Identity

NYCM Prompts:
Genre: Drama | Subject: Banned | Character : A secretary
_{[Round 1: Honourable Mention]}

Synopsis: A young woman discovers that securing permanent employment in a corporate business can only come at a high personal cost.

The large lobby of the office building was abuzz with the daily comings and goings. Keeping her head bowed over the fancy complimentary coffee machine, Celia Wainright watched it all with a keen eye. The recruitment agency had raved about this newest listing, though it did require that she provide her measurements for a mandatory skirt suit uniform. Yet for Celia, who could count on one hand how any tens of points were in her back account right now – and still have some fingers left over, that was unbelievably fortuitous. So here she was, dressed in a beautifully tailored skirt suit, looking like any other secretary in any other building in any other city. In fact, the only item which set her apart was her very expensive red long belted overcoat, dazzling in all senses of the word. An old gift from her younger brother.

When Celia had announced she was here to see Madeline Clarke, one of the partners, the receptionist’s smile seemed to freeze for a moment. Yet she had quickly recovered herself and indicated that Celia should take a seat on the very expensive leather couch while she made the necessary calls. Not that the receptionist said they were expensive; it was just obvious.

Unlike the coffee machine. Tearing her eyes away from the lobby, Celia refocused on the machine, huffing in frustration. She couldn’t justify buying expensive coffee and had wanted to…

“First day.” It was a statement, not a question.

She turned to see a man in crisp overalls emblazoned with the company logo. “Um, yes,” she admitted, sheepishly. “Is the coffee machine part of the hazing?”

Laughing, he shrugged. “Well, we’ve all had to go through it, so I suppose so.” He gestured to the machine. “What did you want?”

“Just a black coffee.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Stepping forward, he pressed three buttons and the machine whirred into life.

“Thank you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Celia.”

“Philip,” he shook her hand in a warm grasp. “You’re here for Ms Clarke, aren’t you?” There was that strange frozen expression again. Almost a grimace.

“How did you know?” Celia picked up her cup of hard-won coffee and took a sip. “Did the receptionist say something?”

“Who, Harriet?” He glanced over to where the receptionist was answering a call. “No. It’s just Ms Clarke insists all her secretaries dress like that. Coat’s new though.”

“Oh, no, that’s mine.” She shifted her weight between her new high heels, uncomfortable with the idea that she was dressed as a clone of Secretaries Past. “Your role here is…”

His features relaxed into an easy grin. “Janitor.” He thumbed towards the coffee machine. “I’m the one who has the instruction manual for this.”

Celia offered a mock gasp, covering her mouth with her hand. “No!”

“Well,” he held his hands up to stem her shock, “it’s not the original one. But I did find a dodgy scanned copy on the internet.”  The little radio on his waist burbled and he reached to unclip it. “Better get on with things. Good luck with your first day, Celia.”

She smiled brightly. “Thanks, Philip.”

Returning to the couch, Celia enjoyed the hit of expensive caffeine. Just as she was sipping the last few drops, an elegant woman strode through the lobby, commanding attention through sheer virtue of her demeanour. Celia had done sufficient research last night to recognise the woman from her website headshot: Madeline Clarke.

Her gaze zoned on Celia without hesitation, ignoring everything – and one – else.

“Ms Wainright?” The woman enquired, holding out a perfectly manicured hand.

“Good morning,” Celia stood up, accepting her hand. “I’m happy to be called by Celia.”

Ms Clarke regarded her through an icy stare, lips drawing into a prim purse. “Ms Wainright,” she began, enunciating each syllable, “I shall not allow the professionalism of my office to be compromised by over-familiarity. Rest assured, such attitude is not merely discouraged; it is banned.”

She looked the red coat up and down, lips thinning further into almost imperceptible lines. “Moreover, my clients come to see my creativity; not the self-expression of my staff.” She indicated that Celia was to remove her coat. “You may collect it at the end of the day.”

Almost as if she had predicted as much, Harriet hurried out from the reception desk. Bemused, Celia surrendered her red coat to the other woman, who murmured that she would keep it safe until the end of day.

Ms Clarke cast a critical eye over Celia. “I am glad to see you heeded the rest of my instructions,” she nodded with a faint trace of approval. “Come this way.”

