BOSS FROM HELL
By
Ron Shillingford
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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Boss From Hell
Copyright © 2011 by Ron Shillingford
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Daphne Hart received the hugs and congratulations from her fellow company directors with immense pride. Having just delivered a keynote speech at the annual Institute of Directors conference highlighting how many obstacles she had overcome to become a successful businesswoman, there were plenty of reasons to bask in their praise.
“From zero to forty million turnover in eighteen years is pretty awesome, Daphne,” one well wisher beamed.
“Just put it down to hard work, super-supportive teamwork and a great deal of luck, Tom,” she smiled.
“Simply fantastic. The great quality about you is your humility and personable nature,” he added.
“I try dear, but it’s not easy. Like I said in my speech, great staff who are motivated to go the extra mile, is the key.”
“They must worship the ground you walk on.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, but it does work.”
The next day Daphne entered the offices of Hart Enterprises, index finger pointing at specific people singled out for daily abuse.
“Gerald, I want the Olympics report by ten. Anyone would think you were training for a gold medal in incompetence.”
“Grace, email me that son-of-a-bitch Ed Grainger’s correspondence immediately. And whatever you do, don’t sleep with him. That’s if you haven’t already.”
“Fresh flowers late again Sophie. You’re blooming useless.”
The daily tirade from the Boss From Hell was into another 12-hour shift.
Despite her public persona, Daphne ruled her public relations company with tyrant-like precision. Keeping employees in line and maintaining her media profile was her modus operandi. Any negative news that threatened to leak out had been suitably suppressed by whatever means necessary.
If the married boss of a magazine or newspaper was sleeping with his secretary, doing too much coke, secretly gay or was gambling himself to certain bankruptcy, Daphne made it a point to find out.
If a publisher had recently had Botox or her dramatic weight loss was due to have a gastric band fitted, Daphne got to know. It all went in dossiers, so that if needed she could use the information to suppress negative publicity on one of her clients.
Dossier-obsessed, there was one on virtually everybody, including the staff. Her personal assistant – of whom there had been many - kept it all updated.
Just before Daphne’s entrance, convinced that everyone in the office was debating, possibly betting, on her chances of surviving past the first morning, Stella’s anxiety waiting for her new task master to arrive increased to the point of sweat involuntarily running down her spine.
Daphne’s customary entrance simply confirmed her worse fears.
The usual first day nerves as a personal assistant turned to utter terror after seeing at least three cliques of people evidently talking about her as Daphne’s nine o’clock entrance ominously approached.