Elevenses

Samantha sat at her window seat, sipping her cup of pungent Jarrah, adjacent to that unknown minion, was her name Bev? Tess? She couldn’t remember, it hardly mattered. This tea was sooo nice, she told herself.

She felt so comfortable today in her Cartier Keyhole suit, it had been so expensive in Paris but worth every Euro, and especially as it showed off her mock-antique décolletage so nicely. And the lime-green cork wedges were just sooo a la mode in Paris – surely these Sydney people would get the point soon, and she would get a promotion.

Samantha tried hard to block out that irritating humming coming from the opposite cubicle – it was that annoying Bess again – what was she humming? Oh good grief, was it Lionel Richie? How passé. She was grateful when her mobile phone began to vibrate on her desk, covering the irritating dirge of the serf girl with a clever rendition of “Take On Me.”

“Amos! Doll! …”, she began with exaggerated delight as she answered her diminutive mobile handset…