‘Fifteen buff folders, three boxes of pens, and five of those little hangy things that go in the bottom of your drawers’ – they’re actually called ‘Shanonblics’, a trade-name, although most people either called them ‘Cheynobolicks’, a corruption of Cheynobyl and a colourful anatomical-noun, or simply ‘drawer dividers’, which is what they do.  Brenda from accounts couldn’t be expected to know these things, or Chris didn’t expect her to know.  In any case it wasn’t important; what was important was that the accounts department’s stationery order was down 50 percent on last month’s order, and even more on previous months.  It wasn’t just accounts.  She had the evidence –  three years worth of orders from the entire office. 
Three years was how long she’d been the queen of stationery.  People knew she kept records, but it was surprising how many of them thought they could get away with it.  It had happened before, but never on this scale.  Her first Christmas in charge, there had been a 150 percent increase in demand for Sellotape during the first week of December – people had really thought she was that stupid.  And there had been a time, about eighteen months into the job, when someone on the top floor had imposed a restriction on ordering items worth more than £1.75.  Any orders worth more than this had to be routed through section managers for approval.  In one month, she saw orders throughout the office fall by one-third – throughout the office, except for the top-floor, which had submitted the usual eight-page special, complete with hard-to-find items, like the twenty-seven point two gauge deluxe model stapler that Richard Downs insisted on ordering every six months.  If management had felt compelled to impose draconian measures aimed at combating overspending, that was no concern of hers, but the lack of respect had bothered her, and the lack of consultation.  It had taken more work than the Christmas run on Sellotape, but sometimes a professional has to do these things.  One of management’s more florid stationery orders had been inadvertently photocopied; copies found their way to certain known militants – Jennie Stevens in the print-room, Marcus Riley in dispatch – certain parts of the office suddenly didn’t run as efficiently as management were accustomed too.  The message got through, and a few more people learned not to mess with Christine Carter.
This time, it was different; this time it was bigger.  Someone was interfering with her territory.  She didn’t know for definite, but she had a pretty good idea who was responsible.  After knowing it came proving it, then doing something about it.  The order from accounts had just made it easier, though.  They had forgotten to request the extra-thin, fine-lined paper – they always ordered four reams; they did it every month; they couldn’t consummate their hyper-numerical daydreams without it.  It was difficult to get hold of: she’d had to place a special order with head office.  Now it was the opportunity she wanted, needed maybe.  That was ironic: it was the extra-thin paper that gave her the chance, but it also forced her hand.  Previously, she had been able to ignore the problem: if she had extra stock of elastic bands, they were easy enough to re-distribute; but this paper, what could she do with that?  It was time.
It would be no use speaking to Brenda about it: she just did what she was told.  She would speak to the man himself, John Chambers.  He would give her what she wanted, if she applied the right pressure.  She needed muscle; well, ‘needed’ was a bit strong – John wouldn’t be too tough, provided she hit the right spots.  It was probably as well: she couldn’t get hold of muscle; Gary would have to fill in.  Gary was her junior, a wet-looking lad, if you got close enough, but at six-foot-two, he looked impressive enough to act as backup.
The door to John’s office was closed.  Chris and Gary waited at the end of the corridor.  There was an outside chance that the person, the little ferret, she was after would be in there with him.  Gary thought that this would be good.  ‘You’ll find out who it is, Chrissie.’
‘I know who it is.  And don’t call me “Chrissie”.’
‘Sorry, Chris …’  He stopped himself in time.  ‘If you already know who it is, why do you have to see John?’
‘I need confirmation; I need to hear him say her name.’
‘Oh.’  Gary shut up.  After about thirty seconds, his mind wandered off.  This was generally a good thing – it stopped him getting in the way, and she could call him back quickly enough if she needed to.
Down the corridor, John’s door opened.  Someone was backing out, but couldn’t tell who it was.  Nudging Gary, she woke him up.  This was crucial: if this was who she thought it was, well, it wasn’t really the time for confrontation, but she’d fight if she needed to.  She tensed.  The door opened fully, and Chris breathed out.  It was Steve Jones – the little gimboid, she wasn’t even sure where he worked.
As Steve left John’s office, she seized her chance.  Pushing Gary’s trolley ahead of her, she rushed the door.  The trolley, of course, was the masterstroke: it gave her the chance to go where she liked – no one would ask what she was doing, and no one would get in the way.  It helped to keep Gary in control, too.  He used it for delivering the orders – if someone else had it, he would pathetically follow wherever it was pushed.  And it had another use: she had filled it with as much stationery as it would take.  The accounts department’s official order was just the start of it.  She had put on the paper that they should have ordered; everything that was missing from that month’s order, and had been missing from the previous three months’ orders; and she had put on all those elastic bands, staplers, post-it notes, and rolls of Sellotape that the other sections hadn’t been ordering.  She would offload the lot on Chambers, and force him to squeak into the bargain.
