by CJ Morrow
‘It’s the twenty-first century, for God’s sake,’ Lily said out loud as she went back to her desk.
‘What is?’ Damon asked.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Did you see her? What a turn up eh?’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore.’ Lily felt tired. What with Will’s antics with Giselle, Tess’s surprise announcement, and now this? ‘Anyway, how did you know? I’ve only just finished my meeting?’
But Damon wasn’t listening to Lily, he was chattering away at her. ‘I mean, she’s very attractive. Stunning actually. And I say that as a man who doesn’t really like that sort of thing. If you know what I mean.’ He giggled.
‘Heather? I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Not Heather. No. Not Heather.’
‘Oh. I thought you were talking about me and Oily Bastard. He’s made a complaint. Against me.’
‘Yes. I know. Everyone knows.’
‘How?’
Damon shrugged. ‘Old news,’ he said. ‘No, I was talking about The French Lady.’
‘Who?’
‘The French Lady, Mrs Montgomery-Jones.’ He dropped his voice as The Europeans’ heads both bobbed up, their eyes focusing on Damon. ‘Cyril’s wife.’
‘Oh,’ Lily said. ‘Right. No, I didn’t see her. I thought you said he wasn’t married.’
Damon arched his eyebrows. ‘Seems I got that wrong. Oh well.’
‘Never mind,’ Lily said, in her best sympathetic voice. She didn’t really care whether Cyril was married or not. What the hell difference did it make to her? It might end one of Damon’s little fantasies, but he had so many, she felt sure he’d get over it. And, like she’d just said to Damon, nothing surprised her anymore. There was just a nasty little bitter feeling deep inside, but she kicked it away.
A quick email from Veronica required Lily to pop round immediately to sort out a date for her hearing – that was how Veronica described it – with Cyril.
Typically Veronica was on the phone when Lily arrived so she sat down in the waiting area, yet again. It seemed she was spending half the morning sitting in these seats. She sat looking at her fingers and thinking how much she needed a manicure; the last time she’d applied nail varnish was when Will had covered it in furry scarf.
‘Ah, bonjour,’ the voice said as Lily looked up to see the owner, a concoction of all things chic. Her clothes were Audrey Hepburn a la Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Indeed, Lily even glanced at her perfectly manicured hands – black nail varnish never looked so good – half expecting to see a cigarette holder. Her hair was a classic full-fringed bob, jet black and glossy – it would have made Gemma’s helmet wig look untidy. She drifted past Lily and sat down, wafting clouds of luscious, expensive perfume.
‘Mireille Montgomery-Jones,’ she said, offering her hand to Lily. Damon’s French Lady.
‘Lily Ward.’
‘You work with my ‘usband, Ceerill?’ Mireille asked, her accent thick.
‘Yes. Well, for him really.’ Lily wondered how much longer that would last. Mireille crossed her legs, displaying snap-thin ankles and black patent leather courts, which were, rather surprisingly, almost flat.
‘I have the day wrong,’ Mireille said with a tittering laugh. ‘C’est la vie.’ She shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands, a gesture which looked both elegant and ridiculous.
Lily nodded politely.
‘Veronique is going to synch our diaries. Qui, Veronique?’ But Veronica was still on the phone, her head down and listening intently. ‘I have no head for the dates. They go in, then pfff, they go out. I thought the lunch it was today, but…’ she splayed her elegant hands and looked up to the ceiling as though searching for inspiration.
Lily smiled to acknowledge Mireille’s comment before closing her hands into fists to hide her own tatty nails.
‘You have worked here many years?’
‘Yes, many.’ Would there be many more?
‘You like it? Of course?’
‘Well, you know…’
Suddenly, Veronica came off the phone and dropped the handset down onto its cradle with a clank.
Mireille jumped up and presented herself at Veronica’s desk, blocking Lily’s access.
‘Mrs Montgomery-Jones,’ Veronica began.
‘Mireille, please, Veronique.’
