Camaraderie

Team meeting over, I headed for my desk, and froze.
A tall thin cardboard box stood on top of it.
Excitement and dread flushed through me like a period cramp. My teammates surrounded and stared at me expectantly. I approached the box, slowly, as if it might explode.

I’d not long joined the team. They’d been a unit for four-and-a-half years. It was my second week.
At the ‘welcome to the team’ drinks at the pub, Helen took the obvious opportunity to get plastered. She told me who she didn't like, and thus ultimately, who I should watch out for.
‘Especially him,’ she whispered loudly, pointing ‘him’ out as he played pool in the back. ‘He plays it cool, all friendly, but he’ll talk to you just to steal all your best ideas.’ She took a long, slow sip of her wine. I drained my glass.

A small white card waited tucked into a plastic sleeve on top of the box. The easiest way to end speculation would be to open the card first.
Despite myself, I wanted to see what was inside.
My teammates huddled around me.

The post room was located on the other side of the building. During my induction tour, it was the last stop. My package would have been scrutinised during its long journey to my office, eyes all over it like ants.
In the post room, our tour guide pointed out stationery, various packets of coloured paper, and pigeonholes as if they were exhibits.
‘Before they are delivered, all packages are checked by security,’ the guide said. ‘So, if you order something from Play.com (wink), be sure you label it appropriately (chuckle).’
How, exactly, were these packages checked? I asked.
‘Well, they’re weighed,’ the tour guide said, ‘and, of course, the labels help’.
So, if a package is labelled ‘book’, and weighs like a book might, and on opening it, a book-sized nail bomb explodes in the receiver’s face, what happens then? I asked.
That poor tour guide. I later heard he was taken off the tour rota because he’d been unable to answer my question, and never seen again.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Helen asked, placing a fresh glass of cheap wine in front of me.
The rest of the team were comparing pictures on their Blackberries, iPhones and androids. They laughed and winked at me. We like Helen, their eyes said. But, well, you know.
‘Uh, no, not right now,’ I said, reluctantly.
‘Oh, I know.’ She nodded rapturously. ‘It’s so haarrdd.’ Her breath smelled like expired Old Spice.
‘There must be some talent in this place,’ I joked, then instantly regretted. I prayed I hadn’t cleared the landing path to the inevitable crash landing of her life story.
She flipped a look towards the pool table.
‘Not really,’ she said.

A logo was splashed across the four sides of the box: M&S. The sexy guitar riff from the M&S television advert played in my head. I was touched.
‘Been here two weeks and already has a secret admirer.’ Helen leaned across me, staring at the box. I think I saw her spittle dust the cardboard.
‘I don't think so,’ I countered, looking around at my team who smiled at me the way a patient does at their doctor before receiving a green prescription slip.
I peeled open the flaps, reached in and down, and retrieved a bouquet: baby’s breath, sunflowers, sprigs of rosemary. Beautiful.
My mind entered overdrive. I’d noticed a tall, broad backed builder erecting scaffolding over the ladies loos. He was every kind of man wrapped in to one.
My imagination ran away with itself. He’d strolled up to the teenage girl on the counter in Marks and Sparks, asked for help picking the flowers, said ‘Yeah, yeah, those’ in a deep voice, parted with at least £25 in cash. He’d said: ‘Send it to the girl of my dreams who entered my life a week ago.’
‘Those are lovely,’ Helen breathed.
Her observation made me feel bad. The cow.

The rest of the team began to make a move for the last tube. I asked them to wait for me whilst I went to the loo.
As I washed my hands, Helen appeared in the mirror’s reflection. Her face was contorted, as if she had wind. Her eyes met mine, her own, mine again. She tottered to the sink and splashed water over her face. Her eyeliner ran. She dragged hard-as-brick tissue paper from the dispenser and scrubbed at her face. I wanted to go, and moved to do so.
‘Ever feel like this is it?’ she slurred.
I nodded to make the conversation go faster.
‘But, you know, this is a good team and a good job.’ She sighed.
I sighed. ‘You OK, Helen?’
Her lips twitched. She looked as if she was about to say something else, but changed her mind. She sniffed, threw the tissue in the bin, jerked her head and headed out the door.

I opened the card: ‘Congratulations on your new job, girlfriend! Lots of love: Jackie and Coleen’.
Guilt. And embarrassment. Two feelings that should not exist when receiving such a lovely thought from my closest friends.
My teammates dispersed.
Helen looked again at the flowers before returning to her PC and stabbed the keyboard.
I drafted a gushing email, to compensate for the guilt. I re-read it, tweaked it, and then discarded it.
At lunchtime, I sent them both a text and the promise of a drink.
Helen stopped by my desk to look at the flowers again. She wore an odd smile on her face, as if she was seeing those flowers arrive in all sorts of ways.
‘Fancy a drink?’ she asked me.
My mobile vibrated – a response from my sweet girls.
I logged off and followed Helen out.