by Alice Ross
‘What does Calum being on the property ladder have to do with anything?’
I heave a weary sigh. This is torturous. But any girl with half a brain would choose Calum over me. Which is why I don’t want Ellie to feel bad about it. ‘Well, he’s obviously much more established than I am. Much more mature and grown up. And will obviously earn lots more money. And—’
Ellie’s diminutive frame plops down onto the orange plastic chair recently vacated by Kyle. ‘Did you actually read any of the emails?’
‘Of course not. They’re private.’
‘I see.’ A giggle escapes her. ‘Well, on one hand, it’s lovely to hear that you respect my privacy. But on the other, it seems that the bump to your head has brought on a severe case of paranoia. It’s a proven side effect, you know. When I worked at the school, one of the science teachers had concussion after falling off his bike. He thought 5B were plotting to build a bomb and murder him. Called the Police in and everything.’
‘He didn’t!’
‘He did. But the doctor put it down to paranoia caused by his head injury.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. So I’m assuming that’s why you were so keen for us to spend today apart. Because you thought I was back with Calum?’
‘Yes. Because it explains everything. Like why you’ve been so emotional lately. Why you weren’t overly excited at the prospect of moving in with me last year—’
‘Oh, Adam, I couldn’t wait to move in with you. But I thought you were only asking me because I’d forced you into a corner when I had to get out of my flat.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yes, honestly.’
At this confirmation, my spirits begin tentatively rising from the gutter in which they’d been languishing. Before I remember something else. ‘But you’re fed up with our social life. When Dominic was talking about his company do at Tower Bridge – and the holiday in Dubai - you were practically green with envy.’
Her expression turns sheepish. ‘Only because you’re always rabbiting on about jetting off to Papua New Guinea. And because what I’m about to tell you will probably mean we’ll never be able to do anything like that. Not until we’re retired, at least.’
Now my nose concertinas. What on earth is she—?
‘I… that is, we… are pregnant, Adam.’
Pregnant? For a few seconds the rest of the world dims: the sound of the carol singers, the hustle and bustle of the staff, the snowflakes tumbling outside the window, all fade to nothing. Leaving Ellie and I alone - her chewing her bottom lip and looking more nervous than she did before her last corporate tax exam. And me most likely resembling someone who’s just received an invitation from the real Santa Claus to an Ann Summers party.
At the exploding of a couple of party poppers in the background, my surroundings spring back to life. And, accompanied by a croaky Away In A Manger, the reality of Ellie’s words begin trickling into my consciousness.
‘Pregnant?’ I hear myself echoing. ‘As in having a baby?’
She nods, apprehension still clouding her beautiful features. ‘Given I don’t know of any other sort of pregnant, I assume so.’
‘So… we’ll be parents.’
‘That is the general knock-on effect.’
As she continues to look terrified, a smile touches my lips. Then stretches them a shade further.
‘I’m going to be a dad,’ I gasp. ‘And it’s going to be brilliant.’
Ellie releases a long breath of relief. ‘Oh, Adam, do you really think so? Because I’ve been dreading telling you.’
‘Why?’
She shakes her head. ‘To be honest, it’s taken me a while to come to terms with it. Even when the midwife texted me about something when we were in the shop picking up the eggs for Mum, I still couldn’t take it in. And it hasn’t exactly come at the best of times, what with my exams and everything. Plus, if I’m honest… I had no idea how you’d take the news. We’ve never discussed having kids – not properly. And I know you’re not overly keen on Arabella and Barnaby—’
‘That’s because they’re not normal. Our kid will be totally normal,’ I gabble, fizzing with excitement as I picture me and Ellie with a child; being a proper family. Before something else occurs to me. ‘But how? I mean, we’re always so careful.’
‘We are. Apart from the time I was in tears about the corporate tax stuff, and you tried to cheer me up by wearing your traffic cone outfit. Remember?’
I snort with laughter. ‘I do. And I did cheer you up, didn’t I?’
‘Two hundred per cent. But we did get a bit carried away.’
