by JL Merrow
Was there a hint of a blush on Archie’s cheeks? “Sorry. Just wasn’t sure you were, er . . . I’ll see you around, all right?” He turned and left.
Robin resisted the urge to bang his head against the tiles above the urinal. It probably wouldn’t be very hygienic.
A toilet flushed, and a large middle-aged man lumbered out of the cubicle to cast Robin a morose glance. “Well, that’s my digestion ruined for the day, thank you so much. You come in here for a bit of peace and quiet . . .” He stomped out, still grumbling.
Robin decided that anyone who didn’t wash their hands after using the loos didn’t deserve his sympathy, and finally managed to pee.
He got back to the table to find Azrah was already there, as were their desserts.
“Get lost again, did you?” Dad muttered.
Mum looked up from her dish. “You were a long time. Is everything all right? I did tell you not to have the lamb. He’s always had a delicate tummy,” she added to Azrah.
“I have not!”
Azrah sniggered into her cheesecake.
“You should have seen his nappies when he was a baby.”
Dad threw down his spoon with a humph of disgust.
Hah. That’d teach him to be all superior about his chocolate fudge cake. Robin stirred cream into his coffee and tried not to glance over at Archie’s table. Where he was with his family, including his wife-or-girlfriend and his kid. And for some reason, gazing over at Robin . . . Oops.
Fighting a hot flush to rival one of Mary-from-Haberdashery’s, and hers were legendary, Robin tried a bit harder not to look at Archie.
“Robin? Robin!” Mum’s strident tones were almost a relief, giving him something else to think about. “I’ve been talking to you for the last five minutes. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Sorry. Um, what was it?”
“Oh, never mind. I can’t be bothered to repeat myself.”
“I think he’s just really into that coffee,” Azrah said. “At least, something’s got him all hot and bothered.”
“It’ll be the caffeine,” Mum said decidedly. “I’ve told you before it’s bad for you, Robin. Perhaps you ought to leave the rest.”
“I’m fine, Mum.”
“Well, if you can’t sleep tonight, don’t come crying to me.”
As if. She’d broken him of that habit at a very early age.
“Really not sure about this bloke of yours,” Azrah said once they’d finally waved goodbye to Robin’s mum and dad and were sitting at an outside table, hunched against the cold but nonetheless glad of the fresh air. “Wearing a suit on a Sunday? Are you sure he’s not a Jehovah’s Witness?”
Robin put down his rum and Coke. He’d felt in need of a stiff drink after the ordeal, and even Azrah had gazed longingly at the alcohol before opting for a hot chocolate. “I don’t know! I don’t know a single thing about him. Except that he’s got a wife and kid. Which means he’s not my bloke. So can we talk about something else, please?”
Archie and his family had left the Ploughman a while before Robin’s parents had. Not that Robin had been hyperaware of Archie’s movements, or anything.
“Nah, Jehovah’s Witnesses never have such cool moustaches,” Azrah went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Or girlfriends who look like she did. Wives. Whatever. Actually, are they the ones that have lots of them?”
“Lots of what?”
“Wives. You could be his number two.” She sniggered. “Sounds like a bit of a shit job to me.”
“Har har. And yeah, that’d work so well, what with me being a man. It’s Mormons who have all the wives, anyway. Do we even have any of those in Britain?”
Azrah shrugged. “You’re asking me about stuff to do with religion? That’s like asking Jesus how long you have to sit under a Bo tree to get enlightenment.”
“I think you just undermined your own point, there.”
“Whatevs.”
“I know, maybe he’s a Satanist?”
Azrah narrowed her eyes. “Have you been reading the Daily Mail again? I told you, they make all those stories up.”
“Hey, Satanists get a lot of bad press, but I knew one at uni and he was the nicest guy around.”
“Invite you over for barbecued goat every Sabbat, did he?” Azrah frowned “How come the Sabbath is a holy day, but a Sabbat is supposed to be evil? What’s even the difference?”
“An h. And sabbats aren’t evil. That’s just medieval Christian propaganda. Like saying pagans always worship sky-clad.”
“What clad?”
