3 Star Gazing

      ‘Morning, Leni. Zara needs her schedule for today, her new crystals collected from Swarovski on Bond Street, and can you arrange for a cleaning team to blitz the house–she had a few people over last night and it got a bit crazy. Oh, and we’ve come up with a match on the manhunt thing–I’ve left the details on your desk.’

      ‘Sure, Conn, no problem.’

      He grinned as he squeezed past me on the stairs. I waited until he was out of sight.

      ‘Chicken tikka baguette,’ I shouted to Millie, the pale-faced receptionist who, underneath the anaemic complexion, coal-coloured hair and dour exterior, was actually very sweet and funny–although I did worry that if she didn’t see daylight soon she was facing a future blighted by osteoporosis.

      ‘Nope–cheese salad on brown, no mayo,’ she countered in a thick Glasgow burr.

      Conn’s head suddenly reappeared at the top of the stairs.

      ‘Sorry, Millie, forgot to say…could you order lunch for me? Cheese salad sandwich will do.’

      Millie did a triumphant double wobble of her eyebrows in my direction.

      ‘Sure, white or brown?’

      ‘Brown,’ he replied. ‘And no mayo.’

      ‘Cream buns are on me at lunchtime then,’ I replied ruefully. How did Millie do that? I’d been working for Delta Inc. for a fortnight and so far Millie had whipped me every day in the sandwich challenge. I wasn’t taking it lightly. Maybe I should start taking notes and work out if everyone had a regular favourite depending on the day, week and position of the moon. And I wasn’t being facetious with that last one, because in this office that was probably the most likely scenario.

      Our admittedly immature game had started on my first day, when I was introduced to Zara’s son and manager Conn in the reception area. There are only two highly descriptive, all-encompassing, suitably formal adjectives to use when attempting to sum him up: hubba hubba.

      I’m five foot eight, and even in my highest ankle-straining heels (eBay, ridiculously impractical panic buy for city plumbing Christmas party, can only be worn in presence of crash mat and paramedics) he towers above me. His shoulders are the approximate width of the average pavement, he has sallow young Marlon Brando-type features and his topaz eyes glint brighter than those horrible bloody stars in reception. But the most remarkable thing about him is his hair–dark, long and windswept, it’s not so much Led Zeppelin, more the shoulder-length cut adopted by Jon Bon Jovi after he got a bit older and decided that heavy-metal hair was costing a fortune in conditioner.

      According to Zara, Conn was born when she was sixteen, so he’s twenty-nine now–yet, despite being only a little older than me he has a composed confidence that makes him seem much more mature than his years–a disposition that renders him perfect for his role as Zara’s manager. And yes, I could tell all that from the five conversations we’ve had since I started here two weeks ago. Oh, okay, I confess–a couple of times I accidentally listened in when he was chatting to people on the phone, courtesy of the hopelessly inefficient phone system that allows you to cut in on anyone’s call. I’d complain it was intrusive and invasive to privacy, but then, if Zara is as good as she claims, doesn’t she always know what everyone is thinking anyway?

      A shiver ran up my spine to accompany that now-familiar mental mantra–think nice things, think nice things…Most employees give an occasional thought as to whether or not their boss will check their desk drawers. Some people even worry about management installing spyware on their computer to check their emails. Me? I’m too busy fretting that Zara can see right into my mind and that I’ll get fired because some irrepressible brain cells will blurt out, ‘Hey, you in the dodgy kaftan, you’re a few decades too late for Woodstock.’

      I made my way up to Zara’s office and opened the door with not a little trepidation. The thing is, you just never knew what you would find. One day last week she had been dangling a large kite out of the window, convinced that the patterns it made in the air would tell her whether or not she should book a spiritual retreat to Mongolia next Christmas. Yesterday I’d walked in on her in deep conversation with a goat. Yep, a goat. I’m still contemplating whether the NSPCA would find anything untoward about a grown woman demanding to meet and vet (no pun intended) the animal that will be supplying her morning beverage. Archie Botham and his ballcocks seem positively mainstream compared to this.

      Thankfully, this morning there was no livestock in sight–just Zara, in a fluorescent pink boob tube that flared at the waist into a full-length gown, complete with matching headband. As always, she came to greet me, placed her palms against mine and closed her eyes tightly.

      ‘Let the cosmos deliver a fruitful day of peace, progress and harmony.’

      I said it with her, trying my best not to feel like a twat and just to be grateful that the day had started well. I’d already come to realise that she’d ignore me when she was upset or furious about some cosmic problem, but when she was on the sunny side of the street she liked to perform our little morning affirmation. It was just one of the quirky little rituals I’d come to consider run of the mill. There’d be hell to pay if she realised that I hadn’t checked my aura for celestial darkness since a week last Tuesday. And I didn’t suppose she’d appreciate the book that was tucked safely out of sight in my rucksack: Surviving a Crazy Boss–a Guide to Creating a Positive Working Environment. It was doing the trick. I was more positive than ever that Zara was bonkers. Sudden scary thought: would she sense the book was there? Did she know I was thinking about it?

      I switched to efficient PA mode, while thinking nice things. Nice things. Nice thing number one: I actually enjoyed working there. The hours were fine, the job was interesting, and despite the fact that Zara could switch from the epitome of serenity to ranting egomaniac in less time than it took me to read my horoscope, I’d so far managed to avoid her wrath. Nice thing number two: the salary was great and lots of interesting things happened every day. Nice thing number three: the…Conn. Whoa, that just slipped out there. But okay, I will admit that working in close proximity to GQ man did occasionally stir the…

      Alarm bells shrieked inside my head and the voice of doom yelled, ‘DO NOT THINK SEXUAL THOUGHTS ABOUT A MAN WHEN HIS PSYCHIC MOTHER IS STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU!’ Beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as I rapidly shut down the mental porn channel and reverted to capable secretary mode.

      ‘Your schedule for today