by Celia Hayes
I haven’t had any breakfast. It’s the first thing I think when the penetrating smell of the oil that an overweight brute – probably an ex-jailbird, by the look of him – is frying something in, reaches me. I shouldn’t give in. There isn’t even a certificate showing the origin of the ingredients, and yet there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to succumb to hypoglycaemia. Visibly sceptical, I’m still eying the kiosk warily when the seller leans out from over the counter, surprising me with an energetic greeting.
“Good morning!” he shouts enthusiastically, showing me all his gold teeth.
What a gruesome spectacle.
“Err… Yes, good morning.”
“Have you seen what a beautiful morning it is?”
I lift my face to the sky.
It’s grey.
What can I say? At least it’s not raining.
“Here, this is on the house,” he says, and passes me a sugary pastry.
“No, really, there’s no need,” I try to refuse. “I’ve already had breakfast, believe me, I’m fine.”
“Come on, you have to try one. They’re just out of the oven, I made them with my own hands.”
At that dramatic revelation, I can’t help but stare at his bare arms covered with tattoos and those thick, stubby chapped fingers.
This is something I really could have done without.
“But I…”
“I’ll be offended.”
“And we really don’t want that to happen,” I am forced to answer, mostly worried by his mammoth muscles.
There’s no point, I can’t get out of it.
I don’t know how he would react and I don’t really want to find out.
Imagining the disastrous consequences of trying to run in four inch heels, I nod, thanking him amiably and disappear around a corner, disgustedly holding that lump of saturated fat between my thumb and forefinger.
“That’s great! Now I just have to get rid of the corpse.”
I don’t know where I am, so I look around and continue straight on, hoping to come out somewhere sooner or later. After passing a couple of shops I still have no idea where I am and haven’t managed to find the main road, but I do locate a bin.
“Thank god for that… I was starting to lose hope,” I sigh in relief as, making sure nobody’s looking, I approach it, I take a tissue from my pocket, lift the lid and throw my breakfast away without the slightest twinge of regret.
“What are you doing?” thunders a baritone voice behind me.
Despite having committed no crime, I leap into the air with a screech.
“Me?! Nothing! I was just…” I stutter, before discovering that standing there in front of me is Ethan, chuckling.
The same jeans, a faded T-shirt and a baggy hoodie. The wind ruffles his hair, and stubble darkens his chin. At the centre of that dark cloud are two blue eyes shining, reflecting the few rays of light that penetrate the clouds.
I’d rather they had been black.
If they’d been black, it would certainly have been easier to raise my voice.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“You’re a horrible, horrible person! Poor Alec, if he only knew that you’d thrown one of his donuts away, it would break his heart.”
“Oh, spare me!” I retort, adjusting my jacket. “I doubt he would pass a hygiene inspection, so I don’t see why I should feel guilty for trying to protect my digestive system.”
“Tell me, how do you manage to always be in such an exquisitely good mood?” he teases, putting a hand into one of the bags he’s carrying.
“It’s hard to say,” I reply hesitantly. “Maybe it’s because of the wonderful climate? Or the beautiful landscape? Or that invigorating smell of excrement mixed in with the aroma of sausages sizzling in rivers of fat?”
“Don’t forget your natural talent for interpersonal relationships,” he suggests, before pulling out a huge biscuit.
God, what an annoying creature!
“Take it. I’ve just bought them from the baker. I washed my hands, don’t worry!” And he passes me the biscuit.
It smells inviting, but I hesitate.
“The baker had gloves on!” he whispers, exasperated, and only then do I accept it.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“No, actually I’m just wandering aimlessly while I wait for the bank to open” I explain, munching away.
We are in a quiet little alley and don’t have to shout over the cries of the stallholders.
“If you need to get some cash out, there’s an ATM just round the corner.”
“Actually I work there. I’m the new director of Wilbourgh & Trench.”
“Really?” he exclaims incredulously. “I never would have thought you worked in a bank.”
“No? What did you think I did?” I ask.
“At first I thought you were a maths teacher, but your clothes are too smart for a school canteen. So I had a couple of other options, but they were both wrong.”
“What?”
“Sniper or, alternatively, Wicked Witch of the West.” He relishes his hilarious joke with a toothy grin.
“Just because I said ‘no’ to you?”
“You didn’t say ‘no’,” he contradicts me. “You unashamedly said ‘yes’, but you just didn’t have the courage to admit it.”
Ooh, could you be any more self-centred, vain, and unbearable… What a nerve!
“Look,” I say, “I’d happily stay here listening to you rabbit on, but I have a job waiting for me. You know – responsibility, the real world, all that stuff… Concepts I imagine you struggle with. Thank you so much for the edifying conversation, I’m going to check if my colleague’s arrived.” And I walk off.
“I’m going in that direction,” he says, grabbing me by the elbow. “Do you think you can stand me for a couple more minutes?”
“Let me think… NO.”
“Wrong answer.” And he takes my hand, forcing me to walk with him through the part of the market selling seafood.