‘Mireille,’ Veronica said, the name rattling in her mouth. ‘Do you mind if I speak to Lily first?’
‘Mais, oui.’ Mireille stepped aside and waved Lily towards Veronica. It was only as Lily stood next to her that she realised why Mireille wore such low heels; she towered above Lily; it made Lily wish she was wearing the navy and pink shoes with their leg-lengthening heels rather than her usual office flats.
‘The earliest he can see you is Friday at four-thirty.’
‘That’s late in the day.’
‘He’s very busy,’ Veronica said with a sigh.
‘I’m not in any hurry, fit me in another day.’
Veronica stared over her glasses at Lily and smiled the smile of cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. ‘He says it must be this week. Four-thirty, then. I’ll email you a meeting invitation.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Au revoir, Leely,’ Mireille called as Lily walked away.
Lily turned round to say goodbye and saw Veronica visibly shrink as Mireille turned her full attention to her with a loud, ‘Veronique.’
‘Are those the dulcet tones of The French Lady I can hear?’ Damon sniggered as Lily returned.
‘Yes.’
‘Très chic. Don’t you think?’
‘She looks chic. Yes. And I think Veronica has met her match there.’
‘They must make a handsome couple, Mr and Mrs Montgomery-Jones. Both tall, both beautiful in their own way. Him so English, her so very French.’
‘Yeah,’ Lily said, watching Damon as he smiled to himself. God knows what sort of fantasy was playing out in his head now, and Lily wasn’t about to ask. Anyway, she had work to do, she’d done virtually nothing all morning.
‘Apparently she’s made rather a fuss about dates being mixed up,’ continued Damon.
‘Damon. What now?’ He had pulled his chair up close to Lily’s and was speaking in a whisper.
‘That’s why she had to be shown around the office and the warehouse. Absolutely insisted on it. Poor old Veronica had to trot around all those grubby electrical components and all those butch men with The French Lady in tow. Can you imagine?’
‘Oh dear.’ Lily kept her eyes on her computer.
‘And, it’s made everyone nervous, especially with everything that’s going on.’
Lily turned to see Damon’s grinning, expectant face looming closer.
‘What’s going on? What do you know? You spill.’
‘Well, you know how Cyril’s had us checking all the numbers, sales, invoices, payments, everything? And he’s had me compiling a full list on all our transactions.’
‘No, I didn’t really realise.’ Why didn’t she know? Why was Damon in the know? ‘What report are you compiling?’
‘About all our financial transactions,’ he reiterated. ‘I thought you knew.’
Liar. He knew she didn’t. What worried her was why she didn’t. ‘How long have you been doing that?’
‘Right from day one. He called me into his office and told me what he wanted.’
‘You never said.’ Lily tried not to sound peevish.
‘He told me not to. He said it was hush, hush.’ Damon put his finger to his lips.
‘So why are you telling me now?’
‘Because it appears it’s common knowledge, everyone is talking about it. Some are even saying that The French Lady’s parade around was part of assessing Bensons suitability for sale.’
‘But Bensons has just been sold, and bought. We were taken over. Remember?’
‘But what if the new owners are just asset strippers?’
‘You’re just speculating, aren’t you?’ Lily narrowed her eyes a
t Damon. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Maybe. But so is everyone else. You need to shake off your post holiday stupor and get with the programme, Lily. In case you’ve forgotten we’ve already had redundancies – even if we didn’t call them that. We processed the payoffs, so…’ Without getting off his seat Damon wheeled it back across the office.
Was he serious? Was there any truth in what he’d said? Was it possible that Bensons was being asset stripped? Surely not. Rumours about the place going under had been circulating for years; it was an old world business in a new world economy. Customers could buy direct from China if they wanted to, but that wasn’t new. What bothered Lily more was that Damon was in on the investigation.
Cyril Montgomery-Jones had him working on the numbers. Why wasn’t Lily involved? Not a word had been said to her. Nothing. She’d been blissfully unaware. What was wrong with her? Normally she was the one leading the race, Damon usually trailing behind. Had the decision already been made? Had Damon already won? Would Lily be the next one for the chop? Would they call it redundancy or something else? She thought about poor old Josh putting on such a brave face on his last day.
