Psychospace

By ESTHER HERVY

France. 2023. 
One year on after the election of President Edouard, Emmanuel Macron’s successor. The French Employment Code is in the process of being ripped up, so people are clinging desperately to the jobs they hold. Julie has just been laid off from the Robarti Legal Bank, but miraculously she finds a new book-keeping post at Gargill & Co., the second biggest pesticide company after Tonsantar. She needs to eat and pay her bills, but does that mean she has to put up with absolutely everything from her new employer? Has everyone else surrendered to the belief that they’ve no choice other than to keep quiet and toe the line? Or are there still people prepared to fight back? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: ESTHER HERVY
• Release date: Nov 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386626718

Book preview

Psychospace

by

Esther J. Hervy

The characters in this novel are fictional and any resemblance to real individuals, whether living or dead, is purely incidental.

The Great Revolution made the French people kings in the city and left them serfs in business.

Jean Jaurès.

Foreword

Dear Readers,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for choosing Psychospace, for having bought it or borrowed it, and to have it open before you at this very moment.

I’d like you to know that the subject matter of this novel is very dear to my heart. Within these pages I talk of being unhappy at work, of the need everyone has to find some sense in their daily routine so they can live with equanimity, but also the society we are obliged to operate in, which is proposed as the only possible way. I challenge the idea that France’s state of health is the priority, while that of the French people matters little.

Whilst the plot of this novel is purely fictional, all of the situations, or almost all, which my heroine experiences are based on real life. They have been experienced by my associates, sometimes by myself, or perhaps inspired by newspaper stories. Some of you may possibly recognise practices that they live with every day in their jobs, and if I have decided to give a comic and sometimes cynical tone to this novel, it is to lighten the subjects of burn-out and psychological harassment.   You see, dear Reader, I want you to enjoy reading this book, even if the subject of work burn-out isn’t really funny.

Isn’t it time to consider a new model for society, where humanity is our number one concern? Isn’t it time to stop chasing after ever bigger profits? Isn’t it time we realised that this desire always for more; more expansion, more exploitation and this desire to accumulate beyond reason, will eventually destroy us?

I’d like you to consider what the point of living in this mad way is, as most of the time it seems to be unavoidable. Don’t you find it all, as do I, absurd and unhealthy?

So I‘d like to invite you to share in some of my experiences, which have made me question many things. To do so I had to spend two years in hell. Fortunately I do take something positive from it: a clarity acquired over the course of some months which finally made me grow up and open my eyes to a world I believe to be absurd. 

Life is beautiful, so let’s not forget to prioritise what really matters most.

Esther J. Hervy

Article L1152-1 of the Employment Code

No employee should be subjected to repeated acts of psychological harassment whose aim or effect is a degradation of his/her work conditions which could harm his/her rights or dignity, alter his/her physical or mental health or compromise his/her professional prospects.

Chapter 1

When I first walked into Gargill & Co I had no expectations except to start earning again as soon as possible to pay my rent and bills. Working in accounting was not very exciting, but was there anyone who still dreamed of doing a job that they had a passion for? Believe me, these days just getting paid at the end of the month put you straight in the category of the privileged. However, it was only during my interview that I learned the pitiful amount I would be payed, the Holy Grail of employment having already convinced me to sign. Anyway, I had no choice if I didn’t want to end up on the street tomorrow. President Edouard, the newly elected successor to Emmanuel Macron’s government, had pushed through the restriction of unemployment benefits. They’d taken the example of our British neighbours as the model, with the obvious aim of making savings, but mostly to push into action those who might be tempted to live off this cancer which was the benefits system. More royalist than Queen Elizabeth II, our dear President was therefore granting me eight hundred euros for three months, and not a cent more. This was what I had at my disposal from now on to get myself out of my predicament... not really means enough to be picky. 