It wasn’t… It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
“Look, can we give it a rest?”
He ignores me.
He keeps walking in silence, eating one biscuit after the other. He doesn’t even let go of my hand when I try to take him by surprise and yank my arm away. He behaves as if nothing has happened, greeting passers by who recognize him with nods. Nobody notices that there’s a kidnapping taking place. Of course not – they must be thinking that I’m following him of my own free will. They probably wouldn’t even believe me if I started shouting. And they’re all giving me funny looks, wondering what kind of a relationship we have. The more discreet ones wink at him, while others smile shamelessly. Oh no! I can handle the walk through the cod and haddock, but I definitely don’t want to pass as the latest flame of a macho man in ripped jeans! Not while I’m wearing my precious Chanel. It’s a question of style!
“Okay.”
I stop in the middle of the road.
“I think that’s enough.”
“What?” He asks, puzzled, stopping in turn.
“This, Ethan.”
And to make it clearer I lift my arm, showing him our intertwined fingers. “I’m not fifteen years old, and, although perhaps you haven’t noticed, neither are you. Let’s pack in the junior school stuff,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “No hugs. No stupid giggling. I’ll walk with you, but you on your side…” I push him away gently. “And me on mine.”
And now what’s he doing? Oh God… Why is he approaching me with that threatening look?
I step back.
“You know what?” he replied with a frown, touching the tip of my nose with his. At that moment I drown in his eyes, overwhelmed by his smell, and I find my mouth dry, my heart going like the clappers and my mind clouded by immoral thoughts about the thickness of his lips. If this isn’t immediate surrender…
“I was just trying to give you a hand. You looked like a fish out of water, so I decided to accompany
you so you wouldn’t arrive late at the office. And not because I was desperate to enjoy your adorable company, but because I’m a kind person who likes to live in peace with his neighbours. And what do I get for my troubles? That a perfect stranger, who knows nothing about my life nor how I spend my time, feels entitled to call me immature just because, to avoid losing her in the crowd, I actually dared to take her hand. At this point you know what? Go your own way.”
He walks off in irritation, leaving me in the middle of the stalls selling fish eggs, my eyes fixed on his back. Okay, maybe just a tad lower than his back.
Suddenly he turns round and comes back, forcing me to raise my gaze rapidly.
“And that is mine,” he snaps and snatches the rest of the cookie from my hand, shoves it in his mouth and walks away, chewing.
*
It takes me almost half an hour to get back to the bank. I’m horribly nauseated by the smell of brine, annoyed by my tiff with Ethan and irritated by the delay, my mood somewhere between savage and enraged. Waiting for me at the door is a tiny girl with blonde hair, fiddling with the handle and holding a heavy bunch of keys. I approach, assuming a formal attitude and nodding a greeting.
“You must be Mrs Watts,” she attempts with a shy smile.
“Miss Watts!” I roar.
What a strange character. Four foot nine tops, skinny, hesitant, uncertain and tucked into a flowery dress out of the fifties with a voice straight out of Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Can she really be the person on the front desk?
No, there must be a mistake.
While I’m trying to work it out, she pulls out the biggest pair of glasses I have ever seen in my life and gives me another smile, this time nice and open so I can admire her braces, decorated with tiny orange elastic bands.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Watts,” she says. “I’m Catherine Hunt.”
“My pleasure,” I say suspiciously, as she turns to open the door and let us inside. She turns on the lights, and I finally decide to follow her. I take a look around. In front of me there’s a small waiting room. In front of the cash desks, on the left, two offices dedicated to private business.
“May I ask why nobody’s here?”
‘Well, it’s only eight,”
“Eight forty-five!” I correct her.
“Yes, sure. Eight forty-five” she confirms. “The bank doesn’t open until nine.”
“Nine o’clock?” I welcome the news. “You mean to say that it doesn’t open to the public until nine o’clock?”
“No, I mean that… That it doesn’t open until nine,” she re-iterates, still smiling that stupid smile.
I take a breath. It’s going to be tough.
“These aren’t the general regulations, Miss Hunt.”
“Yes, I know, but it was the old manager who established these hours, we just respect them.”
To stop myself from doing anything violent, I massage my temples and ask her to show me my office.
We have a lot of work to do…
“Please come with me,” she answers, and off she darts, giving me a guided tour of the office as she goes. Apart from the rooms we have already visited, there are only two other offices. Both have glass doors and the computers and the filing cabinets inside are visible from the outside.
“Which is mine?” I ask her.
“The one on the right.”
“Who’s in the one on the left?”
“Mr Ward.”
“And I suppose that he, like everyone else, won’t be here before nine.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Okay. I’ll let you get on,” I say, before reluctantly stopping in the doorway. “But could you bring me the documents I requested via email? And make sure there’s some tea as well.”
“Haven’t you already had one?”
Her reaction takes me totally off guard.
After an initial hesitation, I recover my natural composure.
“One sugar, please,” I say with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh… Yes, of… of course,” she stammers, mortified.