Josh, who she thought had guided her to the beach that day, except of course, it wasn’t, because Josh had already died by then. Poor Josh.
Damon was deep into his own work now; he was getting closer and closer to his screen and frowning. Maybe he was working on more secret numbers for Cyril. Lily pinged him an email asking if he could give her a lift to pick up her car at lunchtime.
‘Why did you leave it here?’ Damon said as they pulled into the Co-op car park.
‘Because I went in the shop. Tess lives just round the corner.’
‘Yes, but why did you leave it here?’
‘Because I’d had too many wines, as you well know.’ Lily got out of the car but before closing the door she leaned back in. ‘Thanks for the lift. Really appreciate it.’
‘Any time hun, is the plonk cheap here?’ Smirk, smirk.
‘Do you really think Bensons could be in trouble?’
‘Anything’s possible.’ Well, that wiped the smirk off Damon’s face. Not that it was much consolation to Lily.
She pulled her car keys out of her bag, climbed into her car and had already switched on the engine before she noticed it.
‘Oh for...’ she screeched to herself.
A very large bird, no, probably a flock of birds, had crapped all over her windscreen. A giant white ghost spread across her line of vision. She yanked on the screen washer lever and waited for it to clear, but the sun had set it quite solid and all the wipers did was smear gunk everywhere. No amount of windscreen washer would budge it. She got out of the car and slammed the door.
‘You need to wipe that off first,’ a helpful man said, as he climbed into his car – an ugly black four-by-four the size of a bus.
‘Do you think?’
She went into the Co-op, found the kitchen roll then headed up the water aisle, her eyes scanning for the still water. A big gap presented itself.
‘Excuse me; do you have any still water?’
‘No love. Waiting on a delivery.’ The assistant looked weary and bored.
‘None at all? You mean you have none?’
‘Yes love. Try flavoured water.’ Lily’s gaze followed a pointing finger and when she looked back the woman assistant had gone.
For one mad moment Lily considered it, but really, adding sticky to the bird crap, was that a good idea? She made her way to the till.
‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Do you have a bucket or something I could use to get some tap water?’
The assistant – a spotty boy this time – looked at her as though she were speaking a foreign language.
‘Only my car’s in your car park and birds have decorated my windscreen.’
Spotty boy blinked at her.
‘So that’s yours.’ The woman assistant reappeared from behind. ‘We wondered whose it was. You can’t use this as a public car park. Didn’t you see the signs? You can’t leave your car here overnight.’
‘No. Sorry. It was an emergency.’ A too much wine emergency. ‘I’ll take it out of your way now, but I need to clean the bird poo off first. I can’t see to drive. That’s what this is for.’ She waved the kitchen roll at them. ‘But I need some water.’
Suddenly spotty boy woke up, pointed into the distance and said, ‘Aisle five.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have any still water. Or, at least, not just plain water.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his eyes straying back to the till.
‘So,’ Lily tried again. ‘Have you got a bucket I could borrow and some tap water?’
‘No love. Sorry we don’t. You’ll have to buy some.’ The female assistant sounded too gleeful.
Lily looked from one blank face to another. She wondered if they were having a joke at her expense. She wasn’t finding it funny. The three of them stood in a tableau of dumb stupidity.
‘Okay.’ Lily stomped back up to the water aisle and picked up two bottles of sparkling water. Four litres should be enough. Co-op own brand – at least it was cheap.
She poured the water onto the bird crap and watched it fizz. And fizz. The white crap seemed to be spreading further and further, bubbling its way across her entire windscreen and down onto the paintwork. She kept pouring.
The four-by-four driver was back, she could see him sniggering out of the corner of her eye. She turned. He grinned.
‘Push off,’ she muttered under her breath.
