When I make it back to the kitchen, I start setting out the fruit. Half of it in the basket, half of it in the cupboards. Seven bananas in the basket. Five apples. Five oranges. A bunch of grapes. Men slip in and out behind me, pouring themselves cups of coffee. Some of them talk to each other. I hear mentions of budget cuts and people leaving; a sign of the times.
I take as long as I can setting out the fruit to avoid going back to reception. I take some of the fruit out of the cupboard. When it overflows the sides of the basket, I take it out again and put it back in the cupboard. I do this process for around 20 minutes.
I then take the plastic bottle that I sat next to the fruit basket and fill it with water. 3/4 full. I start to walk back to reception. I panic and walk the wrong way. I know that everyone knows I’ve gone towards the wrong door; I can’t get through without a fob, and I still done have one. I’m so struck by panic that I don’t notice a young man sitting on a laptop at a table near the door.
He looks up and says ‘do you need through?’
I nod. He stands up and produces his fob, opening the door for me. I smile and scuttle past him, feeling like an ant carrying food to its nest. I breathe a sigh of relief as I reach the kitchen near reception, placing the bottle next to the kettle, feeling my arms ache from its heaviness.
The piercing buzz of the reception bell rings, this time louder than before. I rush to the office entrance and see around eight men peering at me through the glass slit. I smile and press a green button, pleased at my sudden authority over the space. I stand back as they walk in, one by one, hands in pockets, chatting about their day. None of them acknowledge me.
‘So we need to bring up the costs, I don’t see any reason why we can’t get this sorted today. I was on site yesterday and my god it was a dump… the contractors have no respect. Josh, did you bring the files I told you to bring?’
A thin man at the back of the group nods, looking down. I’m not sure whether I should stay standing or go and sit back at reception. I look at all of their faces. They look relaxed and content, like they’re where they’re supposed to be. I start to move towards reception but the man who is addressing them turns to me:
“Tea and coffee?”
His eyes flicker, he wants to know what my story is. He wants to know why I’m here and where the normal receptionist is. He doubts my ability to make his coffee the way he likes it. I nod, smiling. I make towards the kitchen. Joanne comes in, looking harassed and worried.
“How many teas? How many coffees? Did you ask? They’re in the Pentland suite. Did you set out biscuits? They’ll need biscuits. Oh and the milk…. here…”
She bends down to the fridge, opening it and taking out two bottles of semi skimmed milk. Green tops. She grabs a round tray from a cupboard. She arranges the biscuits meticulously into a pretty assortment; the packets intersect one another to create an origami effect, the printed sides to the back and the pictures of biscuits at the front. The milk is poured into jugs. The kettle is on. The chatter of the men fades as she escorts them into a room. Their banter increases as they sit down, laughing about the last time they were here when the computer froze and they had to make up the figures as they went along.
Joanne asks me to take all of the trays through to the men. I smile, a warm ripple of fear flowing from my belly to my vagina and back up again, sitting firmly in my chest. I pick up the tray and walk towards the meeting room. I kick open the door with my foot, the suddenness of the gesture causing all the men to look up from their conversation. I walk to a small table and put down the tray. One of the men looks at the milk jug and comments:
“Just one cup of coffee between all of us then!”
They burst into laughter. I smile and leave the room.
Joanne rolls her eyes, ‘just ignore them. Big boys the lot of them. Sense of humour of five year olds. Just keep an eye on the milk and the coffee, sometimes they want more. Im up to my neck in invoices. You can’t really do anything until you’re on the system. So just give me a buzz if you need me: my extension is 220. Ok!”
Before I can say anything, she’s at the fob door, beeping her way through to the main office. Reception is silent, and I am alone. I walk towards my desk slowly. I realise that none of the men have signed the guestbook.
To fill up the page, I write my own name:
’Imogen Allan, 01/02/19, temp worker’
I scrawl my signature underneath it. I resign myself to my chair. When I sit I play around with the mouse, even though I can’t log on. A faint chatter comes from the meeting room. I take my phone out and flick through my messages. I’m still getting good luck ones from all my friends. My mum is asking how my day is, she wants to meet up tomorrow for lunch. I reply saying sure, but I’ll need to see how busy I am with my reception duties. She replies: “of course”.
I swivel around in the chair. If I turn to face the window, I can see a large, castle-like school with vast grounds and playing fields, the turrets piercing some low clouds. The rolling Corstorphine hills frame the landscape; housing developments have started to sprout up at the bottom of the hills. The browns and greens create a marshy heaven. This wet, earthy world feels miles away from my reception bubble. I turn back to face the computer, waiting for something to happen.
The female perspective 