She hit the door as it was closing, and slammed it against the wall.  As it rebounded, it hit Gary, who was several yards behind her.  The noise made John turn round.  He had been standing by the window, looking out over the car park.  A freshly completed pools coupon on the desk revealed what Jones had been doing there.  ‘Chris?’  John sounded surprised.  His eyes showed he’d noticed the stationery.  ‘You’ve brought our order, good.  Erm … there seems to quite a lot.’  He was beginning to sweat.  ‘It’s a bit more than we ordered, I think.’
‘It’s quite a lot more than you ordered, John.’
‘Great.  Well … thanks.  I’m not sure we’ve got room for that much.  Tell you what, we’ll take what we did order, and you can keep the rest for next month, or something.  Just drop it off with Brenda, like you normally do.’  He moved towards the door, but she headed him off, cornering him by the filing cabinet.
‘I’m not sure I can do that, John.  You see, I’m a bit worried – I’m a bit worried that Brenda hasn’t been ordering everything you need.  Last month’s order was quite a bit less than you usually have.’
‘You know how it is: stocks build up.’
‘Oh, I know they build up alright: they’ve been building up in my stock room for the past six months.’  She had been walking towards him.  Now she had him pinned up against the notice board.  She could see the red in his eyes, and inhale the stench of fresh cigar that explained what he had been doing by the window.
Laughing unconvincingly, he tried to get past her.  ‘Have you been over-ordering from the warehouse, Chris?’
‘No, John, I haven’t.  We both know what’s been happening, don’t we, John?  You’ve been getting your stationery from someone else, haven’t you?’  He laughed again, and managed to squeeze past her.  He made it to his desk, and forgetfully opened the drawer that contained the ‘secret’ whisky bottle that everyone in the building knew about.
‘It’s not what it looks like, Chris.’
She banged her fist on the desk, waking up Gary, who had nodded of again.  ‘Quit messing, John.  Tell me who’s supplying you, or Gary gets rough.’  She regretted that as soon as she said it.  It made her look desperate.  She was desperate, but John knew it now, too.  He closed the whisky drawer.
‘It’s no good Chris; you’re a beaten woman.  It’s too late.’
‘Just tell me John – it’s Pritchard, isn’t it?’  It was still speculation, and she’d have preferred not to have brought the name up first, but she was fairly sure of herself.  Something about his reaction made her wonder, though.  ‘Who is it John?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.  Who is it?’
He swallowed hard.  ‘It’s Jones.’
‘Jones?  That little squirt couldn’t stand stationary, let alone deliver it.’
‘Not him, her.’
Her?  She went dizzy.  She hadn’t thought of that.  Natalie Jones, Steve’s wife, and a very different proposition.  ‘Do you think I’m scared of her?’
‘You should be.’
That stung.  She leaned into his face.  ‘I supply you, John, and don’t forget it.  You might have acquired some stock from Mrs Jones recently, but she’s not here now.’
There was a quiet cough by the door.  Chris looked up.  ‘Mrs Jones?’
‘Ms Carter.  Have you been bothering my client?’
Chris drew herself up to her full height, and walked towards Natalie.  Natalie advanced to meet her.  Gary edged his way around the room, and found John crouched behind his desk, pouring himself a whisky.  The two women stood eyeball to eyeball.  Tension filled the room, making the air heavy.  Both women knew what was at stake; neither could lose.
Chris began to buckle.  After three years, was it time to hand over to someone else?  She felt herself weakening, an emotion she didn’t see returned in Mrs Jones’s eyes.  She reminded herself of what she had been before she had taken on stationery: a nobody on switchboard.  Could she return to that?
She heard a creaking noise, and looked round.  Overloaded, the trolley lurched.  She watched as it toppled forwards towards Natalie.  Natalie reacted too late.  She caught a couple of items, then tried to stop the avalanche with her full hands.  It was no good.  The entire order fell, burying her.  Chris seized her chance.  She grabbed the paperwork, forced John to sign the acknowledgment slip, picked up the empty trolley, and left.
She reached the store room seconds later.  Gary was probably still two floors behind her.  Shaken, she knew she had won, but couldn’t be sure for how long.  It would only be a matter of time before someone else came after her.  She prepared herself for a new approach.  She had been lax, but not any more – no longer the queen of stationery; it was the Czar or oblivion.