How could she possibly understand how hard it was to be forever counting the pennies, when she always had it so easy?
In our teens when we scooped up sale items on Saturday shopping trips, she’d sling her arm round my shoulder and laugh, ‘We’re just the same, you and me. We’ll do anything to bag a bargain.’
I’d force a smile when she said things like that. But deep down, it hurt. I’d be thinking, But no, Carol, we’re not the same. Why can’t you understand that?
Carol scrimped and hunted out bargains for the thrill of getting something for less. It was like an enjoyable hobby to her. And she did it partly so she could justify splurging cash on other things, like flying to New York to visit her sister or treating herself to the dress she saw in Vogue.
I scrimped because I had no money.
I didn’t find it fun.
We were definitely not the same.
Chapter Seven
When I get to the office at twelve-thirty, following a three hour muck-out of a particularly manky flat, all I want to do is collapse at my desk and read my emails.
But Carol calls me in the instant I arrive.
I look at her curiously as she checks something on her computer screen, wondering if she’ll mention the DVD from last night.
At last she looks up and I decide to take the bull by the horns.
‘That was strange last night, wasn’t it?’ I aim for upbeat. ‘I mean, seeing us all like that on TV. How we were then.’ My laugh sounds self-conscious. ‘The girls. Those clothes. The hairstyles.’
She crosses her arms and I catch a glimmer of uncertainty in her normally cool, green gaze.
I’ve unsettled her; crossed an invisible line by daring to be so familiar.
Next second, the iron shutter slams down and she looks away, hunting for something in a pile of papers.
‘They were great days, though, weren’t they?’ I persist, wanting a reaction. Any reaction, for God’s sake – if not wholehearted agreement, then sadness, maybe? Or anger. Just something.
A tell-tale flush creeps into her porcelain pale cheeks and she stares at me in silence.
‘I miss those days.’ I know I’m forcing the issue. But suddenly I’m quite sure that talking is the way forward. We’ve been distant and cagey with each other for too long. We’re not in the school playground any more, sending each other to Coventry on a childish whim.
She gives a contemptuous laugh. ‘Fond memories, eh? Well, I’m glad you see it that way because I definitely don’t.’
She pulls the file towards her and wrenches it open, and some of the pages spill out on to the floor. In a fury, she tears out the rest of the sheets and slams the file down hard on the desk.
Then she tosses a pile of invoices in front of me and tells me to go and sort them out.
I return to my desk, shocked to find myself close to tears.
I’m such a bloody idiot for thinking she might have been touched, like I was, by what she watched last night.
The ice around her heart seems, if anything, more shatterproof than ever.
Changed days, indeed.
In the past, Carol was always the first person I’d turn to when I was in trouble. She would have done anything to help me.
Like when she turned up, completely unexpectedly, at Dad’s funeral.
Dad died from pneumonia when I was sixteen.
It happened suddenly, during the summer holidays. I was staying with my Auntie Sharon, who had a house right by the beach, and when we got the terrible news, she brought me all the way back up North on the train.
I sat silently huddled into a corner of the carriage, staring out at the blur of sheep and fields whizzing by, heavy with fear and loss. Dad’s Multiple Sclerosis had been a major part of our lives but I’d never thought it would steal him away from me so suddenly.
Mum was five months pregnant with Tim.
I was shocked when I saw her. She had aged twenty years, her blonde good looks completely washed away.
The house seemed cold and unfamiliar. It was filled with people and – weirdly, I thought – the scent of flowers. There were bowls and vases of them all over the place, and the sickly smell made my nausea worse.
I moved from room to room in a daze. It was my duty to hold it together for Mum because if she saw me weeping, everything would dissolve into chaos. And we had to get through the funeral yet.
After the service, I stood in line as a conveyor belt of mourners pressed my hand and spoke kind words to me. I knew I would never be happy again.
Then someone said, ‘Who’s that?’
