It wasn’t that she was the best; there were smarter workers. There were more articulate speakers, those with more connections, and those more “in.” There were certainly those who’d been at the company longer — but nobody gave more.
She could feel it, she knew it; people wanted her around. They desired her energy and forthrightness. She was wanted on the team and on their side in a proverbial playground scrap. They were always grateful for her input. She was forever cheerily met and greeted. Maggie (“Maggs”) was essential.
She was also the mascot, well, that’s how it could feel. That was the other side of it. She tried to keep her mind clear of such formulations of thought. She didn’t really like thinking about it. How petty it seemed, and, when she really stared at it, ugly.
The thankless tasks of spreadsheets, reports, social and messaging platform accounts; all organized when unasked for. Yet approaching her mid-thirties, Maggie was beginning to feel a discomfort at automatically going the extra mile.
“Still look 24 babes,” was a continual refrain coming her way. Maggie didn’t need telling this — she was quite aware. Like many a woman, superficial evaluation had lost a degree of thrill at the turn of 30. Hearing it from desired parties was always welcome, but the more important matters of status and being paid one’s worth held greater appeal.
…
She liked her little motor, resigned to the scruffy handbag on wheels it was. Loved a drive, her playlist blaring, charging down the road ahead, feeling unfiltered, unlimited, and… behind? It was old. It didn’t reflect her. The age, the miles, and condition — this car spoke of settling. Maggie wasn’t ready, had no plans, and didn’t deserve to settle.
Maggie parked up some 20 minutes early. A timekeeping extraordinaire, well, certainly compared to many of the men in her office. She opened the tin of Cavendish & Harvey fruit drops found in her side glove compartment. There was a cherry flavored one left and a little celebratory “Yes” left her in a whisper. She didn’t fancy facing the panel with a Halloween purple or sickly yellow tongue for distraction.
Opening up her printed, bullet-pointed, and line-itemed interview documents, Maggie could hardly focus. It wasn’t so much butterflies, but… disinterest. Muttering the sentences in double time under her breath, she didn’t need this prep: she knew it. She’d known it for the better part of a fortnight. As an actor would say, she was “off-book.”
Her eyes gazed across the car park filled with cars and devoid of people. A brief pocket of dissociation. Her body numb, her mind temporarily blank. When she came to, she could feel a dull edge of disquiet and angst. Maggie had been here before.
The Deputy Regional Manager position opened up four years ago and she’d applied. All the colleagues who knew were rooting for her. She tried to remember if she’d parked in the same spot; it felt like the same spot. At the time, it came down to Maggie and one other, Bill Rutherford; a longtime stalwart of Kenson Logistics.
A near waddling turret of self-appreciation guided by a gift of the gab, Bill was a known voice and face able to make the panel laugh with easy familiarity. Maggie was the good girl, checking every box with a hard dose of earnestness and a light sprinkling of concern for others’ sensibilities. Bill Rutherford got the job. Maggie went back to Gillingham to tell expectant parties she’d fallen short.
Four years ago was rough. Retelling the same story to different people over and over, receiving the same messages of sympathy was… frankly aggravating. She reflected that her approach hadn’t necessarily belied the truth; that communicating her capacity wasn’t the best way to advertise it. Perhaps checking boxes wasn’t the way.
Maggie felt she’d lost a great opportunity to someone with less to offer than her, on merits that had little to do with the job description. She was privately downcast for the next month. The extra mile didn’t go far up against cronyism. The mascot remained firmly in her place.
***
Entering the conference room where the panel sat was fine, flat even. There was a surreal, familiar numbness to this. The panel hadn’t aged a day and even appeared to be dressed exactly the same as they were four years ago, a disquieting exercise in time warp.
The same conference room fronted the same table in the same position and layout. All was déjà vu in every last inconsequential detail; the laminated printouts, the order of the glasses, and their unopened complimentary bottles of water. Maggie sat in what very much appeared the same style of chair. It had been four years of standstill; nothing had changed at all.
Her hearing left her within seconds of the interview starting. Was this the interview? Was it an alternative timeline? It felt like a dress rehearsal for the interview. Another “not quite” experience as she found here not all that long ago. Maggie Mascot went through the motions; she couldn’t hear herself talking or her responses to any of the questions.
It was as if she had some third-person perspective of the interview over her own right shoulder. The expressions, timely nods, and notetaking of the panel felt like reruns. Observer and participant, her mind drifted. There was just one out, one potential that sat in the farthest corner of her consciousness.
Laura had never caused Maggie trouble. There was never any unspoken friction. It was more like they operated on different frequencies and vibrations despite working in the same office. They were always friendly and warm, but they weren’t close.
Laura had girls in the office she would share with and chat to; Maggie wasn’t one of them. It was the same the other way round. Though curiously, they did manage to share some confidants vicariously. Ultimately, they were different people who garnered different responses and reactions to those around them.
Maggie was indispensable, reliable, trustworthy… Mascot. Laura was… prestigious, for want of better words. An Oxbridge graduate, Laura came from money. Not generational wealth, per se, but “dad did well” kind of money. Her holidays and social media accounting of them were like visual brochures. Laura seemed a closeted influencer.
Elf-like, porcelain and glossy, Laura had eyes like planets. The men around the office always found a particularly playful or attentive energy when interacting with her, irrespective of how bad a day they were having. She also managed to maintain one of those waists that suggest no internal organs live there. Laura was a cut above, and not just of Maggie.
Through her confidants, Maggie gleaned only a little on Laura, as she wasn’t really one to ask. One of the few slivers she gathered was of a budding workplace romance. Legitimate, mature, adult, not bedhopping or drunken and lusty. Laura was around 10 or so weeks into seeing the junior accounts manager Jack.
They looked pretty picture perfect when lined up together in one’s mind’s eye. Maggie didn’t feel one way or another about it. Jack was nice enough and cute but she had no particular interest in him. The nascent couple hadn’t, however, run their relationship past HR.
When the interview was near conclusion, just as four years ago, Maggie was asked to say a few words about the other internal candidate. The questioning began. Would she have a problem working for this person as her superior should they get the role? Then, the customary and standard kind words.
Maggie came alive all of sudden. She went from dipping in and out of dissociation to being beamingly, near painfully, present. A few words… on Laura Talbot… and what she brought to the Gillingham office.
In a semi ad-lib, Maggie spoke warmly of Laura and her presence. She also, right at the last moment, managed to express how pleasant and refreshing it was to see a workplace romance flourishing in this HR-heavy day and age.
The panel somewhat froze, all four members rather stiffened. The air changed and the faces lost a softness to them. The only woman on the panel asked Maggie to continue with a simple, “Oh?”
And the rest is history. Sure, a “good girl” wouldn’t have done it. Absolutely, her face felt flush as she said the words. Was it out of character? Maybe a little. Was it what she wanted to do? Not so much. Was her drive back to Gillingham conducted in eerie quiet? You bet ya.
Yet, at the end of the following week, Kenson Logistics had a new Deputy Regional Manager, and Maggie was “Mascot” no more.