Chapter Six
Hate cake.
That’s what it was – hate cake.
Marsha looked at the slice that was sitting at the end of her desk. Pam had left it there, after Marsha had said very clearly that she didn’t want any. The woman was all smiles and “OK, I’ll just pop it here in case you change your mind.” What a B. *. T. C. H. Marsha didn’t even feel bad for thinking it.
Pam was Marsha’s nemesis.
Nobody else knew, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
They’d been working together for five years, ever since Longhurst had opened. It being a male, high security prison and all, there weren’t that many ladies on the staff. Marsha had worked in incarceration administration her whole career, so it wasn’t anything she wasn’t used to.
Pam had worked previously for a construction company. In her first few weeks on the job, Marsha had attempted to take Pam under her wing. She had suggested subtly that perhaps Pam should steer away from the low-cut tops. It was a tad unprofessional in an almost all-male office environment. Pam had brushed off these remarks as if she’d not heard them. Then she’d made that remark about “women of Marsha’s generation”, like she wasn’t only three years younger than her. Pam dressed younger, true enough – some of her tops looked as if they’d been designed for teenagers.
Marsha, being a widow, had been sort of seeing Willy DeMarco, the manager of the facilities team. Every now and then he would drop by for a home-cooked meal. He always left by 10pm – very respectful. Pam – who was already engaged, and about to be married for the third time – had got wind of it, and before you knew it she was sitting on his desk, giggling. Soon enough, Willy wasn’t dropping around any more, and Marsha found herself with a freezer full of pot roast.
There had also been that incident at last year’s Christmas party. They’d all gone to a hotel outside of Vegas and had a nice buffet meal followed by bingo and a raffle. After that, the drinking had really started. Marsha didn’t approve of such things, but she was the designated driver for Kayla and Wanda from secretarial. Wanda had just come through a messy divorce, and Kayla was one of those functional alcoholics, so the pair had headed straight for the bar and set up camp. While they were hard at it, Marsha had gone and found a slot machine to feed.
Speaking of being hard at it, a couple of days later a picture had appeared on the noticeboard at work. Willy had explained that he’d been helping Pam off the floor after she’d fallen over, because she was tipsy. Pam had explained that she’d been helping Willy, who’d got himself caught in his zipper. They’d both laughed it off. The following Monday, a video had been sent around a few people on WhatsApp from an unknown number. Most ignored it, but a few opened it and damn, if they didn’t recognise a couple of people in it. Pam might’ve been drunk and Willy might’ve caught himself, but the lengths she’d gone to in order to alleviate his pain sure looked heroic.
A month later, Pam wasn’t heading for wedding number three after all. And Willy had been transferred to one of the company’s other penitentiaries. HR had also issued a memo that named no names but referred people to the employment manual’s guidelines on fraternisation.
Marsha had later heard from Kayla, who’d got it from Wanda, that Pam reckoned Marsha was responsible for the whole thing. Said she’d traced back the mysterious phone number to her. Marsha was outraged to be the victim of such a heinous character assassination. She swore with her hand to God that she had only one phone. That was technically true, Lord’s forgiveness – Marsha had driven out of town to buy a burner and had dumped it after delivering that one fateful message. She’d watched enough network TV crime dramas to know how to get it done and come away clean. She made it clear to the ladies that Pam was just throwing around bull hockey in a pathetic attempt to get the stink off her own self.
Everyone knew that Marsha was trying hard to lose some weight ahead of her niece’s wedding in Reno in August. She’d got Wanda to join the group with her. Pam had joined too, despite not needing it anywhere near as much. Still, she’d delighted in losing a few pounds anyway. Showing it off round the office.
Then Pam had left the group and gone looking for a new hobby. She’d taken up baking with a vengeance. Curse her but she was good at it too. Every Wednesday without fail, she brought in two boxes’ worth of cakes, fancies and all manner of creations – each more delicious than the last. It was all everyone in the office talked about. It was like working in the gosh-darned Cheesecake Factory.
Marsha had tried to resist, and some weeks she had. On those days she would stop off at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home and eat her emotions. Pam had played dirty and won. Every which way. Last night Marsha had sat down and had a strong word with herself. The road to heaven was paved with temptation, and the righteous soul had to rise above. She was going to politely refuse Pam’s wares and, if need be, she’d leave them sitting there all the damn day.
It was strawberry cream cake today. Her favourite. The damn thing was winking at her. Part of her knew that she could reach across and put it in the trash, but that would mean touching it, and Marsha didn’t trust herself in that regard.
It had been fifty-four minutes since Pam had popped into Marsha’s office, and in that time, Marsha had written the first line of an email to one of their catering companies four times.
Get
