Management by Luiza Sauma / Fiction / Untitled Books

"We all went out for a drink that night. My fears of the team divide were briefly hammered away by alcohol and late-night karaoke. I took a cab home and dropped the others off on the way, just to show how generous I was with my new found wealth."

Management by Luiza Sauma

This morning, Mark has been teaching me how to use positive reinforcement on the people I manage. There are four of them: Ricky, Stella, Imogen and the new guy, Dominic. Mark is the head of the company.

"When I have some negative feedback to share," says Mark, "I always find it useful to inject some positivity into the proceedings." He pauses for effect, his puffy silver hair quivering. "For example, I've been having a few issues with Dev's time-keeping - you know Dev, in sales?" I nod. Dev always arrives at least half an hour late, stinking sweetly of weed. "And in our most recent one-to-one, instead of just railing against him, I pulled a few positives out of the bag."

"Such as?" I say.

"Well, he's a great guy, isn't he?" says Mark. "So I put it to him: 'Dev, you're a nice guy and everyone likes you - myself included - but here are a few areas where there's room for improvement.' And you know what? He really listened this time. Think outside the box, Liz, look up at the sky!" He points out the window. "What colour is it?"

"Blue?" I say, even though the sky is as grey as an old pair of socks.

"Blue!" says Mark, arms aloft. He leans back, looking satisfied, as if he's told me the meaning of life. I nod vigorously, which seems to please him, and he says, "Now you see." Then he leads me out the door, smiling.

Dev's still coming in late, but Mark is the CEO so he must know something about management. I'm entirely new to the game - just two months in - after getting a promotion from Projects Consultant to Projects Manager: a new role at the company, created to let Mark off the hook from managing so many people.

"We need more of a management tree," he'd said, making a tree shape with his hands.

Ricky, Stella, Imogen and I all applied for the role, drawn in by the ten-grand pay rise, company car and general increase in power. But I got it and now I'm their boss. Before my promotion, we were all Projects Consultants together: drunk lunches at the pub, bitching about Mark's bouffant hair and cheesy hand gestures, complaining about how boring our jobs were; sometimes waking up on each others floors on Saturdays.

"I'd like to introduce you to our new Projects Manager," said Mark in the boardroom, on the day of my promotion. "You've all worked very closely with Liz over the past couple of years, so you all know how brilliant and talented she is at the projects game. Now it's time for her to step up, so what she says goes. Got it?"

A row of smiles gurned back at me, so I duly peeled my lips over my teeth, careful to avoid the too-wide smile of victory. Sweat was beading on my back, under my new silk dress.

We all went out for a drink that night. My fears of the team divide were briefly hammered away by alcohol and late-night karaoke. I took a cab home and dropped the others off on the way, just to show how generous I was with my new found wealth.

By the following Monday, an ice age had descended on our corner of the office. Stella and Imogen spent most of the day exchanging emails and instant messages, and giggling from their side of our long, communal desk. When I asked Stella when she was going to hand in her next report, her smile died and she looked straight ahead.

"Later, yeah?" she said, and my heart skipped a beat.

Today, just after I get back to my desk after my meeting with Mark, the Projects team marches out of the office for lunch. Only the new guy, Dominic, glances over with a pitying look. I don't even look up, just keep my eyes on the screen and call out, "Have a nice lunch!" So insouciant. So relaxed. But my eyes are starting to sting with salt, so I blink until it goes away.

"Not friends any more?" comes a deadpan voice from behind.

I swivel round and find Dev on the sales desk, looking amused.

"What?" I say.

"I noticed that you don't go out with them any more," he says. "Is that because you're the boss now?"

Most of the office has emptied for lunch, but I can see a few pairs of ears straining to hear.

"Don't be silly," I say.

I start to turn back to my computer as Dev says, "Fancy some lunch?"

"With you?"

"Yeah. Got better plans?"

"I have some errands to run," I lie.

"Do you, now," he says. "It's Elizabeth, yeah?"

"Liz."

"I prefer Elizabeth. Come on then," he says, standing up. "Get your coat - you've pulled." And he laughs loud and ridiculously, like a donkey. Wanting to avert attention from myself, I pull on my jacket and usher him out of the office.