‘Oh God! Does that mean we’re going to have a mini traffic cone?’
‘Possibly,’ she giggles. ‘But whatever it is, you are pleased about it, aren’t you?’
‘Pleased?’ My smile almost splits my face. ‘Ellie, you have just made me the happiest man on the planet. Although, something else would make me even happier.’
‘Twin traffic cones?’
‘No. Well, yes. But that’s not what I meant. As this is already turning into the best Christmas ever, what would really make my day is if you would say yes to marrying me.’
‘Of course I will. But you’re not just asking me because I’m pregnant, are you? Because if you are—’
‘I’m asking you because I love you, woman. And because I’d planned to ask you all along. That was why I booked the break at Pebberley Castle. I have the ring and everything. Well, not on me, for obvious reasons. In fact, I’ve only just realised that it’s still at your parents’ house. I can’t tell you how much hassle that ring has caused me the last few days. Or how much effort I put into planning everything, which has all turned out to be a complete disaster.’
‘Oh, poor Adam,’ she chuckles. ‘I don’t suppose you planned on being in hospital on Christmas Day either.’
‘Nope. This is definitely not the finale I’d envisaged. But I don’t care. We’re getting married and having a mini traffic cone. And I feel like all my Christmases have come at once.’
‘So, now that our immediate future is sorted out,’ I begin, when we’ve all – including Farmer Lyons - have stuffed our faces with turkey and all the trimmings, and Kyle is chatting up one of the nurses. ‘What was all that stuff with Calum about?’
Ellie’s hands shoot to her face. ‘Oh, Adam. It’s honestly beyond embarrassment.’
‘What? Has he got five nipples or something?’
‘No. Nothing like that. But you know he’s a pilot, which means he has a thing about flying.’
‘Obviously.’
She contorts her features into a rueful expression. ‘Well, he has a thing about superheroes who fly. One in particular.’
‘Which one?’
‘Batman. And when I say A Thing, I mean A Thing.’
For a couple of seconds I have no idea what she’s talking about. Before it dawns on me. ‘You mean like a… Bedroom Thing?’
‘Ah ha. Mask, cape, the lot. He didn’t fess up to it until we’d been going out for over a year. And I tried to go along with it, I honestly did. But it was just so… weird. Anyway, apparently his current girlfriend has persuaded him to see a counsellor about it. And part of his therapy is to discuss with former partners, how his obsession made them feel. So, as he’s now based in Amsterdam, that’s what we’ve been doing. Via email.’
‘Blimey,’ I chuckle.
‘It’s not funny,’ snorts Ellie, obviously finding it very funny. ‘Calum is taking it all very seriously.’
‘As are you?’
‘Of course,’ she says, before bursting into peals of laughter.
I join in, before stopping abruptly.
‘But what about my traffic cone outfit? Is that weird too? Do you think I need to see a counsellor?’
She shakes her head. ‘Nah. Different league altogether. Traffic cones are proper sexy,’ she confirms, before wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her lips to mine.
If you enjoyed N
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Never Drop Dead on a Friday
Turn the page for an exclusive extract…
Alice Ross
Never
Drop Dead
on a
Friday
Chapter One
‘So, I’m afraid, Daz, as only two people have applied for voluntary redundancy, we’re going to have to choose another ten to send on their way. Or rather,’ sniggered my boss, Bernie, in his broad Australian accent, ‘you are going to have to choose another ten to send on their way.’
Across the desk – littered with mounds of paper, dirty coffee cups and a polystyrene burger box bedecked with shrivelled lettuce, Bernie gives one of his snorts – an unsettling mix of hilarity, smugness and one-upmanship, before leaning back in his chair and anchoring his arms behind his head. The position awards me a spectacular view of his bulging belly and the damp patches under his blue-shirted armpits.