I looked over and there was Carol, standing by the church gate.
I have never been so pleased to see someone in my entire life, either before or since.
I broke away from the group and sat with her on an ancient gravestone out of sight of the other mourners, and I cried properly for the first time, my tears soaking right through her scratchy orange jumper.
When I stormed that it wasn’t fair, losing my dad so young, she gave me her best scarf to wipe my face and said she’d rather have a dad like mine for sixteen years than another sort of dad for an entire lifetime.
Much later, I learned that her father had refused to allow her time off school to support me at the funeral, but she’d bunked off anyway. I knew what that would have cost her when her father found out. Because however often she declared she hated him, I knew that secretly, she was desperate for his approval.
As I’m sorting through the pile of invoices Carol’s just dumped on me, I quickly check my emails. All junk, except one.
A message from the hotel.
I click on it, remembering Reservations Guy and his laid-back attitude. What was his name, again? Oh yes, Ronald McDonald.
I cross my fingers as it opens, praying it’s good news.
Morning Ms Blatchett
Good news. May have a cancellation for the date you want, at a price you’d like. Will keep you posted.
P.S. Hope that goldfish is fighting fit.
Ronald McDonald
I’m so relieved, I laugh out loud.
Then I tap out a reply:
Mr McDonald
Please do not mock goldfish. They are extremely sensitive. Especially when teased about their rubbish memory.
Do keep me posted.
Less than two minutes later, he replies:
Did you know that goldfish sleep with their eyes open because they don’t have eyelids?
P.S. I’ve got a spare tennis ball if you ever need it.
Ronald McDonald
I’m smiling as I return to the invoices.
‘Shona-a-a-a!’ The Boss jerks me from my daydream. ‘More coffee! And get me an up-to-date list of all our customers. And I mean all of them, including that tit Mrs Hetherington.’
‘Okay.’ Shona slips off her reading glasses and dashes into The Boss’s office to gather up the morning’s accumulation of used mugs.
Mrs Hetherington, a customer for several months, had the gall to write a letter to the local paper, complaining that having ‘ruined’ her parquet flooring, we only agreed to pay for the damage when she threatened us with court action. The Boss was furious with Mrs Hetherington. Not only because of the legal threat, which we all thought unfair. But because of a small paragraph at the bottom of the letter, which said, ‘Perhaps if the owner of Spit and Polish spent less on designer clothing, she would have a budget readily available to compensate clients for shoddy workmanship.’
Every morning this week, The Boss has burst through the door, held up her handbag or pointed to some item of clothing and announced, ‘Ten pounds from Oxfam!’ or ‘Twenty pence from the jumble sale!’ before charging to her office and slamming the door off its hinges.
The Boss takes a perverse pleasure in being miserly – thrift rules her life – and Mrs Hetherington wounded her pride.
‘Do you think she’s busy?’ Ella asks me, with a nod at The Boss’s door.
‘Um – not sure. Why?’
‘I need to check something out with her.’ She flicks back her blonde-streaked hair, releasing a freshly-washed scent of summer meadows.
‘Oh? What is it?’ I ask casually.
She touches the side of her nose and murmurs confidentially, ‘A PR opportunity she simply can’t afford to pass up.’ Standing up, she slips off her fake fur and hangs it on the back of her chair.
I wait for her to give me more but she doesn’t, so I say, ‘Oh, great. Why don’t you talk to me about it first and then I can tell you if I think it’s something she might go for?’
Ella eyes me coolly, probably worried I am going to steal her idea. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. I am merely keen to stop her barging into the lion’s den and becoming lunch.
Just then, The Boss emerges from her office, points at Shona’s empty chair and barks, ‘Where is she? I need that list.’ Her voice has a hint of gravel, especially when she’s going through a chain-smoking phase. The air emerging from her office is thick and acrid, and Ella starts to cough.
‘You asked for coffee,’ I remind her. ‘Shona’s making it.’