So we're off to lunch, Dev and I, at the Three Crowns pub garden, which is, as usual, crawling with workers from the company, sitting in their respective departments - projects, sales, marketing, finance and tech - eating burgers, drinking pints of lager and soaking up the last dregs of the summer. After an overcast morning, the sun is shining high and bright.

The projects team is on our usual table in the shady corner by the vines, all laughing and drinking and sharing rolled cigarettes. I feel a flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but grit my teeth and sit down at a table on the other side of the garden. Dev looks over at the Projects table and waves at them; in response, their smiles waver and Ricky gives us an Alpha-male nod.

"What a bunch of twats," says Dev, still waving.

"Hey, they're my... friends."

"Ha! That's a good one," he says, taking a glug from his pint. "Is it lonely at the top?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That's why I never want to be at the top. You get paid more, but it's just to make up for everyone hating you."

I know he's right, but I roll my eyes.

"Just look at Mark," he says. "He is the least popular person in the whole company. He eats lunch alone in office, hiding from his employees, who are only nice to him because they all want a promotion. Welcome to his club," he says, raising his pint.

"Cheers," I say, raising my vodka tonic. "I'll remember you when I'm crying in my new sports car."

"I'd be honoured."

"And who do you eat lunch with, Dev? I've never even seen you out with the sales lot." I nod at the centre of the garden, where the Sales team are doing tequila shots. Well, it is Friday.

"Look at those dickheads - would you have lunch with them?" says Dev. "What's your obsession with lunch, anyway?"

"I get hungry. I get bored."

Our burgers arrive and we eat in semi-silence, waving away the fat, furry wasps that dive-bomb our plates.

Dev says, "Fancy a walk?"

We leave the pub and zig-zag tipsily down the road towards the office, taking a detour past the river. It's late September, but unusually warm. An Indian summer - my favourite kind of weather; the golden light reflects off the clean, washed windows of all the expensive converted warehouse flats.

I sit on a wide concrete ledge by the water, put on my sunglasses and look up at a red-brick building with tall, glinting windows. Our office is a similar place - once a factory, where poor Victorians made clothes for 12 hours a day, while being whipped by their evil master. Now, on the inside, a gleaming white space full of gleaming white computers, on which overeducated, underpaid people sell things, project-manage things, market things and brainstorm how to do it, while Mark gently whips us with positive reinforcement.

"What you thinking about?" says Dev, sitting next to me and pulling a small joint out of his shirt pocket.

"Positive reinforcement," I say, dreamily-on-purpose.

"Mark's favourite."

"It doesn't work, does it?"

"Not on me."

"Aren't you worried about being fired?" I say.

"Should I be?" he says, looking unperturbed.

"God, Dev, you're such a rebel. You might feel differently when you're my age."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty," I say. "Since last week."

"Mazel tov," he says, "Turning thirty isn't an excuse to start making excuses." He lights the joint, takes a couple of drags and passes it to me. "Anyway, you're only two years older than me."

I hold the joint and look at it. Should I? No, I probably shouldn't.

"Go on, smoke it, woman!" he says.

"I might get a head rush."

"Well I should think so. Live a little. It's Friday!"

What the hell. I take a drag and pull the smoke into my lungs. It has been nearly ten years since I last smoked weed, but it feels familiar: the warmth, the burnt-basil smell, the encroaching sense of panic.

"I can't believe I'm smoking with the big boss lady," says Dev.

"That's not what they call me, is it?"

"You wish."

We smoke the joint and turn to look at the river, with our legs dangling off the ledge.

"What did you want to be when you were young?" I say.

"I'm still young," he shoots back.

"Young-er."

"A Premiership footballer. And you?"

"A vet."

"That sounds nice. Why didn't you do that?"

"Didn't get good enough grades. Decided to get into projects, make some money..."

"So it all worked out for the best," he says.

"I suppose."

A white pleasure boat coasts past, full of foreign tourists in sunglasses and baseball caps enjoying a tour of the river. They wave at us and we wave back.

"I wish I could fly off this riverbank and join them on the boat," I say. The weed is doing its job placing odd thoughts together in my head like a jigsaw puzzle. I thought of the projects team back at the pub, laughing at me as I had laughed at Mark.

