The Heat Is On

by Helen Bridgett

  ‘I didn’t want to work here,’ she says, ‘but he said he’d bankrupt you if I didn’t. He said I’d committed a huge crime sending out those email addresses to everyone and then even worse with the road signs. He said he’d sue Mercury but it wouldn’t be me that would go to prison even though it was my mistake; it would be you as directors. I couldn’t risk that happening to you guys, I care too much about you and he’s such a bastard I thought he’d really do it, so I eventually agreed. I thought if I just came into the shop and didn’t do any work, he’d get fed up and let me come back.

  ‘Then today, a customer came in to check their booking. They’d bought one of those long-haul offers and paid the full amount to get a bigger discount, but when I went on the system I couldn’t find it. I asked Lorenzo and he fudged it saying the system wasn’t up to date, but I knew that it was. I promised to call the customer when things were updated and left it at that.

  ‘Then I started checking a few more and I even rang the hotels, but they hadn’t heard of him or Launch. I found over a hundred customers who’d paid the full amount and for whom he hadn’t even reserved a place.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I confronted him,’ replied Josie. ‘I mean there could have been a logical explanation but with him I just had the feeling there was something dodgy going on. I thought I had found some leverage to get back to you, but he’s a crook and as soon as he realised I’d caught on to him, he scarpered.’

  ‘With how much?’

  ‘Over a quarter of a million pounds I think.’

  I sink my head into my hands. This isn’t our problem but we’re travel agents and we’re here, in his shop, when the fraud is about to be announced. Outside, the local press have got wind of a commotion happening and have a photographer trying to take pictures of the people inside. Whichever way you look at it, we look involved. The crowd outside are getting restless and the one policeman doing his best to hold them out eventually loses control and someone gets through; he’s followed by the others.

  ‘We’ve a right to know what’s happened,’ he says with the calmness that usually precedes a storm.

  Josie chooses her words carefully and tells him that it looks as if Lorenzo has taken their money but not made the bookings. The storm erupts when they hear this. The crowd starts grabbing the iPads, the computers and even the espresso machine as some form of recompense. The police try to grab them back and it’s starting to turn nasty, when Charlie stands on a chair and calls order – literally.

  ‘Order, order,’ he shouts. ‘Look, this is bloody awful but no one in this room had anything to do with it.’

  There are a few shouts of ‘Yeah, right’ and ‘All right for you’, as Charlie continues.

  ‘Honestly, we don’t work here but we’ll take your names and I promise you, when we get back to Mercury, we’ll check exactly what’s happened and we’ll see what can be done. We’re not going to solve anything here this afternoon. Please let us try to help.’

  Fortunately, the ringleader accepts this and holds out his hand to thank Charlie. The mob form an orderly British queue and start giving Josie details of the holiday they thought they’d booked.

  ‘So he didn’t just play dirty with us,’ I say as the last of the crowd leaves the shop.

  ‘We have to help sort this out,’ says Charlie.

  ‘But why? We had nothing to do with it,’ says Josie.

  ‘Because right now, all people will remember is that a small high-street travel agent went bust and took customers’ money,’ Charlie tells her. ‘If we don’t help sort it out, they’ll never trust us again.’

  Boulevard of Broken Dreams

  ‘Somehow we have to emerge as the heroes of this story,’ I say the next morning as Charlie and I gather early in the shop to try to sort things out. I don’t think either of us can quite work out how to make that happen yet.

  The door opens and Josie walks in; she hangs her head, avoiding eye contact, and I guess she’s wondering where she fits now. I rush up to her and put my arms around her shoulders.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, you have to know that,’ I tell her. ‘Now do you want to come back to work? I think we’re going to need you.’

  She squeezes me so tightly I’m in danger of popping. I nod at Charlie to join us and we have a big Mercury hug before settling down to the task at hand.

