Finding Grace by Alyssa Brugman

even other weasels shy away from.
    Dimitre, you are so lazy that you couldn't even muster the energy to steal my ideas. You are cowardly, weak and stupid. You are so visibly incompetent that I haven't even bothered to point out your inadequacies. I am astounded that you have the decisiveness to dress yourself every day.
    I look forward to not having to compensate for both of your profound inabilities.
    My final words to each of you are as follows:
    Andre, I hope the staff in your department prepare a violent and shocking revolution, and that your career prospects are torn forcibly into gory, unsalvageable pieces.
    Dimitre, you have to wake up each morning and go to bed every night being who you are. I don't need to wish any further curses on you.

Mr. Preston came to see Grace in the evening but I'd called the nurse so I could get in a little revision and maybe read ahead a bit. Jan was taking Grace out for a walk.
    Jan still calls me “darl.” It must be much easier than remembering people's names. I might find a generic nickname with which I shall address all—“turtledove,” for example, or is that too intimate? Perhaps “cohort.”
    When he found Grace wasn't at home, Mr. Preston was going to leave, but I asked him to have a cup of coffee with me. I switched on the jug and took two cups out of the cupboard. Grace has these funky stainless steel cups and saucers. I just love them. I wanted him to tell me moreabout Grace. She sounded like a complete bitch—but with excellent dress sense. I liked her.
    “Come sit by me a while, cohort,” I said.
    “I'm sorry?” he asked, perplexed.
    “I'm trying out some generic means by which to address people,” I explained, “like Jan does.”
    “Oh, of course,” he replied, sitting by me. “What about chum?”
    I considered for a moment. “Chum is good. May I call you chum?”
    “Certainly.”
    We sat quietly for a while, sipping coffee.
    “What was she like? Was she nice?” I asked him.
    He laughed. “No. She's not nice. She's lots of things but she's not
nice
. She attacked everyone,” he said, reaching for the coffee plunger. “Grace started out as a secretary, a personal assistant I guess you would call it today. She was very good—efficient. She worked for a friend of mine before she came to work for us. She's always worked in law or finance. This guy was an accountant.”
    So they worked together.
    I fill my funky coffee cup with a little milk.
    Mr. Preston leans back, crossing one ankle over the other. “He used to complain about her, this friend of mine. He thought she was too frank. Of course that's not the way he put it. We would be having a drink or playing a round of golf and he would tell us stories about her. He gave her the sack eventually. Apparently she wasn't working out “personality-wise.” She was impudent and difficult and she refused to make coffee. She was particularly obstinate aboutnot making coffee. She wouldn't make coffee when she first came to work with me, either.”
    So she worked
for
him. He was her boss.
    Mr. Preston pours the coffee and spoons in some sugar. “The story goes that there were two guys who used to complain about her a lot. They were young accountants. They were the department heads or whatever. Everyone complained at some stage, but those two in particular. I think they were Italian, or was it Greek?” He shrugged. “They were Mediterranean, anyway. Grace gave them hell. She wouldn't cover for them. Eventually they got her sacked. Apparently those two guys sang “Ding Dong, the Witch Is Dead' at her farewell dinner. Subtle.”
    Andre and Dimitre?
    Prickles wanders over and jumps up on Mr. Preston's lap. He rubs his knuckles across the cat's head absently. Prickles closes his eyes, smiling and purring.
    Cantankerous cat.
    Mr. Preston takes a sip of his coffee. “She looked for work for a while after that. We sent her to see other people that we knew. We didn't have any positions open at the time. But, well