"Oh no, don't get all deep on me," says Dev, flicking the joint into the river. "Come on, we should go back."

He stands on the ledge and jumps down to the pavement, crouching as he lands in his smart trainers and jeans. He then lends me a hand as I clamber down, less gracefully, in my dress and heels. The sky is bright, bright blue, reflecting off our sunglasses as we walk back to the office through the quiet old streets. Even though everything is old, it all looks so clean and so new. I touch my hair and it feels as hot as a cup of tea.

"Feel my hair, it's so hot," I say.

Dev feels my hair and smiles.

"Maybe I should walk in and quit," I say.

"Don't do that," says Dev.

"Why not? I hate it."

"How are you going to pay your bills?"

"I dunno. I'll become a prostitute." I laugh out loud, and a lunching group of workers on a patch of grass look at me. "And what?" I say to them, and they go back to the boxes of sushi balanced on their crossed legs. They're not from the company, so it doesn't matter.

Back in our building, we walk arm in arm through the reception area. I shout, "Hi Gloria!" at the receptionist and Dev shushes me while trying not to laugh. In the lift up to the fifth floor, I have a fit of giggles and end up crouched in a corner, tears streaming down my face as Dev leans onto the opposite corner, shoulders shaking with laughter.

"Fifth floor", says the female lift voice. I stand up straight and wipe the tears and mascara from under my eyes. Dev looks over, hits the stop button, holds me by my waist and pulls me in, ever so gently, for a kiss. His lips are as soft as peaches. I kiss him back and my ears ring like bells.

I pull away and say, "Well that was... unexpected."

"What would Mark think?" he says, though he doesn't really care.

"I don't give a fuck," I say, though I probably do.

"Don't quit," he says. "Seriously."

We leave the lift. Dev goes back to his desk and I go to the bathroom, splash my face with water, redo my mascara and straighten my dress. I look in the mirror, muss up my hair and do a few poses: friendly, serious and sexy. Choosing the first expression, I click in my heels to Mark's office and knock on the door.

"Come in!" he says.

Mark is eating a sad little sandwich with a glass of red wine, while listening to Marvin Gaye.

"Treating myself," he says, nodding at the glass. "It's Friday after all."

"Maybe we could go out to lunch sometime," I say. "Now that we're both in management."

"Well, that would be great!"

"I'd, uh, love to hear more about positive reinforcement," I say.

"I'd love to tell you more," he says, looking really pleased. Mark's not that bad.

"Great," I say.

"Great," he says.

I back out of the room, grinning.

"Have a great weekend!" says Mark.

"You too," I say. "A great one!"

The Projects team is settling back at the desk after a long lunch. Only Dominic looks up as I sit down.

"Where have you all been for the past two hours?" I say to the team, with my serious face on.

"Having lunch," says Ricky. "Where have you been?"

"I've just been in a meeting with Mark," I say.

Stella and Imogen look at each other in disbelief.

"Well," I say, "I expect you all to make up the extra hour at the end of the day, as we have a whole load of clients who need project reports today. No one is leaving until they're done."

"Are you serious?" says Imogen, blinking at me from her work station. "But it's Friday."

"Why would I not be serious?" I say, looking back at my computer.

An instant message pings up from Dev. "Attagirl", it says.
I go to the bathroom again, throw up from all the excitement, and then walk back to my desk. Everyone has their heads down, busily getting together our reports.

After they've finished and gone to the pub, I put on my sexy face and go out to meet Dev at a different one. We spend the night together, and then the weekend. We get really stoned and drunk and have sex. We play with his cat. We bitch about everyone at work. It makes up for the knot in my stomach on Monday morning.

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Luiza Sauma is a journalist by day and fiction writer by night. She was born in Rio de Janeiro and raised in London. Find out more at luizasauma.com.
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Wednesday, 11 January, 2012

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Issue 41 / February 2012

"We all went out for a drink that night. My fears of the team divide were briefly hammered away by alcohol and late-night karaoke. I took a cab home and dropped the others off on the way, just to show how generous I was with my new found wealth."