The Boss is tall – over six feet – with the angular shoulders of a swimmer and a high metabolism that ensures she never puts on weight, lucky cow. Her blonde crop makes her look principal boy handsome and ultra-feminine at the same time. When she smiles, that is. But bad temper is taking its toll. Her recent habit of substituting meals with fags has dulled her complexion and given her a creased look, which reminds me of my pile of ironing that needs attention.
Suddenly, I feel a pang of sadness. It’s a cliché, I know, but there was a time she could light up the room with a smile. At what point did the desire for money hijack her personality so completely?
‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t she get me the list first and then make the coffee?’ she growls, shooting a filthy look at Ella.
I can’t think of an answer to that. And anyway, poor Ella is now coughing so furiously she’s hanging onto a chair, so I doubt I’d make myself heard. I dash into the kitchen for water and The Boss stomps back to her fume-filled office.
Ella sips gratefully from the glass then spends the next ten minutes trying to rescue her mascara with a folded paper hanky.
‘She shouldn’t be smoking in the work place,’ she announces, far too loudly considering The Boss’s door is partially open.
‘Try telling her that,’ mutters Shona, returning with a coffee tray.
‘No, don’t!’ I yelp, fearing our elephant-skinned junior is about to sacrifice herself on the altar of passive smoking.
Shona delivers the coffee then shuts the door firmly behind her.
‘Do something about the temperature, Shona,’ The Boss yells. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’
‘You mean put the heating on?’
‘Well, what else would I mean? Build a friggin’ bonfire? Oh, and Bobbie, did you find the coffee machine?’
I put my head round her door. ‘We’ve run out of the freshly-ground stuff. Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’
The Boss pulls out her purse and draws a note from its compartment. She checks carefully to make sure there aren’t two stuck together and holds it out to me. ‘Get the good stuff.’
‘Wow. Who’s the lucky visitor?’
‘And some biscuits.’ She ignores the question. ‘Chocolate.’
I nod.
Her grip is firm on the ten pound note.
‘Let go,’ I murmur.
‘What?’ she snaps. ‘Oh, yes.’
I get my coat, pocket the money and head along to the local supermarket, glad of the breather.
I walk back into a Tense Situation.
Ella is standing by The Boss’s office, effectively blocking her from getting in, and I arrive just as she’s gushing, ‘ … amazing way to publicise the business!’
Shona’s head bobs up in alarm.
‘The thing is, I was out with my friend, Amy, at the weekend, and she works for the local radio station and she’s helped organise this incredible initiative where people donate money and they give food parcels to the needy at Christmas time. They’re asking companies like ours to make a donation.’
In the silence that follows, Shona sneaks a look my way.
‘So I told Amy I would ask you.’
I can’t bear to look at Ella’s pleased expression.
The Boss arranges her features into a smile. ‘To donate to a charity?’
Ella nods.
‘You want me to donate money? To the poor people?’
‘Yes! It’s ever such a good cause and just think what it would do for the image of the company.’
The Boss nods as if she is giving it her full consideration. ‘Hmm, so you think our image could do with a bit of help, then?’
Ella’s face falls slightly. ‘Well, no, I didn’t mean – I just meant it would be good publicity. That’s all.’
The Boss raises an eyebrow and disastrously, Ella takes this as encouragement to continue. ‘It wouldn’t have to be very much. Just a few hundred, maybe? I mean, obviously that would be up to you.’
I look over at Shona. Her shoulders are up to her ears, as if she expects the ceiling to fall in on us at any second.
‘I don’t think so.’ The Boss’s tone is as icy as a skating rink.
She takes Ella’s arm and steers her firmly out of the way.
To my horror, Ella moves back into the doorway and continues talking. ‘But that kind of publicity is like gold dust. It must be worth a try. Don’t you think?’
In the silence, you could seriously hear a false nail drop.