Two bottles of water and half a kitchen roll later, the screen was clear enough to use the windscreen washer again. Lily looked round for somewhere to dispose of the empty bottles and crappy paper. She spied a giant wheelie bin.
‘You can’t put that in there,’ the female assistant shouted from the open shop door as the spotty boy hovered behind her, his mouth open in an expression of abject gawkiness.
‘Why not?’
‘That’s for commercial waste.’ The woman folded her arms.
‘It won’t do any harm.’
‘No. No. The Council will fine us.’
‘No they won’t.’ Lily lifted the lid of the bin.
‘You can’t put that in there. You’re on CCTV.’ She nodded at the camera perched on the side of the building. It was pointing directly at the wheelie bin.
‘So what can I do with it?’
‘Take it home with you.’
Lily glanced at her car, thought about having the crappy paper in it and shuddered. The woman smiled, she was reading Lily’s mind.
‘You can have a carrier bag to put it in.’ Both assistants turned and headed back inside the shop. The woman reappeared and waved a plastic carrier at Lily.
‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ Lily was genuinely grateful. It wasn’t the perfect solution, but it was better than nothing.
‘That’ll be 5p.’
‘What?’
‘Government tax. We don’t get the money.’ A well-practised line.
After Lily had stomped over to her car, holding the bird poo paper aloft, extracted 5p from her purse and paid the charge, the woman held the bag open as Lily stuffed it full.
‘Thank you,’ Lily said, taking the bag and knotting the handles.
‘You’re welcome. This is for you.’ A small piece of paper was pushed at Lily.
‘Thanks. What is it?’
‘Parking penalty ticket. You can’t park overnight.’
Damon laughed hard when she told him about it later, but not as hard as Will did that evening.
Sixteen
The rest of the week was a ‘heads down’ week. Since Damon had pointed it out Lily began noticing that people were very nervous. If there were going to be job losses, no one wanted to be a loser. Rumours were whispered, nods and knowing looks exchanged. The words ‘irregularities’ and ‘financial’ were mentioned in the same sentence. Lily started to feel paranoid. How had she never noticed any issues?
Had Damon been so astute
or had he only noticed when it was pointed out to him? She thought about their respective roles, about their areas of responsibility. Damon handled the sales ledger; he knew how much money came in. Lily handled purchases and payroll processing. They collaborated and discussed things but she now realised that neither of them had a complete overview. Until his sudden early retirement, that had been the responsibility of the financial director.
Now Cyril Montgomery-Jones was in that position.
And he’d seemingly managed to get that overview overnight. Lily felt angry and humiliated. No wonder she hadn’t got the finance director job – she wasn’t up to it. She felt a fool for ever thinking she had been. She felt an idiot for applying.
Tess messaged her to invite her over on Friday night after work – just us girls, she said, making it clear that Gareth wouldn’t be there. Lily made a mental note to pick up a nice engagement card and a bottle of champagne, not that she would be drinking it; she’d had enough wine for one week. Lily hoped that a girly evening would be the perfect antidote after the meeting about Oily Bastard with Cyril Doppelganger.
As the meeting approached she began to feel nervous and she had no idea why. She was in the right. Oliver Banstead was an oily bastard. He had letched over women left, right and centre. He didn’t even attempt to conceal it, but he was cunning enough to ensure there were never any witnesses. Just because he was the top salesman with the best car and biggest bonus in the company and always had been, didn’t mean he could behave like that. There was no excuse. There were old rumours about incidents in locked stationery cupboards, a liaison in the warehouse after hours, there was even something supposed to have happened in the basement boiler room.
Lily reminded herself that none of this was evidence, it was just hearsay. But there was too much hearsay, too many rumours. What worried her was that although people were more than willing to joke about Oily Bastard’s nickname, when it came to stepping forward and giving evidence, faces where blank and voices were silent. Was Oliver Banstead really so protected?
Lily took a deep breath as she approached Cyril Doppelganger’s office door; it was closed. Heather was already there, sitting opposite Cyril and wearing her serious face. She jumped up as Lily peered in through the door porthole.