The ground floor of the Apex looks a bit like a hotel. There are two receptionists sitting chatting, and to the left is a room filled with chairs and comfy benches where people might sit if they were waiting for someone. I contemplate sitting down, pretending that I’m a visitor, and that I won’t be spending the next eight hours somewhere in this building.
I pass the main reception and spot the lifts. Two of them. A bright ‘ding’ escapes from one, and I take this as my cue to wait outside it. A tall, wiry, middle-aged man with a beard is going into the same lift.
I reach out to press number 4, wanting it to look like I know what I’m doing, that I’ve been here before, but the button has already been pressed; a luminous orange halo surrounds the number. I snatch my hand back and adjust my skirt again, trying not to make eye contact with the man. I can feel him looking at me. The lift starts to go up. The air seems to get warmer the higher we go, and the furry jacket I was so happy to be wearing minutes before weighs heavy on my chest now, crushing me.
The lift door opens and I leave quickly. Before I can get my bearings he asks: ‘do you need let in?’. I turn to face him and stammer ‘erm, yea, thanks… do you work here?’. He nods and takes out a key fob and jabs it at the grey meter, a green light appearing. He opens the door and says ‘after you’ and I walk tentatively forward. I scan for someone who looks like they could be called Joanne, but the space is empty.
The man keeps walking and uses his fob to access another room, and I’m left in the main reception area, where I assume I’ll be based. The area is pristine; a black book sits open at a page titled ‘visitors’, and a pen is sat slanted on the page in a way that is supposed to look inviting, casual. I sign my name and put the date. There is not a speck of dust on the white table. When I sign the book I feel like I’m muddying it; my scrawled handwriting contaminating the bare page.
A TV sits above the desk, but it isn’t on. I walk round to the desk that has a computer, another book and some basic stationery. Apart from these things, there is no other sign of life, no trace of anyone having been there before me. A loud beep pierces my thoughts. I look around, then down. Next to the computer there is a monitor with a screen, and I can see a man peering at me, his face disproportionately big. I press the key button, not asking his name or where he’s from, hoping that it works and he gets in. A second later he appears in real life and approaches me.
‘Hi…I’m looking for Alan, I’m from the Glasgow office’
I smile and say I’ll just got and get Alan, even though I have no idea who Alan is and I can’t access the main office without a fob. A blonde woman bursts through the door to my left, looks surprised to see me sitting at reception, then looks at the man: ‘Willie?’ The man nods. ‘Come this way’. She leads him through to the main office.
I sit for ten minutes on my phone. I scroll Instagram, replying to friends who are asking me how my day is going . ‘Yea great! Just getting to grips with the office and the people…seems like a really nice place!’ I get a message on Tinder: ‘are you going to continue our conversation this time? (laugh emoji)’ from a man called Michael. I open the conversation. My stomach sinks; I’d messaged him out of boredom a few nights before. I take some pictures of the view. I open up the timesheet sent by my temp agency, wondering if I can fill in the day without having actually worked the day.
At around 09:45, the blonde woman reappears, looking even more flustered than she did the first time.
‘Hi! I’m Joanne, are you Imogen?’
I nod, putting out my hand to shake hers. Her blonde bob rattles as she shakes my hand; a reverberation of business. She starts to talk quickly:
‘Now… I’ve been on the phone ALL MORNING with tech support… useless. I’ve been trying to get you onto the system for days. They’ve known you’re coming for a week, ridiculous. I don’t know what they’re playing at. There used to be a great guy there, really helpful, but now its Nadia and we just don’t get along, don’t get me wrong, nice girl, but it’s like talking to a brick wall… have you had a tea or coffee?’
I am caught off guard by the question, and in my confusion I utter ‘erm… no, but it’s fine’. Joanne nods and keeps talking: ‘so I’m TRYING to get you onto the system, but god these people. I don’t know where they come from or what they’re doing with their time.’ She blows upwards to shift her overgrown fringe from her eyes, the thin hair refusing to budge.
She asks me if I’ve worked at reception before. I tell her no, but I’ve worked in retail, which means I have experience of dealing with customers. She nods again and ignores me, looking at the computer and sighing again.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait.’ I’m not sure what to say to her or how to make the situation better, so I turn and look at the blank computer screen. She looks at me.
‘Is this what you do then?’
I stare blankly back, not understanding. ‘Temp work’, she says, ‘is it what you do?’
I want to say that yes, temp work is what I’m doing just now. But instead I say ‘this is my first temp placement… I’m just doing temp work whilst I apply for permanent jobs. I used to work in marketing and I left that job… so I’m just doing some temp work while I look so that I can earn some money.’
She smiles and nods, looking me up and down. Her eyes settle on my skirt, which has rode up my thighs again. I make a mental note not to wear this skirt again. I smile at her, my mind urging my mouth to create a distraction, to blind her with happiness.
When it becomes apparent that I won’t be logged onto the system for some time, Joanne shows me around the office. The first thing she shows me are the meeting rooms, which I can access from the main reception area. One of them is huge; three already large tables have been shoved together, and expensive looking leather chairs surround them. A TV governs the room, controlled by a monitor sitting on a table.
‘Pentland Suite, Alan McGrail, 11am’, reads the monitor, on a minimalist background of grey and white.
Joanne explains that it is my job to set up for meetings. To do this, I have to set out water, coffee, tea, biscuits and appropriate cups and cutlery. I nod along, trying to remember everything she tells me. We then leave the meeting room and go into a room I didn’t notice upon my arrival: a tiny kitchen with a built in cloak room.
I can smell the same sweet perfume that she is wearing on one of the black coats. She points to a kettle and sighs: ‘You need to make tea and coffee using the kettle, but there is no sink in this room, can you believe it? I said to Willie we need a sink, but he doesn’t listen, ridiculous, so you’ll need to go into the main kitchen to get water. Here…’
She motions at a large plastic bottle that is propped up against the wall. Its empty. I pick it up. She turns to go back to reception and motions with her hand, ‘come this way.’
The female perspective 