The Comfort Trap

by Elizabeth Stott

Molly is dying. Only my blood can save her. It flows out through a long plastic tube plugged painfully into my nose, as though an artery runs between us.

The pillow is soaked in blood. My nose bleeds like a tap. I take off the pyjama jacket and wad it against my face. Stumbling to the bathroom. I can hear Molly in her gentle voice: Don’t panic – it’ll be over soon. In the mirror, I can see the swelling on my nose, injured from last night’s stupid accident with the cupboard door. And a spreading bruise, as if I had been in a fight. Not the look I want for today. The big meeting with the big boss and the head of human resources. I sit on the toilet, holding the bridge of my nose as Molly instructed me once, after I got knocked over playing five-a-side football with the office team. I should have known better, the old man of the office trying to show I could still cut it with the lads, all of them under 35. Molly will be home tonight from her business trip. She’ll tell me I am an idiot and kiss me on the head.

But some things she cannot soothe away. All week there have been high-level meetings about the future of the company. Supply chain issues, export costs. We are all worried about our jobs. Even me. I stuff the pyjamas and pillowslip into the washing machine, hoping I can wash the stains out. I stuff all the rest of the bedlinen in too. Molly can come home to clean sheets.

On the journey to work, everything is unnaturally bright and loud. I drive carefully, as if I have not driven for months. I am late. In the low-ceilinged, cluttered, open-plan office, everyone is already at work, bent over desks, peering at screens and tapping keyboards, muttering into phones. It is as if the world has begun without me. I am invisible as I go into my own office.

Oh, I had been chuffed when I got promoted, moving from the open plan to an office with my name on the door. My own private space, my own furniture, coat stand, kettle and tea things. I’d felt a little guilty, but Molly said I had earned it, and I should make the most of it. At least I respected the staff. I can’t call them my staff without feeling proprietorial. I don’t own them. But I owe them – something . . . How can I stop them from losing their jobs? I can’t. I look at the picture of Molly I keep on my desk. I look forward to having her home tonight. We’ll have a quiet supper and a glass of wine. Just us. No matter what the future holds, there is always us.

Overnight, the office has been cleaned. The scented cleaning materials assault my nose linings. I want to sneeze, but I don’t dare. Another nosebleed now would be awkward – the meeting starts in half an hour. I dampen my handkerchief with water from the kettle and hold it over my face, breathing carefully through the cloth. Someone comes up to the door and looks in through the glass panel, as if he wants to talk to me. He must wonder what the heck I am doing with a wet hankie on my face. I wave, stand up, but the man goes away. Through the glass, I can see the staff getting on with whatever it is they are doing. They always seem to be busy. I’m supposed to know what it is they all do when the reckoning of jobs comes. What are they worth? I daresay that they think the same about me.

One-handed, I click through my e-mail. Nothing from the boss, nothing from the head of human resources, Denise Baker. No clues about the way things are going. Just the usual rubbish. Everyone thinks they need to report every breath, every hiccup, as if I am omniscient.

Molly messages me. She’s at the airport, plane on time and will be home as expected tonight. I skim my notes for the meeting – for what they are worth. I check my appearance in a small mirror I keep in my desk. There’s a line of dried blood under my jaw that I hadn’t noticed. I dab at it with the handkerchief, and it comes off like a rust stain. I’m looking ‘mature’ with broken veins and fine lines around my eyes. My suit is picked, not for fashion, but for practicality. I can’t get away with slim fit anymore, and my shirt balloons over the waistband of the trousers, no matter how much I smooth it down.

I dread the meeting. Some redundancies are inevitable, and there is the chance that the company will be sold or move abroad. A few years ago, I’d thought I’d be safe, a pension to look forward to. The job is not so demanding, the pay is OK. The ‘comfort trap’ some call it. Come to work. Do stuff. Get paid. Live. Even Covid didn’t spoil that. And I get to work from home sometimes. Have lunch with Molly.

The conference room is on the sunny side of the building. Two people wrestle with broken window blinds that won’t go down properly. Others pour a pre-meeting coffee and talk quietly about neutral topics. Something about a greenhouse and a neighbour’s dog. My nose feels cold inside and sensitive in the air-conditioned room. I nurse my weak coffee, inhaling the warm vapour, thinking about Molly coming home. I love our comfortable life together. I don’t want that to change.

