8. Best Dressed Cactus

I look to who, I assume, is Beverly Stating and immediately my emotions go to war over whether to laugh or be very afraid. The first thing I notice is her hair pulled back into the tightest bun I’ve ever seen, tugging at the dull skin around her face as though it’s made of saran wrap.

God, it looks painful.

She reminds me a lot of the terrifying headmistress I had in primary school, Ms. Chepshire. And, let me tell you, that woman was a harpy if I ever did see one. She once made this boy called Kenneth wee his school uniform by simply saying ‘hello’ to him. And another time, this boy called Robert threw water on her in the playground because he’d just seen Wizard of Oz and thought he was doing everyone a favor. It really was a pity when she didn’t melt. Especially for Robert.

‘That’s me,’ I say brightly, getting up from the chair and putting on my fakest, most ass-kissing smile.

‘Right on time,’ Beverly replies as though this pleases her, ‘Now, am I pronouncing your surname correctly? Berrr-nee-ay’. Is that right?’

Technically it is. But last time I checked, we’re in England. Neither one of us has a French accent, nor are we cigarette-smoking, beret-wearing Parisians. So, if she’s planning to pronounce only my surname with that horrible French accent and proceed to say every other word in a perfectly normal English one, things are going to get weird. My first boyfriend, William, had been guilty of such a crime.

He had gone to Nicaragua for six weeks during the summer we were dating. I’m pretty sure it was a sort of mission trip, building ovens for the natives or something. Anyway, for the few weeks leading up to the trip, he talked about it a lot. And every single time he said ‘Nicaragua’, he pronounced it as though he had been born and raised in Central America.

But only that word.

None of the surrounding words. All of those remained one hundred percent English. Just the word ‘Nicaragua’. I don’t know who the hell he thought he was, but pronouncing one word with a different accent than the rest is never acceptable. If you’re going to roll one ‘r’, just go ahead and roll them all. Don’t be lazy.

‘Bernier is fine,’ I say, pronouncing it with an English accent.

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘Right this way then.’

Her office is smaller than I’d expected, although I’m not really sure why I had expected it to be any bigger. I mean, she doesn’t even have a real waiting room. I watch her circle around her desk and then indicate to one of the chairs across from her. ‘Take a seat.’

I pull out the chair and sit. For some reason I feel like I’m in trouble. It probably has something to do with the fact that I’m not even sure what my job title is. However, there is no mistaking Beverly’s as it is printed on a metal frame standing on the corner of her desk.

Beverly M. Stating

Gallery Floor Supervisor and Staff Manager

I wonder what the ‘M’ stands for. If I were to base my guess on suitability, I’d say it’s probably something like Muriel or Mildred. But there’s always that chance that someone’s parents were having a super off-their-rocker day and agreed, ‘we’ll give her a normal first name so she’s not bullied in school, but the middle name is ours,’ and then decided on Beverly Medusa or something.

When I think of middle names, I can’t help also thinking of my brother, Mac, who really is one of those victims of his parent’s off-their-rocker day. Well actually, considering we’re talking about my parents here, let’s call it an off-their-rocker ‘state’, for accuracy purposes. Anyway, his actual first name is Arthur, which I think is fine, but he apparently doesn’t, so he goes by Mac, which is a shortened version of his middle name, Macxis.

Yes. Macxis.

I don’t know if my parents were in the middle of watching I Claudius while halfway through their second bong or something when deciding what names to bestow upon my poor unborn brother, but whatever the case, there is no excuse for that sort of spelling. I guess, in their defense, they had no way of knowing that in twenty years that word, ‘Macxis’, would sound more like the name of a computer software system than a gladiator, or whatever the hell they were going for. Maybe they thought it didn’t even matter. I mean, it’s just a middle name, right? Who even cares what we throw in there? It’s the first and the last names that really matter.

Well, the jokes on them. Now, the little boy that they thought they would be calling Arthur, is a twenty-three year old named Mac. So, either an actual computer or a type of microwave pasta.

Wouldn’t it be funny if the ‘M’ in Beverly’s name stood for Macxis too? Or Microwave?

‘Let me just see if I can find your paperwork in here…’ she mutters as she digs through the file cabinets in her desk. I take this time to observe my surroundings. Overall it’s a pretty common office. Except for two things.

