Silent Bite

I didn’t know I was expendable. A façade of frills and smiles lured me in and assured me of my inherent value. There was never a reason to look for red flags. So, when they started popping up, they went unnoticed. That is, until the night of the company holiday party.

Ding.

‘Floor seven,’ said the automated elevator voice, and the door parted to reveal a Christmas miracle, a transformation only possible thanks to enchanting seasonal magic. The spacious open-concept office was unrecognisable. Sleek standing desks and leather loungers were pushed to the side and hidden behind walls of Christmas trees. Each tree was meticulously decorated with gold garlands and variously sized red baubles, and they blocked off the space on three sides. A grand table dressed for royalty sat in the middle of the room. Candles in glass jars and overhead string lights created a warm, comforting ambiance. Servers dressed in neatly pressed tuxedos milled about the guests with platters of indulgent canapés and trays of champagne flutes. A string quartet softly played the chords to Silent Night in the background.

My face turned a bright shade of embarrassment. I looked down at the crinkly dress I didn’t have time to iron and hurried to shove the tote I claim is a purse behind one of the ornate firs. I felt my nerves creeping along my skin and resisted the urge to pick at the spreading goosebumps. My heart sent hammering waves up to my head. The office pick-me stared in my direction. Her eyes gave me a once over before grimacing, no doubt at the inappropriateness of my attire. I scanned the room for someone less judgemental, and my eyes found him: the suave, alluring CEO. He was on the other side of the room and gave me a wink and wide smile. I tucked my hair behind my ears and looked to the floor. Then, from his position behind the head of the table, he stood. He had a glass flute in one hand and a knife in the other.

Tink, tink, tink.

‘Here ye, here ye,’ his over-played English accent added to the comedic effect of his heralding and elicited light-hearted laughter. ‘Thank you for coming. I am delighted to celebrate the year end with you. Now, if you will all take a seat, I hear dinner is to be served shortly.’

I somehow got wedged between the heavy-set accountant and bumbling receptionist. I turned my attention to the accountant, whose muffin top spilled over the arms of both our chairs. The conversation began with pleasantries and quickly became all-about him.

‘I consider myself to be somewhat of a generalist.’

He thinks he is boasting.

‘Knowing a little about a lot of things means you’ve mastered nothing.’

Apparently, he doesn’t like to be teased.

I turned to the receptionist and found her deep in conversation with no one in particular. When she caught my eye – realising someone was listening – she propelled deeper into the tale that I’ve missed the beginning of.

‘It’s odd right? I just can’t believe it would turn out that way. I never could have guessed. Complete blindside.’ My brain scanned itself for a hint of what she was referring to. But, alas, it was a riddle I could not solve. So, I just stared at her until an arm interrupted our awkward eye contact to place the first course in front of me.

The dish consisted of colours I didn’t know food came in. My mouth went dry; it did not want to be bombarded by obscure textures – and puking at the party would only add to my humiliation. I flicked the brightly coloured rainbow of flavours around the plate to give the illusion that I am partaking and hoped the next course would be something more recognisable.

Chatter and the clinking of cutlery distracted me from the receptionist’s tale. I seemed to have made an enemy for life in the accountant, who was going out of his way to elbow my prone-to-bruising arm whenever he could. The music faded out, and I felt dread melting me into a puddle on the floor. I shrunk in my seat, my shoulders hunched forward. I sheepishly looked in the direction of the head of the table and met the CEO’s gaze.

Until the day of the party, the only type of communication we had were emails. My intern position meant I refilled the printer, made coffee, and occasionally sent mass company newsletters. But it all changed that morning. He came up to my desk, sat on the edge and looked down at me.

‘Good morning, how are you?’

I got flustered immediately. ‘Urm, hi. I mean, good morning back. To you,’ I fumbled. What a horrible first impression.

‘You’re coming to the holiday party tonight, right?’

‘Oh, absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it!’ I was never planning to attend, but my over-zealous answer had backed me into a corner.

‘Excellent, I look forward to seeing you there. Dinner will be to die for. Make sure to wear something nice.’ With that, he left.

Later, when we locked eyes, he mouthed 'you look beautiful'. Can you believe it? I rarely got this kind of attention, much less from someone as debonair as he. Christmas magic must’ve been on my side, hiding my dishevelment.

After three courses I had yet to eat more than a basic white roll – I didn’t even put butter on it, for some reason it had green specks and I’m not about mouldy butter. Then the main course was served. I looked down and locked eyes with a lifeless sturgeon, laying on a bed of vegetables. I had never tried fish and wouldn’t normally have been adventurous, but it was the first thing other than the roll that I recognised the look of and was it was supposed to be. I dug in way too quickly.

Tink, tink, tink.

The CEO stood again and motioned for the servers to bring fresh champagne flutes. I put mine to the side and picked up a glass of water instead. Then the servers all disappeared into the back.

‘Everyone, thank you for all your hard work this year. If we could all raise a glass, I’d like to give a toast. Tis the season of giving. Giving time, effort, ourselves to something bigger – like this company. You have all given so much this year, maybe more than you realise, and I hope this dinner shows you just how grateful I am.’ He raised his glass above his head, and everyone around the table followed suit. ‘To giving everything you have, and maybe a little more.’

‘Cheers!’ rang out around the room and glasses clinked together. I felt my body temperature rise and started panting. I tried to speak to the receptionist, but my tongue had doubled in size. My vision began to blur. Around me I heard muffled thumps, dishes breaking and cutlery clanking against the ground. Then my brain shut off.

I woke three days later in the hospital. Officers informed me that I was the only guest to survive the evening. The CEO had staged an ‘accidental’ mass poisoning, and I had evaded it due to an allergic reaction so severe it looked like I drunk the tainted champagne.

That damned fish saved my life.