Return the Gift

Every time Richard turned to the flipchart, pushing long hair behind one ear and faffing with his tie and collar , they shuffled papers and tapped pens. Some whispered. They knew this training was useless.

As he collected feedback forms with fours and fives circled, they looked at his arms and the shape of his eyebrows. Embarrassment prickled his scalp as they left. Through the training room door Richard saw the manager that booked him, Wainwright, waiting round and squat at the other end of the open plan office. 'They must know,' he thought.

Afterward in the carpark, heavy equipment bag on shoulder, Richard wanted to say no.

“Usual place?” said Wainwright, puffy and well groomed. Richard nodded, dipping his head to get in the car. “Good girl,” said Wainwright, touching Richard's long hair

In the corporate hotel room, Wainwright dropped the feedback forms into the bin as Richard put on his make up in front of the mirror, lips red, body smooth, suspenders stretching across lace knickers. “Friends help each other out, don't they?” said Wainwright.

Richard nodded as he put on shiny black heels.

Of course, working for the money made a difference. He would not cry this time.