  Charlie calls the local papers. They’ve inevitably picked up the story and want to know if we’re involved. They ask whether our customers are safe: Charlie was right – this is an issue that affects us, too. He reassures them that we weren’t involved and says our customers are completely safe. The police are really helpful with this. They let the newspaper have a picture of Lorenzo’s leather manbag, which he left behind in the rush. Fortunately, it contained his passport, so when the papers found out that he wasn’t even called Lorenzo – he was a conman called Larry Maxwell from Wolverhampton – it all added to the frisson and took the attention away from us a little.

  Nevertheless, we need to do the right thing. My first job is to call every single person who has booked a trip with Mercury. I tell them Launch has gone bust but we are safe and their holiday is safe. Then Josie gets in touch with Launch customers to find out if there’s anything we can do to help them. We ask the local paper to include a bold paragraph stating that Mercury has offered to help and that if they’ve been affected by Lorenzo, they should call us.

  It’s an emotionally draining morning, listening to people telling us how they’d saved up for months to pay for their holiday or how the break was their once-in-a-lifetime chance to visit family overseas. I’ve always known that I’m selling more than a few days away but these stories really bring it home. We’re shattered by the end of the day. I invite the guys back to my place for some food and wine. We can’t go out locally in case someone corners us about their trip. After today we all need a break.

  I order a takeaway and open the wine. We toast ‘survival’, then all three of us empty our glasses without coming up for air.

  ‘I suppose this makes us the last man standing,’ I say filling them up again. ‘So why doesn’t it feel better than this?’

  ‘It’s like winning a silver medal in the Olympics against a drugs cheat,’ says Josie and she’s right, it does feel like that.

  The next day, the local newspaper article is out and spreading across social media. The phone never stops and we work another twelve-hour day. There isn’t much we can do – the money is gone – but we do try to find cheap alternative trips if people want to book them and we help them apply for compensation if they’ve booked by credit card or have travel insurance. Unfortunately for many, Lorenzo encouraged them to just transfer the money and said he’d sort the insurance – which of course he didn’t. In a few instances, we can’t stop ourselves: the story is so sad that we just have to help the customers out ourselves. It might be bad business but I’m hoping that karma will come into play, too. We’re trying really hard to sort out this mess. The poor charity Lorenzo conned (I still can’t get used to the idea that he’s really called Larry. Patty was right, I’m far too gullible) got nothing, so with another few calls, we persuade the local business community to come together and put collection boxes in their shops and reception areas. I think people are starting to understand that we’re not to blame. As the day ends, Charlie and I get an email from the bank asking us to come in tomorrow to discuss the resort financing.

  ‘Well, at least he can’t say that we’ve too much competition on our hands now,’ I tell Charlie.

  I ask Patty to help Josie in the shop while Charlie and I head into town. We’ve got the very last appointment of the day so that we don’t have to close up. Closing the shop, even at four o’clock, would look dreadful right now and I’m still wary of leaving Josie on her own. She’s prone to spontaneous sobbing outbursts despite the number of times we’ve told her she’s not to blame. I doubt Lorenzo/Larry’s crying over this. The truly guilty ones never do.


  This time, I haven’t even thought about how I look. I’m the competent travel expert who’s sorting out a mess left for customers, not the smooth talker who was here last time. If I had sleeves to roll up, they would be. Charlie’s are and his tie is relaxed as he throws his jacket on the back of his chair while shaking hands with the bank manager.

  ‘You’ve had quite a time recently,’ starts the manager, holding up the front cover of the Evening News.

  ‘You can say that again,’ replies Charlie. ‘But it goes to show – if the offer looks unbelievable, it probably is. At least we won’t see discounting like that any more.’

  The manager nods and pulls up our most recent bank statement.

  ‘It’s a good job really,’ he says. ‘You were getting pretty close to the edge, weren’t you? It’s a shame he didn’t go bust earlier.’