I had an appointment with the head of HR, a certain Gerald Quignon (I was soon to learn that everyone called him La Quigne). After I’d introduced myself to the receptionist I sat down on the leather sofa she’d politely directed me towards. I could play their game! I was dressed up to the nines in a dark suit that was too tight. My hair gathered up behind, a little mascara on my lashes and a light touch of pink on my lips, I’d let Mr Quignon think that he’d have no problem in moulding me as he wanted. Simple and understated, that’s what all the experts on TV recommended, if you were to have a chance of entering their circle. Rather like those programmes where the estate agent suggests the vendors paint their home in neutral colours if they want to seduce potential purchasers. I had to seduce Quignon and let him believe I would be completely malleable. In reality, like most people, I couldn’t bear this sort of creep, dressed in a tacky Delaveine suit and full of his own incompetence. If I could have spoken my mind at the time I would doubtless have let out a liberating Je suis Charlie, Charlie Shirt-man! But no, I couldn’t, the whole system had me by the balls which Mother Nature hadn’t endowed me with.

I looked around me, from left to right. Large posters featuring the company adorned the walls. They showed young and dynamic executives high-fiving men dressed in bottle-green workwear, holding a fork and shod in rubber boots. Behind them, a cow seemed to be laughing. Some graphic artist, an intern no doubt, had added a daisy between the animal’s teeth. The farming community was thanking Gargill & Co for enabling it to produce its shit products in industrial quantities, and all this in mutual high spirits. Evidently, nobody had thought it appropriate to feature on these posters the ones who ended up in their barns with a rope around their necks.

A blonde woman hurrying across the reception area caught my attention. The sound of her heels clipping the floor bludgeoned my brain like tiny pointed hammers. 

−  ‘Carlita? said the blonde in glass slippers.

I raised my head at the same time as the receptionist.

−  ‘Carlita’, she repeated, suspicious, ‘Did you call the company doctor?’

Carlita seemed to melt, as if she’d just been caught stealing stationery.

−  ‘I haven’t been for two years, Mylene,’ she replied cautiously, as if to justify her misdemeanour. ‘I ought to go’.

−  ‘Yes, I know’, the woman called Mylene said with a dismissive sweep of her hand, ‘but it seems then you’ve forgotten then that it’s every five years now? So go and ring them back and cancel your appointment. If you think you can wander the streets of Paris running up bills like a princess, you’ve got another think coming’.

Carlita watched her turn and leave, speechless with disappointment. Eventually she turned her dismayed face towards me, no doubt searching for some explanation in my eyes. I looked away. What a great start. I could only hope I wouldn’t be working for this Mylene...

It was at this point that La Quigne came out of his office and strode over to me, his cheap tie flapping slightly with each step. He offered me a clammy hand and greeted me with a smarmy smile:

−  ‘Hello, Mademoiselle Finor!’

−  ‘Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Quignon’, I replied. I wiped the palm of my hand discreetly on my thigh.

−  ‘Follow me’.

He beckoned me into his lair and when I’d entered, closed the door behind us.

−  ‘Sit down, please’, he said, indicating the chair facing his desk, which was devoid of any sign of activity.

In front of him was a single sheet of paper: my CV.

−  ‘So... Julie. May I call you Julie?’

I nodded.

−  ‘It’s friendlier’, he laughed. ‘You see, we’re a bit like one big family here. And there’s no old-fashioned formality between staff here, so don’t be shocked by how casual it seems. We’re all young and dynamic here!’

I didn’t see what formality had to do with people being dynamic, but creating this hipster image had become the norm in businesses these days. Everyone wanted to be like Google. I just looked at him and said nothing.

−  ‘Anyway’, he continued, studying my CV again, ‘I asked you to come in because you seem to have extensive experience in accountancy, as far as I can see. Could you give me a brief outline of your career so far?’

The moment had come to sell my soul. I wanted to close my eyes and clench my teeth and my fists very hard. But for reasons as impractical as they were unknown, I opted to put my brain into automatic pilot.

−  ‘I’ve worked for the Robatori Legal Bank for seven years, as you’ll have read. I held the position of chief accountant in charge of mortgages and...’

−  ... ‘You