“Sky-clad. It means in the nuddie.”
“‘In the nuddie’? Is that how you talk to your blokes? ‘Ooh, I want to get in the nuddie with you’?” She cackled.
“Shut up. I was being polite.” Mum’s company tended to have a regrettable ongoing effect.
“And anyway, you seem to know a lot about all this stuff. Are you sure you’re not a Satanist?” Azrah gave an evil grin. “If I chuck some holy water on you, will you go up in a puff of smoke?”
Robin took a dignified sip of rum and Coke before he answered. “That’s vampires. And no, I’m not a Satanist. You can tell by the general lack of occult symbols about my person.”
“Hey, for all I know you’ve had a pentagram tattooed on your unmentionables.”
“Mum would disown me if I ever got a tattoo.” Robin brightened. “Hey, there’s a thought.”
“I bet your fridge bloke likes tattoos,” Azrah said with a leer. “Especially on your unmentionables.”
“He does. He’s got like Latin around his neck? It’s so hot.” Robin deflated. “But every time I see him I make a complete arse of myself. Even if he wasn’t married with a kid, there’s no chance he’d ever want to see my—”
“Actual arse?”
“I was going to say tattoo, but yeah, that as well.” Robin sighed.
He’d have been better off developing a crush on one of the Willoughbys Menswear mannequins. Then again, with his luck, the object of his affections would no doubt end up in a bridal display with a hot little model from Ladies’ Fashions.
Later, feeling particularly masochistic, Robin found himself looking up the name Archie on social media. After all, how common could it be? Less common than Robin, probably, and he was pretty sure that anyone trying to look him up wouldn’t have to wade through umpteen pages of false hits before they got to the right Robin. So he was expecting to find his Archie—no, not his Archie—fairly easily.
There was an American comic books company. There was a vocal quartet. There was even a member of the Royal Family, and Robin wondered if Archie’s mum had seen that coming when she named him. But Fridge Bloke, there was not.
Robin gave fervent thanks that he hadn’t been able to attempt this little bit of internet stalking before Azrah had seen the man. Otherwise he might have been seriously worried he’d hallucinated him. But why wasn’t he on social media? How did he, like, talk to people, or find out what his mates were doing?
Then again, Archie did have a definite retro vibe going on. Maybe the internet was the sort of new-fangled rubbish he didn’t hold with.
Robin sighed and gave up. After all, it wasn’t as though finding endless photos online of Archie smiling happily at his wife and child would have made him feel any better.
Lyddie was in the kitchen, clearing out a cupboard she’d cleared out only last week, when Archie got home from the Ploughman. “How was your posh Sunday roast with the in-laws?” she asked, putting a tin of tomatoes on top of the cooker.
Archie, who’d been lost in thought, blinked at her fake smile and answered it with one that was equally forced. “Yeah, good.”
She gave him a look that said she not only wasn’t buying it, but she wouldn’t take it as a gift even if it was all wrapped up with a bow on top.
Archie sighed. “Oh, her dad’s still a bit . . .” He made a helpless gesture.
“Thinks you seduced and abandoned his little girl?”
�
��Kind of. And then there was Bridge . . .” Archie shook his head. “It’s nothing, and it’s not even true, but it hurts that she’d think it, you know?”
“Think what? Archie, love, what did she say to you?” Lyddie put her hands on her hips, looking ready to march off on her bare feet and confront Bridge this minute.
“She’s worried I’ll forget about Jerrick if I meet someone else. Stop being a dad to him.” His chest ached thinking about it.
“That’s bollocks, and I’ve a good mind to go straight round and tell her so. You, abandon your own kid? My Archie? Who does she think she is, throwing accusations like that?” Her narrowed eyes widened again, and she cocked her head to gaze at him. “Have you met someone else? How come you didn’t tell me? You know you can tell me anything. Who is it? Do they like you back?”
Archie groaned. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
“Which? You maybe met someone? Wouldn’t you know? Unless you were on drugs. Archie, love, you’d tell me if you were on drugs, wouldn’t you?”
