Honestly, it’s almost funny. If the whole frigging thing wasn’t so fucked-up I’d laugh.
To be fair, Tamsin is always dumping on me about personal stuff. Her latest Tinder encounter or a date she’s been on from that site she uses – Other Half I think it’s called – in way too much detail. Not that she did Tinder for long. Too many close encounters with psychos. Too many questions about whether she was submissive or dominant within the first couple of exchanges. It all comes under the category of T.M.I as far as I’m concerned. Too Much Information. If she was a mate I’d be fascinated. But she’s my boss. I’m sure Ian doesn’t sit Lucy down and make her listen to the gory details of his sex life. Mind you, he’s usually too scared to ask her to do his filing. And if he did she would probably make a formal complaint. Hold an industrial tribunal. Call her local MP and demand answers in parliament.
But when she told me about this … Jesus. I didn’t know where to look.
She prides herself on being a good boss. Fair. If you work hard and you have her back then she’ll support you. That’s what she said at my interview. And I suppose it’s proved to be true. What she failed to mention was that her definition of working hard is anyone else’s of slave labour. She demands a lot for her buck.
I can’t even remember the last time I had time at lunch to actually sit and eat. I’m used to it. Spending my precious hour picking up Tamsin’s dry cleaning or shopping for whatever it is she needs but can’t be arsed to go out and get herself. I’m used to stuffing in a sandwich while typing up some document or other. It’s OK. It comes with the territory. I’m an assistant. I assist.
I don’t mind doing all that personal stuff for my boss. I don’t think it’s beneath me – well, most of it anyway. I have a long-term plan. Work hard for Tamsin for three years doing anything and everything that’s asked of me, however demeaning, making sure I build up a fabulous reputation and references along the way. And then move on to something better. I won’t be staying at Castle. Long-running series about people buying or selling homes really don’t interest me. But I’m learning everything I can while I’m there. And TV is hardly rocket science. Most of what Tamsin and Ian seem to do is give their opinion and I can certainly do that. In fact I often do, and she passes it off as hers. I never get the credit obviously. To give her her dues, Tamsin does often tell people how invaluable I am. She just doesn’t go on to say that half the time I am actually doing her job for her.
Don’t worry, I get my little revenges. I wore a fab jacket of hers – Stella McCartney – on a night out once, after I had picked it up from the dry cleaners on my way home. I accidentally spilled gin and tonic on it, but I told her the smell was the cleaning chemicals and she totally bought it.
And I bring her full-fat lattes instead of skinnies when she sends me out to get her coffee five times a day. She’s always moaning about the fact she can’t lose those stubborn couple of pounds on her thighs, however hard she tries. I just keep quiet. When I heard her telling Ashley once that she must be getting something wrong with the coffee order because when she gets it, it just doesn’t taste right, I had to try really hard not to laugh.
And sometimes when I’m feeling particularly hard done by I add something for myself onto whatever shopping order she’s sent me out to get. Just a bottle of aspirin or a tub of blueberries. Something small. She never checks her receipts, just chucks them on the pile of crap that is threatening to engulf her office. And even if she did I’d just say, ‘Oh yes, I must give you the money for that,’ and that’d be it. I don’t even know why I do it. It’s not as if it’s stuff I couldn’t afford to buy for myself. It just makes me feel a little bit less taken advantage of, I suppose.
I don’t dislike Tamsin, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that she sometimes oversteps the mark between appropriate and inappropriate. In terms of what she asks me to do I mean. She doesn’t touch me up in the stationery cupboard or anything like that.
I nearly drew the line when she sent me up to Birmingham like some kind of super spy to try to honey trap her friend’s husband, though. I mean, what kind of person thinks of that, let alone gets their assistant to do it for them? It’s only a little short of pimping them out. Anything could have happened.
But then, I suppose if I hadn’t gone I never would have met Patrick Mitchell.
And then things might have been very different. And I wouldn’t be so scared it was all going to blow up in my face.