  I’m quite shocked but keep quiet. To me his going bust has meant lots of customers lost out. Yes, of course I’m glad he’s gone but I’d rather people hadn’t suffered on his way out.

  ‘Certainly, there’d be fewer innocent victims if he had,’ says Charlie, obviously biting his tongue. ‘Still we’ve survived and we’re relatively unscathed.’

  The manager stops scrolling through the statements and looks directly at us, his hands folded in front of him.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way of saying this.’

  I sit upright, not sure what he’s going to say.

  ‘The business loan to finance the new resort expansion was secured against the core business as you know. The terms always required that the loan would be reviewed directly before drawdown to ensure the collateral was still a sufficient guarantee.’

  I’m following it, just.

  ‘With the downturn in deposits and now this collapse of a competitor, the bank does not have enough confidence in the independent travel sector to approve the release of funds.’

  What exactly is he saying?

  ‘The competitor didn’t collapse,’ argues Charlie. ‘He defrauded customers and ran off with their money. It had nothing to do with us.’

  The bank manager closes the file on his desk to show unequivocally that the conversation is over.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘If the bank over the road went bust, we’d experience a run on funds, and you’ve yet to prove you can recover. We cannot lend you the money for the resort.’

  Livin’ On the Edge

  ‘We don’t need them, think about it,’ Charlie calls after me as I get out of the cab.

  I get out in a daze and walk through the main entrance of this mansion house. Although I only have an apartment in here, I always get a rush of excitement coming through the doorway into the enormous hallway with its beautiful chandelier and Hollywood-style staircase. I head to my front door and turn the key. The late afternoon sunlight streams through the patio doors like a pathway to the garden. I follow it, open the doors and step out into the fresh air. I sit down on one of my garden chairs; despite the sun the seat is cold and the cushion slightly damp. Summer will be officially fading into autumn in a couple of weeks. I must remember to start bringing the cushions in. I love autumn, or at least I always did. This year it seems to have come around too quickly and I can’t help but think of the trees stripped bare as some sort of symbol of this year. It started so brightly.

  I sit until the sun fades further and I’m immersed in shadow. It’s chilly, so I head indoors. I love this apartment; I love it. I love the space, the beauty and the freedom it gives me. It tells me I survived the divorce, not only survived it but bloody well kicked ass. It represents my independence. I pour myself a glass of wine and sit down. I stroke my hands over the fabulous damson velvet. This sofa is huge, sumptuous, indulgent, glorious and huge. Where else would it fit if it all went wrong? Where would I live if I didn’t have this place? Because that’s what Charlie has suggested, remortgaging our houses to fund the luxury investment.

  The doorbell rings and reluctantly I drag myself to the intercom; I could really do without any more decisions or pressure or trouble tonight. Mum and Dad are at the door and I buzz them in. Mum bustles straight through to the kitchen as I hold my front door open for them but Dad pauses and looks me in the eye. He gives me a big, knowing hug and I have to hold back the tears.

  ‘It’ll get better kiddo,’ he says.

  ‘We thought you probably needed cheering up…’ says Mum, unpacking a carrier bag. Lord knows what she has in there but I can’t say that a reduced-price cottage pie has much chance of cheering me up, if that’s what she’s brought.

  ‘So I brought wine,’ says Dad. He knows his daughter well.

  ‘And I brought this linguine that you like – you know the one that’s just fancy spaghetti. And some of these scallop things, nice salad and the naughtiest tub of ice cream I could find. All your favourites and none of them were even half price.’

  ‘I am truly honoured.’ I smile at her, despite my mood. ‘There’s rather a lot there, though.’

  ‘Oh we rang Michael on our way round. He said he was coming anyway to sort out your weekend away.’