He had to laugh. “No, I’m not on drugs. Cross my heart. No, I just keep bumping into this guy—”
“Oh, well, it’s fate, then, isn’t it? You and him. Meant to be.”
“Doubt it. I’m pretty sure he’s got a girlfriend. And he thinks I’m weird and probably scary.” Archie cringed, remembering how spooked Robin had been in the gents’. “And he’s almost certainly too young for me.”
“Who wants someone who’s the same as every other bloke? And if he likes you, this girlfriend can’t be serious, can she?”
“I don’t even know if he does like me.” Sometimes he thought there was something there . . . but since most of their interactions had mainly consisted of Archie babbling inanely while Robin stared at him like he’d grown an extra head or three, there most likely wasn’t. Archie’s heart sank.
“Course he likes you. How could anyone not? So go on, tell me about him. Is he cute?” Lyddie’s smile was sunshine-bright.
“Yeah, he’s cute. Nice eyes. Sort of dark-blond hair, a bit fluffy? But he’s probably still in his teens.”
“Oh, age is all relative,” Lyddie said vaguely. “I never worried about it.”
And yeah, that had been half the problem, hadn’t it?
Robin’s Monday started with a summons to Gail’s office. Heath, who’d delivered the message, tapped one overlarge foot while Robin made sure the till was covered, checked he hadn’t buttoned up anything the wrong way this morning, and headed off. Apparently not trusting him to find the way himself, Heath fell into step beside him. “It’s like being back at school and getting sent to see the headmistress,” Robin muttered, mentally casting Heath as a jobsworth prefect in that scenario.
Heath smiled mistily. “Innit just? And they say you can’t go back.”
Gail was, if possible, looking even more harassed than usual. “Come in, both of you, and shut the door.”
Robin did as she asked, by which time Heath had co-opted the only visitor chair, spun it around, and plonked himself on it backwards, his chin in his hands and his elbows on the back of it as if trying to re-create that sixties photo of Christine Keeler naked. They’d reprinted it in the Telegraph Sunday Supplement one week, and Mum had been so outraged she’d switched to the Observer for a month.
On the whole, Robin was quite happy to be standing. At least no one was looming over him.
“Right,” Gail was saying. “I’ve decided on the date for the Loyal Customers’ Christmas Shopping Evening.”
“Or Customas, as we’re now calling it,” Heath put in. “Celebrating our customers, see?”
“It’s going to be on the third Thursday of November,” Gail continued.
Robin frowned. “Wouldn’t Tuesday or Wednesday be better? It’d make it more special. We always stay open late on Thursday.”
“Which means we already have staff rostered in for that evening.” Gail’s tone was impatient.
“Or later in the month? You know, nearer Christmas?” Robin persisted.
“It can’t be the following Thursday, as that’s Thanksgiving,” Gail said sharply.
“But we don’t celebrate that. Nobody in Hitchworth’s going to be sitting at home in a turkey and pumpkin pie coma.”
“Speak for yourself, mate.” Heath grinned. “Some of us just go where the party is.”
“The point is,” Gail said impatiently, “there’s no sense having it the day before Black Friday. The customers will be confused and we’ll be too busy.”
“What about the Wednesday that week? Although I suppose that’s still a bit close as the crow flies.” Robin frowned. Had he actually said that? He had, hadn’t he? Hopefully no one had noticed. He went on hastily, “Or even earlier, like the week before?”
“It can’t be earlier than the third Thursday,” Gail said with the force of a deity handing down the commandments, “as the town’s Christmas lights don’t go on until the day before. We can’t have a Loyal Customers’ Christmas Shopping Evening—”
“Or Customas,” Heath interrupted helpfully. She seethed at him.
“—if lights-up hasn’t happened yet. The atmosphere wouldn’t be the same. We want people in a festive mood, ready and willing to spend their money on their loved ones.”
Robin knew when he was beaten. “Okay, Thursday the third. I mean, the third Thursday. So we need to sort out publicity, catering . . . um, how many mince pies do you think we’ll need? And what about mulled wine? Do we want to water it down a lot so they won’t have to worry about driving home, or do we keep it strong so they’ll spend more? And—”
“Heath will be handling the catering.”
