Читать книгу The Map of Us - Jules Preston - Страница 32

Helen had been in my office again. I could tell. I don’t leave traps or anything. That would be childish. I used to though. I could tell because there was a card waiting for me on my desk. It had ‘I Am Sorry’ written on it in silver glitter with a picture of a sad hamster holding a wilting daisy. It wasn’t signed. I knew it was from Helen. She left the price on the back.

Helen and I have a love hate relationship that is heavily skewed towards the loathe and detest end of the spectrum. Apparently I have a better office than her. It has a window that overlooks the canal. The canal is a toxic slick of greeny-brown water full of traffic cones and paper coffee cups, topped with a thick layer of oily scum. Occasionally a rat will float by. On its back. Legs in the air. Usually with another rat trying to eat it. Or mate with it. It’s hard to tell. Helen’s window looks out over the allocated parking in front of the building and the main road. Somehow my view is superior.

Helen likes to ‘borrow’ my things and leave them on her desk in plain sight - daring me to come and reclaim them. Proving ownership of a stapler can be a difficult and time-consuming process. Now she has begun to write her name on the bottom of things that don’t belong to her.

So have I. She uses a marker pen. I have a UV security pen that can’t be seen under normal light. I may have written something rude about her on the bottom of my desk organiser. I know it will be her next target. She can’t lift my filing cabinet.