The main décor of Beverly (Macxis?) Stating’s office consists mainly of Cactus plants and trophies that are clearly homemade and engraved with superlatives like “#1 Cottage Pie Cooker” and “Best Dressed Nightie”. Well, at least she’s the best. It beats mediocrity, I suppose.

After a few minutes, Beverly notices me admiring her awards and says, ‘My husband and I make them for each other. It’s one of the method’s we learned at the last ‘Keep Your Passion Alive’ convention that Selena Horn holds each year over in Kingston.’ She pauses, waiting expectantly for my reaction, so I give an enthusiastic nod even though I have no idea who Selena Horn is. ‘We just adore her—my husband and I,’ she goes on, ‘The idea of this particular exercise was to present your spouse with a trophy each month for whatever they did the best.’ Then she gives the trophies a proud glance. ‘We don’t really do that one anymore but it was one of my favorites.’

Words escaped me so I flash a giant smile instead. Aside from the fact that I am in complete shock that this woman has managed to snag a husband at all, she has found one who attends what sound like relationship conventions with her and participates in exercises to “keep the passion alive”. Either that man is hiding all kinds of guilt or Beverly had found herself a soul mate.

‘This is Bernard,’ she says, turning the photo on her desk to face me.

Yeah. Bernard looks like someone who would genuinely enjoy relationship conventions. Soul mates it is.

Realizing I’ll have to speak actual words at some point, I go for the standard response of, ‘he sounds great.’

‘He is, indeed,’ she replies, ‘But, anyway, onto more important things like…oh I don’t know…your job!’ 

Right. My job. That thing that’s more important than her husband. I’m hoping she will tell me what it is without me having to ask.

‘Although Gallery Attendant is, as you know, an entry-level position,’ she says and I quietly breathe relief, ‘don’t think that there aren’t a number of crucial responsibilities that you’re entrusted with.’ She pushes some papers toward me. ‘These are a few outlines of our expectations for you, as well as some of the gallery’s procedures. The bottom one you’ll have to sign and date to indicate I went through them with you.’

Once I’ve finished skimming the outlines and signing where I’m instructed to sign, Beverly takes me on a short tour of where I will be working. It’s a large, open room with strategically placed desks and a long counter that is clearly used only as a coffee station. I’m pleased to see not only a nice, expensive coffee machine but also an espresso machine. There is also a beige plastic-looking machine which could possibly be a juicer. I make a mental note to confirm this suspicion later.

There are a handful of people working behind the desks and all of their heads pop up when we come in. What is it that is so fascinating about the new girl? Is it just that everybody’s wondering what kind of flavor I’ll bring to the mix? Am I going to be an added pain in their collective ass or someone they look forward to seeing at work? I imagine being the super-fun-new-girl that brings all kinds of innovative ideas and brightens everyone’s day, but I can’t help the nerves that squirm around in my stomach as Beverly demands everyone’s attention.

‘This is Natasha Bernier,’ she says as though she is leading an extremely important press conference. ‘She is the newest Gallery Attendant and member of our family. Please make her feel welcome.’

There’s a murmur of hellos and I feel like I’m back in primary school. God, if she makes us play that game where we all say our names and three interesting facts about ourselves, I’m going to throw myself through the window right now.  

Actually, that’s not a good plan. We’re on the ground floor. I could very easily be retrieved from the pile of broken glass outside and dragged back into the room, meaning the only thing I’ll have achieved is lowering my interesting fact count by one, seeing as I’ll have already demonstrated that I am, in fact, a suicidal psychopath. One down, two to go.

If only I’d stashed a flask of vodka in my briefcase that I could go take a swig from in the toilets.  Then I’d be the coolest new girl ever. Although, I suppose I’d also be the worst gallery attendant ever, drunk on the job on my first day. Not that anyone would be able to tell—they don’t know me. For all they know, that could be my natural personality. But then I would be forced to keep up the charade or someone might think I’m suffering from depression when I switch from fun to sober…so I’d have to be drunk every day. That could get expensive. And really fattening. It could also get me in a lot of trouble if I were ever discovered. Maybe I should just stick to being sober during the day time, or at least, while I’m at work.

Everyone’s eyes are still on me. Maybe just today I could…

No, forget it.

Natasha, you’re fired.