Page 2 of Daddy's Pride
“I had your back when you needed me to.”
“Where would you be if I hadn’t given you a job after you were made redundant?”
“I’m the reason you still have a roof over your head. You should be more grateful, Harris.”
And on and on.
I eat while I drive, snatching bites of my wrap while waiting at red lights. I have to call Nigel to ensure I get the right cleaning fluid, which earns me an earful about how I should know by now and why he has to do everything. Honestly, it would be great if he’d do something except sit at his desk, throwing his weight around and eating greasy food.
I drop the cleaning fluid off and return to the Portakabin to prepare the figures the accountant asked for.
“I was beginning to think you’d got lost. Three quotes need doing. They’re on your desk. Oh, and there are tons of social media comments that haven’t been answered. I pay you to do marketing. Do your job,” Nigel says.
I would if he didn’t expect me to do everyone else’s.
The phone on his desk rings.
He stares at it and then at me. “Aren’t you going to get that? What do I look like? A receptionist?”
I’m not the receptionist either. The last one quit after three days, and I don’t blame her.
I answer the phone in my polite, not-even-remotely-pissed-off-honest voice, listen to the client ranting on the other end of the line, and then put them on hold. “It’s for you.”
“You deal with it.”
“They’ve asked for the manager.”
“Tell them the manager is busy. Take a message and tell them someone will get back to them.”
He puts his feet on his desk and leans back in his chair, watching me as I take several minutes’ worth of abuse from the angry customer. Nothing I say placates them. They want to speak to Nigel, and no one else will do. Ultimately, I tell them he’ll ring them back and put the phone down.
Nigel tuts. “You should never hang up on a client, Harris. It’s a bad look.”
I glare at him. “Call Mrs Stewart from Evergreen Glass when you have a spare minute.”
“What was the complaint?”
“Dirty toilets for the third week in a row.”
Nigel huffs. “I’m not going to waste my time on that. Call her back and tell her we’ll give her a ten percent discount on next month’s bill. That’ll keep her sweet. Then tell Craig if he doesn’t clean the toilets next time, I’ll fire him. The accountant called again. She’s annoyed that no one’s sent her the figures yet.”
I inhale and count to ten before forcing myself to smile and turn my back on my brother.
“Oh, and a prospective customer is coming at seven this evening. I told them you’d be here to talk to them and give them a quote,” Nigel says.
I lean on my desk, my back still to him. “I only work until five.”
Nigel laughs. “Given how behind you are, I figured you’d easily be here until seven. Don’t forget to lock up and set the alarm when you’re done.”
I can’t fucking take this anymore. When was the last time I got to leave the office at five? Some petty little thing always keeps me here. Even on the weekends, Nigel calls and expects me to drop everything to do something for him. I shouldn’t put up with it, but I do. He’s family, and he gave me a job when I was down on my luck. And now I’m supposed to be eternally grateful to him. Or something.
“I don’t pay you to do nothing,” Nigel says snidely.
No. He doesn’t. He also doesn’t pay me to do the work of three people. He wants me to do my job? Fine, I’ll do it.
I sit at my desk, open the company’s social media platforms, and reply to the handful of comments on my latest posts. Next, I create a new Instagram post, and then proofread a new advert I’ve designed for the local newspaper. We run one every week, so I like to change it up so readers are less likely to skim over it. I respond to an email from a bus company I’m in the middle of negotiating an advertising contract with. Nigel doesn’t want to pay what they’re asking, so I’ve proposed a longer contract in exchange for a lower price. Once I’m done, I turn my computer off and collect my things.
“Where are you going?”