An impression was made but not the one intended. On opening the kitchen door that adjoins the conference room where the investors were all seated, I stumble over Brenda’s stout legs. The rest of her is slumped, out cold atop the counter. Drowsily, she raises her head – it’s swollen, it's beaten, it's got the pattern of her sweat-shirt sleeve embossed in her right cheek. A piece of croissant clings doggedly to her hair.
Klaas is livid and sends her home. It’s not that he has a problem with anyone pissing away an evening but it should have zero (ZERO) effect on performance the following day. In the States – apparently – this is a fireable offence.
"Didn’t you notice? You must have!" His palms are raised heavenwards.
"Er… Klaas… investors. Duh!" I stomp off for a detailed review of my junk mail.
Brenda manages a brief and unconvincing apology before taking herself off for the day. Sadly, she still tops the turnover league for April thus far.