Okay, it’s official. I’m dead. I’m actually going to be killed.
Then I’ll lose my job, my super important position and my beautiful nameplate, complete with Leah Watton written across it in shiny silver print. Of course, this will cause me to get kicked out of my flat and I’ll end up living in some cardboard box on a skanky street corner, drinking cider and trading war stories around a bin fire.
Or the much worse option, I’ll be forced to move back to my parents’ house.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
All for one idiotic joke. I can’t believe it. I’ve nearly wrecked my career already, and it was only just beginning. I can really feel the panic welling up in my stomach now. After those three long years at university studying journalism, the thing I was so sure I was destined to do with my life (which in the end turned out I actually hated). Those long depressing months of sending out CVs to every stupid newspaper, magazine, and supplement going—my parents had always made it very clear that they expected me to use my degree sensibly, especially as they may have helped me now and again, financially, after I got into a bit of credit card debt. I got rejected time and time again, even by a cheese periodical. Seriously, they said at the interview my lack of passion for the subject was apparent. I mean, what sort of person is passionate about cheese?
Finally I got a chance, well more like a small teeny tiny stepping stone, one that would actually go down well with my family. A news researcher. I mean, it’s for the least watched local news program ever, in a small rural part of the country where nothing exciting ever happens, but it totally counts. I was so relieved, but definitely not happy to get this job. Still, I can’t afford to lose it.
I’m such a fool. I only did this to impress Jake. Damn it. I’ve been trying to get his attention since I walked in on my first day and saw him smiling into the phone and twisting his hair in that cute way he does when he’s concentrating. He’s absolutely gorgeous—tall, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, a smile that lights up a room. I was instantly smitten, and have since spent my days catching any glimpse of him that I can.
He definitely likes to think he’s the joker in the office, so after flirting and dressing to accentuate my best features—which believe me isn’t easy if you’re five foot three, with a figure that could do with losing about ten pounds—I thought I’d try a different approach to getting his attention.
He’s one of those guys constantly emailing stupid YouTube videos to everyone, often with a fake news story attached, usually mocking one of our more recent, tedious projects. So I found a great one of a ‘zombie’ attack. It’s brilliant. It looks so realistic and although it’s in a foreign language and you can barely make out any words, the narrator sounds terrified. It made me laugh when I found it, and I knew Jake would find it funny, so I set it up.
But then came the error. I feel icy and uncomfortable even thinking about it. I accidentally sent it to Jamie King, the big boss. With a whole bloody news story attached.
He doesn’t understand humour and I’m sure he’s never heard a joke. He seriously does not tolerate messing around in the office. This can only mean he’s either going to think I’m serious and I think this should actually go on television, on the news, like some idiot who doesn’t deserve this job, or he’s going to see it for the joke it is and instantly sack me. Oh God, I don’t know what’s worse, I can’t cope with this…