The meeting is due to start at ten, but at that hour, neither the head of division, nor Denise Baker have arrived. A latecomer gingerly pushes open the door. He glances around, clearly relieved that the boss hasn’t been punctual.

‘No sign of him . . .’ a woman says.

‘No Denise, either . . .’

We take the opportunity to get more coffee. My bruised face gets some looks, but no one asks about it. The attempts at conversation dry up. I mindlessly skim the agenda on my tablet. It gives no insight into what might happen to me as an individual, nor any of my staff. Light from the window reflects on the smeary screen and makes it difficult to read. I prefer old-fashioned paper. I like to doodle, jot down ideas in margins. The tablet does not allow me to think outside the plastic frame.

At 10.30 the door is opened abruptly, and the head of division almost falls in, out of breath, his hair untidy. He mumbles apologies. There is no sign of Denise. He leans on the conference table, visibly upset, and draws a ragged breath.

‘I have some difficult news . . .’

Everyone exchanges glances, uncertain of the nuance.

‘This morning Denise Baker was killed in a car accident.’

The room freezes, not sure what to do with the information.

‘She was driving to work when a tanker slewed out of lane and flipped her car against the central reservation.’

One of the faulty blinds behind me chooses this moment to drop down, making a slicing sound, dimming the light over the conference table. My screen now shows clearly in the gloom. None of the words on the display make sense. An image of Denise Baker shimmers in my mind; a small dark-haired woman with a friendly, lop-sided smile. I know she had a young family.

The meeting is postponed. In the circumstances, we are charged to make the announcement of her death to our staff immediately.

Back in the office, one of the women is collecting for a wedding present, handing round a large card. A big envelope jingles. Someone else is telling a joke. As I arrive, everyone goes quiet, looking up expectantly. I find that I can’t look them in the eye. I duck into my office and consider what to do. Call everyone in groups? No . . . I decide to call the section leaders into my office. Rather than go outside again, I phone them.

One of them, George, was at the same level as me when I got promoted. We used to be members of the same pub quiz team. We were mates for all intents and purposes. It was said that I was chosen because I didn’t let my personal life intrude on work. George was dealing with a sick father and a divorce at the time. George is coasting now – a likely candidate for any job losses. He has a degree of resentment towards me that comes out occasionally, especially at times of insecurity. He stands in my doorway, so that the others have to squeeze past him. It’s all very awkward, but I say what I have to say. I ask them all to gather their staff in what passes for a communal space in the outer office.

I straighten my shirt and walk out into the open plan area. I feel like I am going on-stage. The staff peer out from behind pillars and cabinets with a mixture of worry and expectation. George leans on an old photocopier, long out of use. I catch his eye, expecting a surly expression, but he just looks down at the floor.

‘I have some difficult news,’ I manage to say before I get a heavy feeling in the front of my face, and my nose erupts in another monumental nosebleed.

The nearest people step back in shock, one or two exclaim. A woman raids a stock cupboard and hands me a packet of paper hand towels.

I wave at George, miming ‘go on’ as blood drips onto my shirt. George harrumphs and bluntly announces that Denise Baker has been killed and all staffing decisions are on hold. It sounds like a sick joke.

‘This has been a dreadful shock.’ I say, muffled by paper towels. ‘Obviously, our thoughts are with Denise’s husband and family. And, of course, consideration of staffing issues will be delayed.’

‘You’ve all got your jobs. For now . . .’ George shouts.

Everyone murmurs uncomfortably, unsure what to do. They look at me, my bruised face still masked with paper towel.

‘Everyone – please sit down and have a cup of tea. Take a break and try to get back to work. It will be the best thing to do in the circumstances.’ I add, not sure about anything.

George is standing in the middle of the office with tears streaming down his face.

‘What would you know?’ he says and walks out.

My nose aches as I take the laundry from the washing machine. There are still cloudy patches on the pillowslip. It’s the best I can do. I put them in the dryer, look at my watch. Molly should be here soon.

Elizabeth Stott lives in the north of England. She writes in varied style and form. Her fiction and poetry has been published in various magazines and anthologies over the years and performed at spoken word events and as a Nightjar Press chapbook. Her poetry pamphlet – The Undoing – was published in 2023 by Maytree Press. Her collection of short fiction, Familiar Possessions, appeared in 2002. Most recently, her stories appeared in Confingo Magazine, Mslexia and featured at a Liars’ League spoken word event. A story will appear in Salt’s Best British Short Stories 2025.

https://elizabethstott.wordpress.com