“What?” I think to myself, as I watch her rush away with her head low and her cheeks flaming red, “no smile this time?” Okay. Okay, I was a bit of a bitch, but I’m not going to put up with people being over familiar, especially if my first priority is to make people understand that this is not a holiday camp. A necessary clarification, but not enough to distract me from my immediate needs. I sit down at my desk and try to get a feel for the place; I turn on the computer, the lamp, put a mouse pad next to the keyboard and get a few things I’ve brought with me from my bag.
When everything is ready, I look down at the pile of papers just waiting to be read and… Guess who’s going to be up until two in the morning?
I know! I know!
Me?
Exactly!
Chapter 10
Mr Bailey, the Manager
“I want the tax records for the last three years on my desk in five minutes.”
“What if I brought you a muffin instead?”
“Ok – and I want three copies.”
A couple of hours later the staff are all here. They come and say ‘hello’ but as it’s opening hours I tell them that the introductory meeting is postponed until this evening. I inform everyone by e-mail, expecting a simple ‘okay’, but I’m fooling myself. They twitter on as happily as if it were a town fair, and I feel compelled to send a second circular to prevent the arrival of cakes and greetings cards. The result is that now they all look suspicious and mutter between themselves, thinking that I don’t notice.
This is going to be more difficult than I’d imagined…
I knock back a couple of coffees and an antacid and get back to work until they inform me that the counters have been closed. Determined to get it over and done with as soon as possible, I set aside the forms I’m examining and summon them to my office. Being the most spacious, it’s the only one big enough for them all.
“My name is Trudy Watts,” I introduce myself in a clear voice, while I try to get an idea of the staff. Percy Ward, the eldest of the five, is sitting next to the desk. He looks like an organized, clean and tidy person. He constantly smooths his tie and looks nervously at those present. Standing beside him is Lee Curtis, the other bank teller. An anxious, plump man wearing cheap clothes and sporting a bushy beard. Next is Catherine Hunt, sitting on another chair with her hands folded in a virginal pose. Behind her are Kora Davis and Benny Moore, the account managers. The first is a woman of forty, well groomed, and at least for my taste, too flashy. The other, instead, looks like the boy next door.
“As some of you already know, I work at one of the London offices and I was called in to replace the previous manager following his retirement. My position at the Turriff branch is to be considered temporary. From the documents in my possession I can see that there have been substantial losses and it is my duty to identify the causes and remedy the situation, as far as possible, before it degenerates.”
“What do you mean ‘before it degenerates’?” asks Curtis anxiously.
“I just mean that without timely intervention we may risk having to give up our sector four office.”
As soon as I hint at the possibility that the branch may be closed, a wave of panic turns them into a flock of flapping geese.
“So you came here to fire us!” says Percy, looking around for support from his colleagues with furtive glances.
“No, I didn’t come to fire you,” I say, adopting a less formal tone than usual. “My goal, actually, is quite the opposite.”
They calm down, or at least seem to. Their feet continue to tap nervously. Their fingers start stroking tartan ties or curling strands of hair behind ears, but at least they’ve stopped muttering among themselves.
“I was asked,” I resume, “to recover part of the capital invested. A difficult task, but not impossible. If that happens or if there are significant signs of recovery, none of you will run the risk of losi
ng your job.”
This isn’t entirely true. The sole purpose of my being here is to get favourable conditions for the transfer of the branch to RBS, and what happens after that is none of my business. Not according to my contract. Wilbourgh & Trench’s only interest is to recover the lost cash. The fate of the old staff has been regarded as entirely irrelevant in negotiations.
“How long have they given you?” asks Mr Moore.
“Six months, which may be extended by a further three months.”
Which will only happen, however, over my dead body.
“Six months?” whispers Kora, covering her mouth with her hand. “But that’s not long at all.” She looks to Percy for confirmation.
He takes the opportunity to ask, “How will you manage? Turriff is a small town. Our depositors are neighbourhood traders, civil servants and pensioners.”
“That’s true, but there is no problem that can’t be solved and we are only at the beginning. There is a lot of work to do, documents to be examined, debtors financial positions to be established… And I’ll certainly consider the management of the expenses. But there’s no point discussing it now, with no data to hand.”
My reply sounds confident, but in reality it is based entirely on random assumptions. I don’t have an action plan, because I haven’t yet discovered the causes of the problems. Admitting it wouldn’t do me any good, though – right now I have to reassure them and, above all, guarantee their full co-operation, which I can only get by deceiving them into thinking there is a chance of preserving their jobs.
“Your positions,” I conclude, “will be at risk only if I am unsuccessful, but I consider that possibility very remote.”
There is a wave of involuntary sighs. “Of course, this mean that things have to change,” I explain with a look that some might call bleak, but which I prefer to think of as intimidating. Then I stop and look at them, and they all turn pale and stand there in silence, waiting for me to continue. Once I’ve got their attention, I relax and walk behind the desk, weighing up my next words.