Aside from the rather austere first impression and clear expectation of exacting professionalism, Ms Clarke proved to be no different to any other employer. In fact, as the only member of staff directly employed by Ms Clarke, Celia found that her administrative responsibilities ranged much further and wider than in previous employment. There was much to be learned here, and Celia found herself wondering if the temporary contract might turn into something more permanent. She very much needed this job.

That evening, having confirmed that she was no longer required, Celia made her way down to the lobby, wincing as the backs of her shoes chafed against the raw skin on her heels. She did not normally wear such high stiletto heels, but that was what had been provided along with the rest of her clothes. Given the fate which had befallen her red coat, she doubted that her employment here would withstand another black mark against her name if she wore flats, no matter how expensive or professional.

Hearing the tell-tale clip-clop of ill-fitting heels, Harriet glanced up, sympathy colouring her expression as she caught how Celia tottered. She held up a company-branded bag with the red coat neatly folded inside.

“Oh, I’ll just put it—” Celia began, but trailed off as Harriet produced a second parcel.

“I phoned HR to order it as soon as Ms Clarke took you upstairs,” she explained with a rueful smile. “She prefers this style; it’s billed to the company, don’t worry.”

Opening the parcel, Celia shook out a brand-new black overcoat. It was very high quality but with none of the flair she would normally look for.

“I imagine they’ll have based the sizing on your other clothes.” Harriet nodded towards the outfit which Celia was wearing. “Best to wear it now, just in case.”

Raising a brow, Celia nevertheless pulled it on, the fit perfect. “Thanks,” she half-smiled. “I hope I stay long enough to justify all this money spent on uniform.”

Harriet let out a startled laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve seen some of her secretaries last less than a day. The expense is covered by the business; you’ll get to keep it all when you leave.”

“Well, hopefully that’s not for a while.”

Harriet regarded her for a long moment before glancing around the emptying lobby. She lowered her voice. “Ms Clarke has very exacting standards. Not many people meet those standards for very long.”

“She likes things done her way—”

Leaning back in her chair, Harriet shook her head but did not press further. Instead, she asked, “Will we see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course.” Celia picked up the bag with her red coat, ready to leave. Something tugged at her thoughts though. “How often does Ms Clarke find a new secretary anyway?”

Harriet shot her a knowing look. “I’ve yet to meet one which lasted longer than a month.”

Pushing aside her growing worries, Celia thanked the woman once more and departed the building, beginning the painful walk to the subway station, a slow eddy amid the fast torrents of other commuters. Halfway there, her mobile shrilled from the depths of her handbag but on answering, the only greeting was:

“Miss me?”

“Dominic!” she greeted with delight, her clipped enunciation sliding into an echo of her brother’s broad accent. “Why’re you phoning? I thought you were still travelling around Europe?”

“I’ve got a few days in London. I thought I would see if you’re free for dinner?”

Her mood brightened immediately. “I suppose I better take the chance to actually see you in-between your wanderlust. Of course I’m free.”

“Excellent! I haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.”

“Well, you’re going to be disappointed if you think I can afford much more than a greasy pizza.”

“C’mon, you would never let your baby brother starve, Ceel.”

Despite herself, she smiled to hear her family nickname name, especially when spoken so fondly. Unfortunately, it only proved the point: that her younger brother did, in fact, have her wrapped around his little finger. “Fine,” she relented. “Maybe somewhere a bit better than a pizza place.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay.” There was a sudden commotion in the background. The beginnings of hi-jinks if she knew her brother at all. “I’m in Soho right now, but I’ll come meet you.”

Laughing beneath her breath, Celia agreed. Her small flat was in the opposite direction from Soho so she was less inclined to travel out that way. Besides, Dominic was probably only just starting on whatever plans he had for tonight.

Not long after, they met in a flurry of greetings and hugs. Her brother was a serial traveller, using his travel journalism to fund his passion. But Celia knew that if the journalism dried up, he would still find his own way to explore the world. He always had itchy feet.

“Look at this!” She admired his latest fashion choices, all a homage to far-flung locations.

“Yeah, and look at this.” He eyed her demure outfit, settling on her new heels. “Can you even walk?”

She shook her head through a pained exhale.

Rolling his eyes, Dominic held out his arm. “Come on, dinner waits for no one!” He helped her hobble into a quiet restaurant near the subway.

