shoes.

He thought he knew what was best for me? He thought he could control my life?

Well, we'll just have to teach him a lesson, won't we?

After all, Mr Ambrose's company wasn't the only one that employed secretaries.

Rolling over, I snuggled into my pillow and fell asleep with a smile on my lips.

***

The next morning, I rose, slipped out into the back garden and, as usual, put on my male attire. Just to be on the safe side, I pocketed a bag of solid chocolate and a fully-loaded revolver. I would have girded my loins, too, but unfortunately I didn't own a gird and had no idea how to get one.

Placing my bowler on my head, I straightened and regarded myself in the small, dirty mirror I had hung on the wall a few weeks ago.

'Ready for battle?' I asked myself.

As ready as you're ever going to be, my mirror image silently replied.

Very well.

Or perhaps I should say—adequate.

Pushing open the door, I strode into the garden and slipped through the back door out onto the street. There wasn't much traffic yet. Employees of Mr Rikkard Ambrose never really had problems with traffic congestion, because they had the great honour of going to work at least an hour before anybody else did. For half the pay.