I walked up to the Artemis house most weeks, for no other reason than to remind myself of my ultimate aim. That aim felt like it was getting closer when I was asked by head office to apply for a job on the marketing team. I’d been working at Sassy Girl for nearly a year, and I had no real business working in head office, but I had pestered my manager near constantly to let me know if anything came up away from the shop and she must have taken pity on me. She recommended me for my hard work and interest in learning about the brand, and commended me on my window displays, which must’ve swung it. Who knew that pairing a pleather parka with a day-glo bum bag would count as experience? It was a bottom of the ladder job, but it was a rung on the fucking ladder. And it would mean working in the same building as Simon. Five floors and a world of marble away but still, a connection that meant something to me back then.
I lasted precisely thirteen months. The work was simultaneously stultifying and embarrassing. I had no interest in ‘getting the creative juices whizzing’ at roundtable meetings where we discussed shopfront displays and hearing about ‘merch to make the client wet themselves’ made me feel like I was living in a bad simulation. I got three good things out of the experience. The first one was that I earned great money for a 20-year-old and I saved it obsessively. The second was that I got to visit Simon’s house when he threw his annual party for head office staff. I would have given all I had to get a glimpse into that mansion on the hill and here he was, welcoming me in. A proverbial viper, slithering into the bosom of the family.
We got the invites at random. It was said that they invited people by drawing names out of a hat each year so that the system wouldn’t favour anybody over anyone else. So it must have been a coincidence that the party was full of senior management and pretty young girls working at a much more junior level. Gary, the obese website designer who sat three desks down from me had never been one of the lucky ones. Then again, his appearance and his vague ‘given up on life’ aura wasn’t one I’d want at a party either. The man ate instant soup with the same plastic spoon every day for a year. There were many other spoons available in the communal kitchen. Baffling.
The Artemis staff party was a fairly tepid two-hour garden event with canapés and warm sparkling wine passed round by bored-looking students. There was a candyfloss machine set up next to a mini maze, and a few people had made the mistake of accepting the floral hair crowns being woven by an earthy-looking woman who was completely out of place in this palace to greed. Turns out a slightly sweaty man in a grey suit jauntily wearing a flower crown is exactly what a loss of dignity looks like. Even with the dismal activities on offer, you could see that the event was a tick-box exercise – keep staff morale up by pretending to value them enough to allow them into your home. We weren’t valued enough to be allowed access to indoor toilets though, and a stern-looking housekeeper stood on the staircase should anyone think of going upstairs for a nosy. But for me, it was completely fascinating. This house that my mother took me to, that I stood outside of, knowing in my bones that I wasn’t ever going to be invited into. I was here. I was ushered in with a glass and a lukewarm smile. I spent a good twenty minutes just watching a maid discreetly follow people around and then sanitising anything they happened to touch. It was riveting.
Bryony clearly had more sense than to mingle with the employees and was nowhere to be seen. Simon stayed in one corner with the male members of the senior management, cigar smoke forming an orb around their heads. He did not interact with his wife once as far as I could tell. Occasionally a young female member of staff would be beckoned over and a roar of laughter could be heard across the lawn. One could only hazard a guess as to how many HR offences were being committed in the spirit of ‘banter’ by a bunch of men in tan loafers and open-necked shirts. I wandered around, drink in one hand, as though I was vaguely looking for someone, and headed through the French doors of the sitting room. Janine wafted around the doors seconds later, her hair blow-dried into a helmet, her gold jewellery clinking like body armour. I assume she was on high alert, the idea of anyone pilfering her lot-bought high-end knick-knacks too much for her nerves to bear.
I turned my head away and pretended to be looking at a gaudy painting of flamenco dancers and she strode past me, into the kitchen, followed by an anxious-looking woman in an apron and white gloves. Obviously she didn’t see me; people like Janine don’t have normal vision. They are blind to people they deem irrelevant. I don’t begrudge it, it’s a talent I admire. Why waste time on people who offer no value? The corridor was empty, so I continued walking, reaching a wide spiral staircase which would take you upstairs and to their more private space. I hovered, wondering what would happen if I was caught rummaging through the marital bedroom. Would I be thrown out and fired? Would they do a background check on me? Probably not worth the risk, as much as I was tempted.