I turn away and press the phone closer to my ear.
‘How’s the Jag?’
‘Doing very well, thanks for asking.’
His voice is deep and sort of resonant.
‘And the bike?’ I press the phone even closer.
‘Rode it into work this very morning.’
He must be fit.
I bat this thought away. Just because he’s funny and has a sexy voice, doesn’t mean he’ll be gorgeous looking as well. Goldfish Guy is probably fat and balding with a nasty body odour problem.
‘So do you have a deal for me?’ I switch into business mode.
‘Right. Yes. The deal.’
He tells me what he can do for us and I scribble it down gratefully. He’s probably had to stretch the rules a fair bit to give me such a ridiculously cheap package. Even Carol can’t quibble at this price.
So why aren’t I feeling more pleased than I am?
‘Are you still alive?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone quiet.’
I force a laugh. ‘Just gobsmacked at the price. Thank you so, so much.’
There is a brief pause. Then he says, ‘My pleasure. I enjoyed doing business with you, Ms Blatchett.’
‘Me too. Well, bye, then.’
I hang up and sit back in my seat.
I sit there for a while, doodling and trying to think what to do next.
There’s an odd sensation in my stomach. It feels sort of empty. But it can’t be hunger because I just had breakfast.
And then it hits me.
Now that we’ve sorted out the deal, there’s no reason for Ronald McDonald to carry on emailing me or phoning. No reason at all. In fact, I’ll probably never hear from him again.
It’s an odd thought and it makes me feel quite faint for a second. A bit like when you try to imagine infinity.
Unless it’s PMT. Yes, it must be. That’s why I’m feeling so weirdly emotional.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Shona, her ‘turbulent emotions’ antennae positively squeaking.
‘Yeah, great.’ I force a grin. ‘The Boss is going to love this! Hotel with pool, sauna and dinner thrown in, all for absolute peanuts.’ I stand up and wave the piece of paper then go in to deliver the news.
‘This is great.’ She skims the details then asks if I can run her to the airport for her flight and collect her on the Sunday afternoon.
My heart sinks.
She’s got this huge monster of a vintage Mercedes – one of Daddy’s cast-offs – and I absolutely hate driving it. Plus, if I have to keep it over the weekend, it’s going to look ludicrously out of place in my part of town between the white vans and the customised atrocities.
‘And could you file those, please?’ She drops a muddle of papers in front of me.
‘Sure. No problem,’ I say, shuffling them into some sort of order and heading back to my desk.
It’s only once I’m back behind my computer that I realise I’ve picked up one of her documents by mistake. I get up to take it back in to her when my eye catches the header on the front.
Monthly Financial Accounts.
I can hear her on the phone so I take the document back to my desk, keen to sneak a look at these mythical figures.
Three minutes later, I am sitting there, staring at a page in a state of total confusion.
To say the figures are not what I expected would be a massive understatement.
My heart beating fast, I flick back through the months, wondering if I’m reading the tables correctly because they’re really not making much sense to me.
Then I start from the beginning and work forward.
Gradually, the horror of what I’m reading begins to dawn on me.
Far from being a thriving business, we are apparently in deep trouble.
Spit and Polish has been losing money almost from day one. According to the records, each month the running total dips a little further and we are apparently haemorrhaging cash faster than the TOWIE girls hitting Selfridges.
Dazed, I sit back in my chair, struggling to take it all in.
I am no financial genius, but even I can see that if this dire situation continues, we will likely be bankrupt by Christmas.
No wonder Carol is desperate to sell.
The business is going down the toilet faster than a deceased goldfish.
Losing my job will be a catastrophe – for all of us. Not just me and Shona and Ella and all the cleaning girls, but for Mum and Tim, too.
The Boss will be fine. She might not like her family much but at least they can be relied on to cushion the financial blow.
But what happens to the little people like Shona and me? People who don’t have a rich daddy to dole out emergency cash or be a guarantor against a bank loan. People who don’t own a luxury apartment that can be sold or remortgaged to finance a new venture or to get the life-changing operation right now, instead of having to wait years.