Bernie has been my boss for the entire six years I’ve worked as Marketing Director for FloraFoam. Over that time, I’ve developed something of a Pavlovian reaction to him: his name flashes on my phone and my heart plummets to somewhere near his native Sydney. He is, without a shadow of a doubt, the vilest, most repulsive, lazy, misogynistic individual I have ever had the displeasure to meet. Were it not for a serious bit of nepotism – his grandfather having established the company in the Antipodean capital many moons ago – I suspect Bernie’s career may have reached the giddy heights of pub manager. The only reason I’ve tolerated him for so long is because he keeps making noises - not all of them pleasant – that he’ll be retiring soon and waddling off back to Oz. And that I, being second in command, will be red-hot favourite to replace him as Managing Director.
His chubby fingers snatch up a sheet of coffee-stained paper from the grubby desk and waft it in front of me. A stray shred of lettuce, having migrated there from the burger box, dislodges, glides through the air and lands in his thinning grey hair with all the grace of a prima ballerina. I make a snap executive decision not to tell him.
‘Head Office directive,’ he rattles on, on a puff of onion-scented breath. ‘Bog all we can do about it. I’ll need a list of names by Friday.’
My heart dips a shade further. No mean feat given it’s already loitering around my ankles. ‘By Friday,’ I splutter, vomit rising in my throat. ‘But it’s already Monday afternoon. That’s not enough time to seriously—’
Bernie cuts short my observation with a sniff from his extensive sniff repertoire – this one reeking of boredom. He flips open the burger box, scoops up a remnant of tomato that has seen better days and rams it into his too-wide mouth. ‘Oh. And don’t forget we’re taking out the bigwigs from Bootiful Blooms tomorrow night. Lovely juicy florist contract there, if we play our cards right.’
He flashes me a grin - which reveals the piece of unfortunate tomato lodged between two of his yellowing teeth - then, that apparently being the end of the conversation, swivels to his laptop and begins jabbing at the greasy keys.
I, meanwhile, can only gawp. The bloke has just informed me that I have to select ten people from my team of twenty for redundancy. My decision could be cataclysmic on so many levels: children removed from schools, weddings postponed, holidays cancelled, moving plans scuppered, a ton of pressure heaped on already-fraying relationships. And Bernie had shovelled the task on me without demonstrating so much as an ounce of compassion or regret.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing Louise again tomorrow night,’ he adds, tilting up his head again, a leery glint now in his rheumy eyes and the lettuce still in his hair. ‘First-class Sheila your missus.’
I don’t reply. I can’t. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth I’ll throw up all over the desk. Instead, I scrabble together my bits of paper, lever myself to my feet and shuffle out of the office, the aroma of sweaty armpits, greasy burgers and stale coffee clinging to me like a static-laden nylon sheet.
‘You all right, Darren?’ enquires Beverley, one of the supervisors, as I stagger past in a haze.
‘Fine,’ I squeak, scuttling towards the Gents.
I only just reach the cubicle and hang my head over the loo before my lunch makes a reappearance, smattering the stained bowl with remnants of a chicken salad sandwich and orange juice with bits.
Dragging myself over to the sink, I rinse out my mouth under the tap and splash my face with cold water. Patting it dry with a couple of paper towels, I risk a glance at the mirror. As anticipated, I look dreadful: the little colour that normally resides in my cheeks has disappeared without trace, leaving in its wake a worrying grey pallor; the whites of my eyeballs are threaded with pink; and my dark curly hair – my pride and joy in my dim and distant youth – seems streaked with significantly more grey than when I entered the office this morning. It is also, I note, in dire need of a cut. I look – and feel – at least a decade older than my not insignificant nine-and-thirty years.
‘Hiya, Darren.’
The door crashes open and in bounces Kyle, one of the young marketing assistants, wearing his trademark skinnier-than-skinny black trousers, which I can’t help but think must contribute to his bounce. No one with their bits so firmly constrained could manage a normal walk. He bobs past, flinging me an insouciant grin, completely oblivious to the fate that may – or may not, depending on the outcome of the humongous decision that has been dumped on my sagging shoulders – imminently await him. As he positions himself at one of the urinals, I resist the urge to witness first-hand the effect of those trousers on his nethers and instead, draw in several deep breaths, throw back said burdened and sagging shoulders, and return to my office.
