Coffee Bitch

Some people - jealous people - accuse me of sleeping my way to the top. But I’m not at the top… yet.

I’m the CFO (Chief Financial Officer) of a large, multinational company. The type of company with expansive views over London from its perch at the top of the Cucumber, with floor to ceiling windows and a helipad on the roof. If power had a smell, that scent oozed from the plush carpets and rich wood furniture.

The company needed a low level executive, so they headhunted me. Me! A blunt, down-to-earth Aussie gal with banging boobs and a loud mouth. My tits passed the interviews with flying colours, and I used to my assets to work my way up. Men, being such simple creatures, are very easily manipulated. And here I am, now, the only female on the board of directors.

Board meetings are not exactly onerous on me. I have no real duties, there are no expectations or deliverable. All CFO duties are performed by men. I’m just the token woman.

I’m invisible.

Today, I’m wearing a low cut, tight blouse to highlight my cleavage. I plan to keep the board members distracted. I’ve tried dressing in power suits to garner respect and attention, but I ended up being even more invisible than when the girls are on full display. The board members may think they know my worth, but I know my true worth.

At 10:20am, the CEO’s helicopter lands on the helipad. Only twenty minutes late. I make my way to the boardroom, steeling myself for the brash American. The pompous British Lords are already there, sniffing disdainfully as I enter the room. Apparently the scent of a woman clashes with the smell of money. The South African tosser leers openly at my norks, so I cross my arms to emphasise the cleavage. I take my seat at the table just as the Texan CEO blows into the room.

“How about a coffee, Doll?” He isn’t looking at me, but I know he’s talking to me. I dutifully nod and cross to the coffee station, press his personalised button, and carry the coffee cup to his place at the head of the table.

“Thanks Doll,” he bellows, slapping me on the arse. The pompous Brits snicker in unison, satisfied I know my place in the grand scheme of things. “How about you take some notes?”

I sit back down, pull out a recorder, and pick up my pen. Making a show of dropping the pen, I bend over to pick it up, giving the leering South African an eyeful of the girls. He’s the only person in the room whom acknowledges my corporeal presence, my existence as a person instead of some coffee bitch, but even he refuses to make eye contact with me.

So now I’m poised and ready, calm and demure. At least on the outside. Inside, I’m seething. I’m running through scenarios in my mind; vignettes of murder and bloody vengeance. The pompous Brits are served stale scones and cold tea. The Texan is garrotted with his ugly leather strip of a tie. And the South African cunt chokes on dick, daily, in a prison shower. He has such pretty lips. But enough daydreaming. I actually have a purpose today.

As I doodle on my notepad, I occasionally check the recorder to make sure it’s working. I don’t need to record this session, but it could help. I resist the urge to look at my watch, but the urge is strong. Maybe the pompous Brits should be forced to become Walmart greeters. Such a delightfully cruel punishment. OK, enough daydreaming.

The meeting progresses in pretty much the same manner as every other meeting I’ve attended. They plan to exploit children, raze rainforests, and destroy ancient artefacts. My stomach churns, so I keep daydreaming. Perhaps the Texan should be forced to drive a tiny electric car. Suddenly we hear a commotion outside the boardroom, as the door bursts open.

“City of London Police.” An authoritative man strode into the room, followed by a train of uniformed police. “National Lead Force. You’re being taken into custody for corporate crimes, including fraud. Other charges are pending, depending on the results of investigations into genocide, cultural heritage crimes, and environmental impact.”

“Now you just hold on a minute -” the Texan started to bellow, but he ran out of steam as his hands were cuffed behind. He ended up spluttering like a cold car refusing to start on a chilly morning.

One by one all the board members were cuffed and lined up against the floor-to-ceiling windows. All of them, except me. They looked confused, stunned that I wasn’t included in the line-up. Finally the South African arsehole spoke.

“What about her?” he said. “It was all her idea.”

“I’m not your fall guy,” I smiled at him. “I’m the fucking whistleblower. Do you see me now, bitches?”