I sneak the document back on Carol’s desk while she’s out. I won’t mention it to Shona until I’ve had a chance to think about it.
After work, I call by the supermarket and make straight for the booze aisle. Out of habit, my eyes dive to the bargains on the lower shelves. But then the big lump of fear and resentment wedged in my chest makes me think, Dammit, I deserve the good wine! So I pick a bottle from the top shelf, take it through the checkout and try not to wince when the girl requests a sum that would pay for my food for a week.
Back home, I sink down on the sofa and pick up one of my amber velvet cushions, running my finger over the rose in the centre fashioned from delicate, ruby red glass beads. It took me hours to sew them on by hand. I glance around at the art on the walls, the red faux silk curtains, the art deco table lamp I picked up in a charity shop for a few pounds. The lamp sits on a solid oak travel trunk, which I bought on impulse from a second hand shop. I took it home in a taxi then heaved it up the two flights of stairs all by myself.
If I lose my job, I can wave goodbye to this flat. And to the notion of ever being able to pay for Tim to go private.
I pour some wine and drink it far too fast, thinking of The Boss and how ratty she’s been lately. It’s no wonder. But why didn’t she tell us what was happening? Maybe we could have helped. Tried to work out why the business was going downhill so spectacularly.
I’d bet the money in the Tim Fund she hasn’t told her father about this.
Once upon a time she would have come to me for help and advice.
But not any more.
Chapter Eleven
It’s Monday morning and I’m fighting with the gears in Carol’s nasty Merc, which I privately refer to as ‘The Beast’.
God knows what sort of a mood she’ll be in when I meet her off the flight, after her dreaded weekend en famille.
I’ve been picturing them all at dinner; Carol’s brother Max nipping out between courses to return urgent phone calls and talking law all evening, and sister Adrienne, cosmetic dentist to the stars, newly flown in from New York, complaining that business class just wasn’t what it used to be and bragging about the latest celebrity clients she’s added to her list.
And Carol.
Putting on a show and trying to say great things about a business that will probably be defunct by Christmas.
I felt for her. I really did, and that’s why I was surprised when she texted me yesterday morning to say she wasn’t returning on the Sunday lunchtime flight as planned but had decided to stay another night.
I arrive at the airport with time to spare only to find the plane has touched down ahead of schedule. Not sure what to do, I stand somewhere between the Arrivals gate and the main exit, hoping Carol will spot me.
An airport is my all-time favourite place for people-watching so I settle myself against a post to watch the world go by.
After a minute or two, it occurs to me I’m not the only people-watcher in the area. A tall, broad-shouldered guy with dark hair is leaning against the wall by the newsagent’s, next to a large blue suit
case. He’s wearing washed out jeans and a checked shirt, and there’s a gym bag slung casually over his shoulder. Every time I glance in his direction, he seems to be looking over at me.
Do I know him?
I peer over but he catches me looking so I turn away, delving into my bag for a mint. I can’t find the packet so I hold the bag up and tip it slightly to see the contents. A giant (and very economical) box of tampons slips out and skids across the floor.
Flustered, I rescue it and shove it back. Then I shoot him a look. A slight twist of the lips reveals he has indeed witnessed my very embarrassing moment.
Heat prickles my scalp.
This guy isn’t a people-watcher at all. He’s a creepy person-watcher.
Where the Hell has Carol got to?
At that second, I spot her walking out of the chemist’s shop opposite. No doubt she’ll be furious I wasn’t here earlier.
She sees me and hurries over, waving a carrier bag. ‘They’re having an end of line sale. Look!’ Pink with excitement, she opens the bag and displays what looks like a jumble of around thirty bottles of deodorant, all the same flavour.
‘Wow.’ I grin. ‘You won’t smell bad this year, then.’
Smugly, she pats the bag.