The marketing department of FloraFoam occupies the entire second floor of an uninspiring, four-storey, modern building in the middle of an even less inspiring industrial estate. All twenty of my – soon to be annihilated – team are ensconced around small clusters of desks, like huddling battery hens. I, being deemed important, have the privilege of my own space – a square box with a glass panel that allows me to observe the hens, and a window facing the mirror image of our building across the road, the one difference being the sign gracing the entrance: Stuck Up – Sticking Things Up Since 1997. In my more reflective (i.e. what the hell am I doing here?) moments – of which there have been many during my years at FloraFoam – I’ve often wondered if some poor sod over at Stuck Up is gazing across at our building wondering what the hell he/she is doing there. Today I’m wondering if they, too, have been tasked with ruining ten lives. And, if so, if they’re handling it better than I am.
When I first left university, swaggering out of Durham with a first-class honours in economics and an ego the size of a small Pacific island, I’d gravitated straight to the bright lights of London, poised to take the metropolis by storm, confident that it couldn’t survive another day without my weighty contribution. Like an unsuspecting moth to a naked flame, however, I’d soon discovered that the bright lights weren’t quite as attractive close up as they appeared from a distance. Indeed, coming from a small village in Northumberland, the move proved something of a shock. As did the pressure of work, the ninety-minute commute, the office politics and the treadmill existence. Nonetheless, I stuck it out for twelve years, diligently scaling the corporate ladder; unaware that at the top sat nothing but a heap of festering dung.
My depressing train of musings screeches to a halt as, all at once, my PA, Vicky, appears in the doorway. Vicky is fifty-three years old and a big fan of the 1980s. So much so that, with her mass of brassy dyed hair, huge earrings and array of short-skirted suits with shoulder pads, she could seamlessly slip right back into the era without looking like she’d ever left it. She’s been going through the menopause for the entire six years I’ve been with the company. And I’ve been going through it with her. Indeed, from the cornucopia of information I’ve built up over that time, I’d have no qualms in selecting the subject as my Mastermind specialism.
‘Cup of tea, Darr
en?’ she asks.
I manage to contort my mouth into something resembling a smile and accept her offer. After which, she totters off on her pink stilettoes, returning a few minutes later with a mug emblazoned with FloraFoam – Keeping all your stems upright. She plonks it down in front of me, takes a step back from the desk and narrows her eyes – framed in their trademark turquoise. ‘Are you all right?’
The question causes my stomach to flip and beads of sweat to break out over my upper lip. I’m as far away from all right as floral foam is from being sexy, but the last thing I need is my razor-sharp secretary picking up on the fact.
‘Yes. Fine,’ I reply, a little more curtly than intended. Her eyes narrow a tad further, causing a guilty flush to rush to my cheeks. ‘How are you?’ I blurt out in desperation.
The enquiry was made purely to divert attention from myself. Still, as Vicky sucks in a deep breath, rolls her eyes and gives one of her “the end of the world is nigh” shudders, I regret the move instantly. She deposits her bony frame in the chair opposite and begins to tell me all about a craving for beef flavour Hula Hoops she’s developed overnight.
‘I’m convinced it’s another menopausal symptom. My sister-in-law Karen’s going through it now. Doesn’t know what’s hit her. But I told her it’s no use moaning about it. You just have to grin and bear it. Night sweats, tiredness, hair sprouting from all kinds of places other than where you want it, the lot.’
This sprouting of unwanted hair is a new one on me. Devoid of any inclination to enquire as to where it might be taking place, however, I nod sympathetically, then pick up my mug and take a sip of tea. It’s boiling hot and scalds the roof of my mouth. Setting it back down on the desk, I hear myself saying, ‘Can I ask you something, Vicky?’
Evidently hoping it might be about The Time of Life, she leans forward and grins at me. ‘Fire away.’