Yet once they were settled, he returned to the topic of her outfit again. “What happened to your red coat that cost me the entirety of a small nation’s budget?”

She tutted. Despite being his gift, they had very different opinions on how personal wealth should be spent. “I was banned from wearing it. Too much self-expression.”

“What?” His eyes boggled. “Is that even legal?”

She shrugged. “I mean, they provided this alternative,” she tugged at the lapel of her black coat hung over her chair.

He eyed her. “What else did they ban?”

“Names. I’ve to address my boss as ‘Ms Clarke’, but that’s not so unusual. Although she calls me ‘Ms Wainright’ without exception.”

“What the hell is the difference between ‘Miss’ and ‘Ms’ anyway?”

“’Ms’ grants anonymity over marital status,” she explained. “It affords more privacy and prevents familiarity.”

He raised a brow. “God forbid anyone was familiar with someone they spend hours with.” He leaned forward, earnest in his concern. “Are you sure this job is for you?”

“Because I have to wear a uniform and mind my manners?”

He shook his head before reaching across and resting his hand over hers, squeezing gently. “You don’t look like you. And it’s only been a day. What else will change after a week, a month, a year?”

She snorted. “Apparently no one has lasted longer than a month, anyway.”

Dominic let out a long breath. “Maybe that’s something you need to think about, Celia.”

“Ms Wainright,” she corrected, absent-mindedly.

He threw a piece of bread at her. “Not funny, Ceel!”

Despite her bark of laughter, she was just as startled as Dominic. It had been an automatic response after hearing ‘Ms Wainright’ all day. Maybe there was something to what he was saying.

However, she was not about to let her new job dominate an all-too-rare opportunity to catch up with her baby brother. Instead, Celia artfully guided the conversation to the retelling of all the wild adventures Dominic had found himself on, living vicariously through him.

It was only later when they had parted company and she was walking to the subway that Celia caught sight of herself in a shop window. Perfectly styled hair, manicured nails, modest make up, black overcoat… She glanced up into the eyes of the reflection, wondering if she could see any hint of herself in them. Only an empty searching gaze stared back.

Shaking her head, she turned away. There were too many overdue bills on her kitchen table to worry about the importance of self-expression. A workplace was intended to be professional; she still had freedom beyond the limits of the office. Dominic and his free spirit were making a fuss over nothing.

The next morning, Celia walked into the lobby of the building, heading straight for the lift. Philip waved cheerily from atop a ladder while Harriet held out a neatly written post-it as Celia passed.

“For Ms Clarke,” she explained, a weary smile on her face. “She’s already been down twice. I’m glad you’re here.”

Celia let out a little laugh. Taking the note, she made her way through the building to Ms Clarke’s offices. She was just taking off her black overcoat when Ms Clarke strode through, a folder in her hand.

“Good morning, Ms Wainright. While you are not late, I prefer my employees to be early.”

Blinking in surprise, Celia opted to gloss over that remark. Instead, she held out the post-it note. “Harriet passed this on for you.”

“Who?” A flicker of irritation passed over Ms Clarke’s face.

“Oh! I meant Ms…” Her mind was blank. Harriet had never given her surname. Yet it was hardly as though Ms Clarke would be unaware of the main receptionist, especially when she had already spoken to her that morning.

Sniffing her disapproval, Ms Clarke snatched the post-it from Celia’s out-stretched fingers, running her eye over the message. “Ah, from Ms Jones.” She scribbled something on the note and handed it back to Celia. “See to it that she receives this response.”

Celia stared down at the post-it note. All at once, she caught a rare glimpse into what her future would be like. Ms Clarke had not simply banned over-familiarity or self-expression; she had banned all meaningful forms of identity. Her acknowledgement of staff went only so far as a title and a surname. They were all automatons to her; nothing more. Worse, actually, since they insisted on behaving beyond a set of pre-coded instructions. That would explain the high turnover of secretaries.

Whispers threaded through her thoughts, urging her to leave. To step out of the still too-tight heels, to abandon the boring black overcoat on the coat stand, to reject this erasure of self. But how could she? The bills still needed to be paid. Here was the true cost.

“Well, Ms Wainright?”

Straightening her posture, Celia lifted her head and forced her lips to turn up. Less smile, more grimace. “I’ll see Ms Jones get this at once, Ms Clarke.”