Kim wasn’t at her desk in reception. Not good. And the office was weirdly quiet. They all shared one big open-plan space, with shoulder-height cubicles that gave the illusion of privacy and towering plastic ficus trees that gave the illusion of a bright and healthy workplace, and most mornings everyone congregated in the break room for a solid quarter hour before drifting to their desks. Not today.
Heather made it to her cubicle, stowed her bag under her desk, and switched on her computer. Only then did she turn to face Brett, Bay Street’s other staff writer, whose desk faced the opposite wall of their three-sided pod.
“What’s the deal?” she whispered.
“Check your email,” he whispered back.
It took a minute or two to pull up her email, long enough for her heart to try to hammer its way out of her chest.
“The one from Richard?”
“Duh,” Brett hissed.
Richard had sent it at 4:20 that morning. Brett had been right about the all-nighter.
Heather,
I need to speak with you this morning regarding some alterations in our corporate structure. Please remain at your desk until I call, and refrain from unnecessary gossip and speculation with your colleagues until everyone has been briefed on the changes.
Richard
Editor in chief
Bay Street
Mitchell Media International
“And?” Brett prompted.
“I’m supposed to stay at my desk until he calls me in. Something about changes to the corporate structure. Does your email say that?”
“Yeah. But it also says I’m supposed to go to the boardroom at eight thirty.”
“Have you talked to anyone else?” He didn’t answer, so she swiveled to face him. “Brett?”
“I, uh . . . yeah. Most people are getting called into the boardroom. I’m sorry. This sucks.”
It was as good as an actual pink slip.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned away to stare sightlessly at her monitor. One by one her colleagues arrived and read their email from Richard, and most of them, Brett included, tiptoed to the boardroom.
The office grew quiet again, and when her phone finally rang Heather nearly jumped out of her skin.
“It’s Richard. Could you come to my office?”
“Sure.”
Her hands sweating like crazy, her mouth so dry she couldn’t even swallow, she walked to his office on leaden feet. He’d left his door open, but she knocked on it anyway.
“Hi, Heather. Come on in. Take a seat.”
She sat, and waited, and eventually he dragged his eyes from the sheets of paper spread out on his desk. As if he was dreading what came next. Or, rather, wanted her to think he was dreading it.
“So. Heather. The people at MMI have been concerned by our drop in ad revenues for a while now. Very concerned. Now, they could have just shut us down, which would have been a disaster. Instead they’ve decided to start up a Canadian edition of Business Report, and Bay Street will be folded into it. Each issue will include eight to ten pages of purely Canadian content.”
Heather nodded.
“I’m sorry to say that the restructuring will involve some redundancies in our editorial staff here, and I’m especially sorry to tell you that your position has been eliminated.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. Not the most articulate response, but it wasn’t as if Richard was really listening.
“I want you to know that I’ve insisted they give you a very attractive package, very attractive, and I’ll provide a glowing reference. Absolutely. As well, MMI also offers career counseling and a variety of transition resources. Kendra in HR will be furnishing you—”
“So I’m out.” Finally she’d found her voice.
“Yes. I wish I could—”
“What about the offshore banking piece? I only just started digging in.”
“We’ve got it covered. And, well, I hate to do this, but MMI is asking that redundant staff vacate the premises as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I guess I had better get on it.” She stood, went to his door. “Good luck with everything,” she said, not bothering to turn around.
Since she routinely sent blind copies of all her emails to her Gmail account, all she had to do was copy her contacts list, send it and a handful of story ideas she’d been developing to her private account, and erase a few hundred personal messages. Easy enough to sort out before they sent in security to frog-march her out.
“God, Heather. This sucks.” Brett flopped down on his chair and let out a long, lingering, highly annoying sigh. He wasn’t the one who’d been canned.