I feel as tense as I do when someone on telly hears a strange noise in the attic and decides it would be a good thing to investigate.
The Boss shakes her head and places her hands on her hips. ‘If you seriously imagine I’m going to hand over my hard-earned fucking cash to a bunch of stinking, dirty lay-abouts, who lie around all fucking day watching their fucking friends on the fucking Jeremy Kyle Show and can’t be arsed to go out and get a job, you really do need your head examined, Ellen.’
She shimmies into her office and kicks the door shut.
Poor Ella – enduring the added insult of being called by the wrong name – needs two cups of nettle tea before she starts feeling normal again.
As I’m packing up to leave the office later, Shona, looking red-faced, hisses, ‘Guess who’ll be drinking the posh coffee and munching the chocolate biscuits?’
I frown. ‘Who?’
‘Only The Sparkle Sisters!’ She nods at The Boss’s door. ‘And here was me thinking she hated them!’
‘But she does. They’re our biggest rivals. She spends any spare time she has sticking pins in their effigies.’
‘So what’s she doing inviting them in for a cosy chat?’
I stare at Shona.
What, indeed!
Chapter Eight
It’s another inspiring day at the office and I’m supposed to be doing an inventory and ordering supplies. But an email from Ronald McDonald has just pinged onto my screen and I’m trying to think up a reply.
His message:
Morning Ms Blatchett
How are you today?
And how are things in the cleaning world? (I looked you up online.) Interesting name, ‘Spit and Polish.’ Your boss obviously has a great sense of humour.
Ronald McDonald
My reply:
Oh yes, she’s a laugh a minute!
I’m all right, thanks, apart from the fact that my brother tried to paint his scooter with my blusher brush and paints.
What’s your boss like?
I’m smiling as I hit ‘send’, wondering how he’ll reply. It brightens up a Thursday morning, at any rate.
When I get back from lunch, I quickly check and there’s another message:
Little brothers, eh? Mine’s twenty-one and he still winds me up. (But I keep my make-up brushes in a safe place.) What do you paint?
<
br /> I reply:
Watercolours. At least, I used to. It was my dream to be an artist but I got wise to the delights of a regular income. Rent doesn’t come cheap!
And back bounces the following:
Ah, yes. The rent. That’s a dream-crusher if ever there was one. But what would you do if money weren’t an issue?
I’m about to type something flippant like, ‘buy myself an island and become a latter day Robinson Crusoe.’
But instead, I pause, my fingers suspended over the keyboard.
Then I take a deep breath and write:
Glass-blowing. That’s what I’d do. I learned at college and I decided I wanted to spend my life creating beautiful beads and vases and Christmas baubles. Molten glass is such an amazing thing to work with.
A minute later, he replies:
Glass-blowing. You’re full of surprises, Miss Blatchett. What’s so special about it? (I’m not being polite; I’m genuinely interested.)
I’m smiling as I type :
Did you know glass is made of sand? Not the sort you find on the beach but a purer kind. And you can add things to the melt to make different colours. Put a little cobalt oxide in and you get this lovely deep, rich blue. Add a pinch of gold and it makes a glorious ruby red. When you first pull the molten glass out of the furnace, it has this incredibly beautiful clarity. So I like to work as quickly as possible because the less the glass is handled, the more stunningly pure it looks.
Bobbie
I send it off and stare into space for a while, remembering my excitement when the trading allowed me to buy a small furnace and all the tools I’d need to start up. I even managed to find a workshop, just around the corner from the London flat. But I never got as far as renting it. The trading wiped me out before I had a chance and most of my lovely equipment had to be sold.
It’s Friday lunchtime and Ronald McDonald still hasn’t replied to my last email. Maybe I bored the pants off him, going on and on about glass-blowing.
What an idiot.
I don’t know what came over me.
I’m walking back to the office with Shona and she’s telling me about Barry, her long-time boyfriend who she’s known since they were fourteen.
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 5