Evie Adams vs The World

Evie Adams vs The Bad Day

Have you ever had that feeling when your day can't get any worse than it already is, then you walk around the corner and find something else that knocks you for six? That's what my life has felt like for the last two days, I've been walking through a minefield of personal disasters and stepping on every hidden bomb I could possibly step on. To top it all off I now find myself sat in a motorway service station on the M6 somewhere just past Manchester, drinking stale coffee and eating a lukewarm cheese and onion pasty with only lorry drivers for company. A far cry from my usual Saturday morning in Starbucks on Camden High Street.

I should probably introduce myself before I tell you my incredibly depressing life story; Evie Adams, failed author, coffee addict and now single, unemployed orphan; pleased to meet you. Before I tell you about my plans for the future and why I find myself miles from home, if I can even call it home anymore; it might be best if I start at the beginning.

Two days ago it had seemed like a normal Thursday; I had arrived at work, late as usual, to find hundreds of papers piled on my desk with yellow post-it notes fluttering around everywhere. I couldn't face sifting through all the mess just yet, so I switched on my computer only to find it not working again; it's a very temperamental machine, like a teenager it only works for you when it wants to. After trying to get it to work another few times, I decided it wasn't going to cooperate and just gave up.

My office was a tiny cubicle that was just an afterthought to the rest of the offices; a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet had been squished into a room the size of a shoe box. There was no window and no natural light, which made it feel like I was trapped in a prison cell during the day. I was grateful when I had the chance to escape and run an errand for my boss – George Fraser. I was a personal assistant to Mr Fraser of Fraser and Richards Publishing Company, not what I had expected when I'd graduated university.

If somebody'd told me when I was 17, in ten years' time you'll be the personal slave of some pen-pushing office jockey, I'd have laughed in their face. I thought I'd be the one sending my work to a publishing company like this, not working for them myself; sadly the dream of becoming an author soon evaporated when I realised I couldn't survive on pot noodles and baked beans forever. Not for lack of trying though.

Anyway back to that fateful Thursday morning, I was resigned to the fact that my computer wasn't going to work and reluctantly turned to the paperwork that had been calling my name since I had worked through the office door. Picking up the first sheet I saw it was a note from Mr Fraser asking me to go to his office when I got in.

This was the first clue that something was going on, he usually just left me a list of things he needed doing then checked on me later to see how they were going. Being called to his office was definitely not a good sign. Grabbing my mug - I thought I could get a coffee in the break room to give me an energy boost so I could tackle the paperwork – I squeezed out of the door that wouldn't quite open fully in my office and trudged around the corner to the huge mahogany door that led to both of the boss' offices.

There was something very familiar about standing in front of a door, waiting nervously to be allowed to enter, feeling guilty even though you haven't done anything wrong. It was like being back in school and being called to the headmaster's office; not that happened much to me, my mum really forced manners and good behaviour into me and my brother. My hand shook as I reached up to knock, I watched and shook myself, there was no reason to be nervous I hadn't done anything wrong.

Before I could knock the door opened in front of me to reveal Mr Fraser, my hand dropped and I looked into the perpetually annoyed face of my boss. "Ah, Miss Adams. Come in, there's something we need to talk about." He stepped aside and waved me through into his office. It was an incredibly intimidating room; dark mahogany everywhere, mahogany desk, mahogany bookshelves lining the two opposing long walls, mahogany panelling on the remaining two walls. A whole rainforest would have to have been cut down to create this room and Mr Richards' matching office upstairs.