‘Where’s your case?’ I glance around. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘I did.’ She sounds upbeat.
I glance at her in surprise. ‘That’s great. Straight to the office, then?’
‘Yes, in a minute.’ She smiles and scans the concourse.
There’s a sort of lightness about her that I can’t quite fathom. It’s making me nervous.
What are we waiting for?
‘Did I choose a good hotel?’ I ask.
‘Great. Couldn’t have been better, actually.’
Another smile.
Now I’m worried.
Did the real Carol get off the plane? Maybe this is a doppelganger and the genuine Carol is tied up somewhere waiting for her father to cough up the ransom money.
In fact, now that I think about it, she actually looks like a different person. Even her clothes seem less stressed somehow. She’s wearing a gold jumpsuit in a velvety fabric with a chain belt around her tiny waist. Very Seventies. But in a good way.
Over her shoulder, I suddenly glimpse Mr Person-Watcher strolling over.
‘Letch at forty-five degrees,’ I murmur. ‘Can we go?’
She scrabbles suddenly in her bag and looks in her purse. ‘Damn! I don’t think I picked up my change. Back in a sec.’
I stare after her.
She forgot her change? Has she been drinking?
This is becoming more bizarre by the second.
Mr Person-Watcher is walking towards me, pulling his blue case that has a vaguely familiar ribbon tied round the handle.
Oh God, what does he want? The loan of a tampon?
‘Miss Blatchett?’
The voice is oddly familiar. Deep and rich and smooth as velvet.
I stare up at him in bemusement as my brain whirs and clanks and does its best to get the relevant bits to connect.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ His eyes, an intense blue, rake questioningly over my face.
What the … ?
Suddenly I feel hot and rather flustered.
It can’t be.
Can it?
‘Ronald McDonald?’ It comes out with a sort of disbelieving squeak at the end.
He smiles broadly and runs a hand through his hair. ‘It’s funny, you know, I’d pictured you as a redhead. All flaming locks and snapping eyes and attitude.’
‘Really?’ I stare up at him, puzzled. Then the penny drops. ‘Oh God, you mean because of my outburst on the phone that first time?’
‘Scary.’ He gives me a lopsided grin and I can’t help smiling back.
‘Sorry.’
‘Hey, it’s fine. You brightened up my day, I can tell you.’
His eyes are warm and crinkled at the corners. And they’re making me blush from the top of my head right down to my size four-and-a-halves.
‘That’s nice to know.’ I’m finding it strangely hard to hold eye contact. ‘I – um – enjoyed our emailing.’
‘Me too.’ He hefts the gym bag onto his other shoulder. ‘How’s the hamster?’
‘Still dead,’ I say happily, as my heart lifts off and whirls around in my chest.
‘Good, good.’ He sounds slightly distracted. Then he grins. ‘I had a tortoise when I was young. Bit boring. Couldn’t take it for walks.’
‘Dead now?’ I murmur solemnly, carrying on the theme.
‘Interestingly, no. Still going strong. Lives in my mum’s airing cupboard.’
We smile at the thought.
The notion I had that a sensual voice in a man invariably means big disappointment when you see him in the flesh was way off the mark; whacked right out of the ballpark, in fact, and lost forever in the undergrowth.
Forget fat and balding; Goldfish Guy is tall and lightly tanned, with the build of an athlete.
But if he works in London, what on earth is he doing here?
Maybe … just maybe … he jumped on a plane to see me.
Things like that never ever happen in real life – certainly not in mine – but there’s a first time for everything …
‘I’ve got a house in Fallowsedge.’ It’s as if he’s read my mind. ‘I’ve been renovating it so I can have a base here.’
‘Oh.’
My deflated feeling is offset slightly by knowing that the village of Fallowsedge is only ten miles or so from where I live.
‘I wanted clean air,’ he’s saying. ‘Views of the countryside. Space. Everywhere’s so populated in London.’
‘So you decided to venture oop North. Brave man.’