“He will?” Robin had mixed feelings about this. On one hand, it was nice to not be responsible for everything. On the other . . . wasn’t this supposed to be his baby?
On the third hand, hadn’t he wanted to get Heath involved and seen as indispensable?
Heath beamed. “I got all the figures.”
“How?”
Heath tapped his nose. “That, my friend, would be telling.”
Gail huffed. “There’s no need to be mysterious about it.”
Heath sent her a pointed look. “Or is there?”
She blinked, then visibly decided she wasn’t being paid enough to worry about it just now. “In any case, Robin, you can leave that to Heath. I want you to handle publicity.”
“Azrah would be good at that,” Robin said quickly, remembering his plan.
Gail frowned, then shook her head. “If you think she’d be better for the job, then I suppose I have no objections. I’ll call a general staff meeting to brief everyone on the plans, and ensure Heath and Azrah get every assistance they require.”
Wait, what? “So I’ll be, uh . . .”
“Don’t you worry, mate,” Heath said. “I’ve got a pivotal role planned for you.”
“Which is?”
Gail opened her mouth but Heath beat her to the punch. “All in due course. Gotta set a few more plates spinning first, lob a few more balls in the air, but you’ll be the first to know on the night.”
“And I’m sure you’ll give Heath your fullest cooperation, Robin.” Gail’s gimlet glare managed somehow to convey subtle disappointment. “Now, if you could send Azrah to see me?”
Robin walked out of Gail’s office in a daze. He’d gone in—or so he’d thought—as an up-and-coming star of the retail industry, with a key sales event to plan and execute.
He’d come out as Heath’s dogsbody—pivotal role his arse. And Azrah’s messenger boy.
“So how did it go?” Robin asked Azrah morosely some hours later when she popped into Menswear on her way back from her break. “I mean, with Gail, about the event thing.” He was not going to call it Customas.
“Really well.” Azrah appeared to be taller, somehow. Was she wearing heels? Robin snuck a glance. No, that wasn’t it. Maybe she was just standing straighter. “She’s not as bad as you think, is she?”
“Isn’t she?” Robin
sighed. “Maybe it’s just that I’m not as good as she thinks I am.”
“Or does she?” Azrah gave a creditable impersonation of Heath at his most gnomic.
“That was not the part of my statement that I wanted you to cast doubt on, you know.”
“Or w—” Azrah caught herself, possibly on seeing Robin’s glare. “Gotta go. See ya! Don’t forget your sleeping bag tomorrow!”
Robin didn’t find out what she was on about until he was closing up the till, and Gail stopped by to fix him with a stern look. “Don’t forget tomorrow is Bring Your Sleeping Bag to Work Day.”
Robin blinked. “Uh, what?”
She tutted. “Really, Robin, do try to keep up. I thought Azrah had passed on the message? All staff are bringing in sleeping bags tomorrow.”
Robin stared. “Are they servicing the boiler or something? Wouldn’t big coats be better? I mean, you can’t really move around much in a sleeping bag—”
“You won’t be moving around. It’s for the photographer.” She tutted again. Apparently Robin’s face was doing a bang-up job of showing his confusion. “For the advert. For the sale? You do remember we’re having a Black Friday sale, I hope?”
“Oh—yes. Sorry. So, this advert—we’re going to be the queue? Sleeping on the streets to keep our places?”
“Obviously.”
“Right. Um. Anything else we need to bring?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“I don’t know—pyjamas, teddy bear . . .”
Gail clapped her hands together. “Excellent idea. Do that.”
The problem was, now he was living on his own and free of parental censure, Robin didn’t actually wear pyjamas in bed. Or anywhere else. He’d never quite got over Azrah turning up unexpectedly at his mum and dad’s during his short-lived teenage phase of experimenting with the Noel Coward PJs-and-smoking-jacket look, and laughing her arse off.
When he’d moved out of his mum and dad’s house, all the nightwear his mum had bought him had been furtively donated to a local charity shop, so the only pyjamas he had left to his name were the set he’d left at Mum’s. They were a size too large, because apparently Mum thought he was still growing, and they had Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer on them.