  Oh blimey, I’d completely forgotten about that, Michael’s trip to Lords. I don’t think I can cope with that right now. The intercom buzzes again but Dad sits me down with a replenished glass and lets Michael in. I’m in a kind of daze as they busy themselves in the kitchen making food and setting the table. I may have only lived here for a few weeks but all three of them already look very at home. And that’s the key word – home. This is my home. It feels like mine already and I can’t risk it. I simply can’t. I’ll work day and night to save Mercury, I really will, but I can’t risk this place. I know this resort is Charlie’s dream and I hate to let him down but I can’t do it. I leave the chefs to their masterpiece and head into the bedroom closing the door behind me. I call Charlie’s number.

  ‘Hi there,’ I murmur, hoping the tone of my voice prepares the ground for what I have to say. Charlie pre-empts me.

  ‘You can’t do it, can you?’ He sighs as I pause trying to work out the right words.

  ‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK, I understand. I really do,’ he replies and then rings off.

  I’m called to dinner and get through it as best I can. The people I love most in the world have made such an effort to cheer me up, I owe them that at the very least.

  * * *

  The next day, I walk to the shop slowly, dreading actually getting there. It won’t be a happy day today. I didn’t sleep last night but not because I’d made the wrong decision. As I lay in bed, I knew I’d made the right one, but I also know I’ve destroyed Charlie’s dream and it was a good dream. I reach the shop door and push it open slowly. Charlie and Josie are already there and I can see from their expressions that he’s told her the news. She gets up and hugs me as I walk in.

  ‘There’ll be another chance,’ she says. ‘We’ll get through this.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to risk your home,’ says Charlie taking my hands in his. ‘It was a big ask. Maybe there will be a chance next year when Mercury is back to fighting fit.’

  His kindness and empathy somehow makes it worse.

  ‘When are you going to tell them we’re backing out of the bid?’ I ask.

  ‘Not yet,’ replies Charlie, ‘maybe next week. I can’t bring myself to say the words right now.’

  I nod and completely understand what he means. I offer to make the call when we have to.

  We each retreat to our desks to get on with the main task of sorting out customers’ lost holidays and selling new ones. It’s pretty difficult to sound and look cheery when you just don’t feel it, but we have to. Our dreams might be shattered but we still have to sell people their dreams. Lots of them.

  A Fine Romance

  ‘We don’t have to go,’ Michael says. ‘I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.’

  ‘There’s not a lot more I can do. The police are investigating the fraud, Charlie is telling the inves
tors next week, we’ve helped as many people as we can and the shop’s closed for the August bank holiday. Besides which, Jack’s changed a shift to be able to come. We can’t let them down. Life has to get back to normal at some point.’

  I continue to pack for what is predicted to be a gorgeous weekend weather-wise. I do need to get away; I really need to have something to take my mind off recent events and although I doubt the cricket will do that, I imagine Patty will.

  Once we’re in London, we head to a real-ale pub just outside the ground. I walk in and look around; I can’t help but laugh – the place is full of men with shiny brown foreheads and noses. Everyone looks like a little gnome. They all have the same cricket-lover’s tan that Michael sports.

  Michael is glowing: this is his territory. He heads up to the bar with Jack and they assess the ale on offer. Patty and I tell Michael we’ll stick to the gin and tonic and he calls us cowards. Michael spots someone he knows in the crowd and they have a man-hug. He introduces his friend to Jack. Seeing him so happy makes me think we’ll get through this. Maybe I should try to take an interest in his hobbies, too. Michael loves all sport and is really looking forward to the game. I know as much about cricket as Patty does (and that consists of knowing the men are often rather gorgeous and by the end of the game they have nasty red streaks down their pants), but I always think that if you’re with friends, it doesn’t really matter what you’re doing. I bet I could do the commentary, though. I’ve heard it on the radio and it seems to consist of saying, ‘what a shot’ and something about ‘overs’.

  Come the hour, we finish off our drinks and follow the stream of people out of the pub and into the ground. We’re soon squeezing our way along the terraces to get to our places.

  ‘Fabulous seats,’ says Jack, congratulating Michael.