‘Yeah.’ He twinkles those blue eyes at me. ‘And it’s looking good so far.’
I am smiling for England and can’t seem to stop. Even if he said something like, ‘My camel has Legionnaire’s disease and will breathe its last tomorrow,’ I’d be hard pushed to get this goofy look off my face.
For one heady, movie-finale-style moment, I allow myself to believe that he is the Lovely Man that Mrs Cadwalader predicted.
All the way from London.
Just for me.
Then The Boss rushes over.
I smile at her. ‘This is Ronald McDonald. You’ll never believe it, but he was the one who got you that great hotel deal.’
She gives me a funny look and sort of leans into him. ‘I do know that.’ Then she frowns. ‘But who the hell’s Ronald McDonald?’
Ronald slings his arm around her shoulders. ‘Just a private joke.’ He winks at me.
The Boss darts a suspicious glance my way. Then she looks up at him and says rather coyly, ‘I left my change in the shop. I’m obviously still in holiday mode.’
He nods. ‘That’s good. You’re much more relaxed, you know.’
‘Maybe I should take more weekend breaks, then.’ She sounds almost flirtatious.
The gloriously heady feeling I was enjoying has been replaced by uncertainty.
There’s something I’m not getting.
How are they so familiar with each other? Did they meet at the hotel or on the plane? Did they find themselves cramped in adjoining seats and strike up conversation, the way you do?
Then the Boss does two strange things.
She places her hand on Ronald’s McDonald’s chest and sort of snuggles up to him. He looks a bit surprised but I notice he doesn’t complain.
Then she says, ‘Charlie, this is my oldest friend, Bobbie.’
Ronald McDonald grins at me and says, ‘You don’t look that old.”
And the Boss lets out a raucous laugh and whacks him on the arm.
I stare from one to the other.
It’s weird enough she should refer to me as her oldest friend in such affectionate terms. But the thing that’s really freaking me out and making me question my own sanity is the fact that she called him Charlie
.
Slightly dazed, I lead them out to where I parked the car.
I go to open the back door but Carol stops me.
‘Be an angel,’ she breathes with an over-sweet smile, pushing the keys into my hand.
So I’m forced to drive The Beast. Again.
Charlie politely climbs in the back, his long legs making him seem a little cramped in there. He’s clearly expecting Carol to ride up front with me and looks surprised when she swings in next to him with a girlish laugh, a pat of his thigh and a ‘Budge up, then!’
Then she taps me on the shoulder and says jovially, ‘The office. And quick about it!’
I plaster on a smile, feeling like the bloody chauffeur, and mutter, ‘Yes, ma’am!’
But she doesn’t even hear me. She’s far too busy leaning across Charlie, making sure he’s properly belted up and ‘accidentally’ feeling his leg in the process.
I prepare to back out of the space, manhandling the gear stick into reverse.
But to my embarrassment, we lurch forward instead.
My second attempt also fails. ‘Whoah!’ calls Carol, helpfully, from the back.
I grit my teeth and try again.
Getting The Beast into reverse always takes a concentrated effort – but having a rapt audience of two in the back watching my every wrong move is rendering the manoeuvre a total impossibility.
The third time it happens, I go brick red and break out in prickles of sweat.
Carol snorts with laughter.
‘Try lifting it with both hands,’ suggests Charlie, leaning forwards.
I take his advice – and the bloody thing catapults us forwards for the umpteenth time. ‘What the fuck?’ I slump back in the seat, dangerously close to tears.
There’s a tense silence.
Then Charlie says, ‘Anyone want a sandwich? This could be a long night.’
I glare at him in the mirror but his eyes are twinkling at me. And all of a sudden, I see the funny side. Tension flows out of me and at my next attempt, we finally vacate the parking space.
Carol starts reviewing the weekend’s highlights with Charlie, so I drive along with one ear straining for the details.
My brain is working overtime.
What on earth went on in London to turn the dragon into this nauseatingly skittish teenager?
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 7