Good Enough

by PH Morris

  “So, let me get this straight.” Lou looked like she was going to burst a blood vessel with anger. “Some idiot ordered some tat for you, that you don’t want, and they are going to get you to pay to return it? Well, I would tell them to stick it, and if they want it they can come and get it.” She virtually slammed the cups on the table.

  “Well yeah, I said that, but they said that I would have to pay the invoice, so it looks like I send it back or keep it, and it is ugly.” I shook my head, defeated, and picked up a napkin to mop up the coffee Lou had sloshed.

  “Look, it’s fine, I will just return it and that will be the end of it.” I smiled weakly and took a sip of my coffee.

  The next day I took the FM to work with me and showed it to Lou, who didn’t have a kind word to say about it, so off it went back to the PO address.

  The rest of the week involved an announcement from Nick to all staff, which made little difference to most people; it was business as usual. Nick asked me to write a short presentation of our contracts and general employment matters and put a few slides together to present in Aberdeen in two weeks’ time when the Campbell board would be interested in hearing about us in more detail.

  That kept me occupied for a couple of days, and then Friday came around. David and I had planned to go out for a few drinks near to the apartment.

  As I was drying my hair, there was a knock on my bedroom door, and David peered his head in.

  “You are not going to like this,” he said. He pushed the door open and in his hand was another box. It was identical to the last one.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I yelled. “Someone is seriously taking the piss.”

  I sat in the kitchen staring at the unopened box, worrying my nail between my teeth. David grabbed it, slid open the parcel tape with a knife, quickly rooted around in the box and announced, “It’s the rainy lamp again.” He then grabbed the box and roughly tossed it in the cupboard with the Hoover, and he insisted we forget about the Number 2 FM and get on with having a good weekend.

  On Monday, I rang the customer services number and, after being passed from pillar to post and almost forty minutes later, I managed to speak to some manager and was able to explain that someone was playing a sick practical joke on me, and I asked them to block my name and address from their system. They agreed, but sadly ‘Sandra’ was also able to confirm that a faux bronze ornament was out for delivery to me. She even joked, sardonically, that I was fast becoming their customer of the month.

  I fired a text off to David giving him the potted highlights and told him about the bronze ornament; he said that he had already seen the postman this morning, but that didn’t account for DHL, FedEx or any of the other independents. So, we agreed to put a note on the letterbox in the small entrance hall saying that all parcels addressed to me at the flat would be automatically refused. That way I should still get letters, not that I got many, but the crappy parcels would stop.

  Things quietened down a little for a few weeks, and I got back into the swing of the presentation I was working on. Suzy had booked my flights, and I was staying at a small hotel about forty minutes of Aberdeen airport.

  Chapter 9

  The Wednesday afternoon flight up to Aberdeen from Manchester wasn’t usually long; it felt that no sooner we were up and levelled off, than we were starting our descent. I wasn’t a poor flyer, but the flight was choppy, especially during the descent, on account of the crosswinds off the North Sea.

  I only had hand luggage, so was clear in no time. I hopped into a taxi and, in no time arrived at the Anderson Hotel and Spa. I had asked Suzy to book me into a more rural setting rather than in the city centre. In my experience, a young woman alone would expect a number of approaches, so I often stayed in my room to avoid unwanted attention. Nothing said ‘easy’ better than the maître’d announcing: ‘table for one?’ too loudly in the restaurant, only to find a dozen pairs of eyes, belonging to businessmen away from home, glaring at you.

  The hotel was a Georgian-style house with a cream façade; the entrance had an original tiled floor, warm oak wood panelling and a hearth which was currently unlit. I imagined it was warm and cosy in winter. On a nearby table sat a goldfish bowl of lilies, cut short and intermingled with beautiful purple thistles. The colours were complementary, as was the texture of the soft lily petals and the spiky feel of the purple prickles. I gently reached for the nearest bloom, and my thoughts were interrupted by a lilting soft Scottish accent.

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they?” I turned around to see the warm smiling eyes of the receptionist. “Do you have a reservation?”

  I looked at her name tag and, smiling back at Morag, I replied, “Yes I do, in the name of Cartwright. A booking for two nights.”

  She smiled and started to flick through a small wooden box on her desk. “Here we are,” she pulled out a printed page;” please complete the details here and here and sign just here.”

  She gave me my key card and directions to my room. I declined the offer of assistance for my small carry-on bag and climbed the short flight to the first floor. I found my room quickly and opened the door and gave a little gasp. The room was gorgeous; it had a bay window overlooking the grounds to the rear. It had a little sitting area with a small couch, a reading desk, and all in golds and creams. The bathroom was in the same hues, with an abundance of soft white towels.

  It was too early for dinner, so I quickly unpacked my work suit and blouses, to allow the creases to fall out, and placed my underwear in the nearest drawer, locating the hairdryer in the process.

  I put my shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe and then put my make-up and other toiletries on a shelf in the bathroom, stealing a glance at myself in the mirror; I looked dreadful in this light and quickly exited the bathroom.

  I had my flats on and a cotton jacket so I decided I would grab a cup of tea and maybe a quick walk around the grounds. I padded down the staircase, back into the reception area and out through the front door. The taxi had brought me from the left, so I turned right and walked in front of the hotel and passed large windows which I could see were the dining room, and staff were getting the tables ready for dinner. As I got to the end of the building, I could hear water. There must be a small river nearby; so, following the winding path through mature trees, I found the source of the sound. The trees thinned out, giving way to a small lawn and then a small, narrow river about ten feet away. It was so peaceful here, and there was a faded wooden bench nearby. It was overcast and not unusually warm, but it was so lovely; all you could hear was the sound of the water as it babbled its way over the stones. The light refracted off the water as it flowed into the hollows and crested over the small boulders. I closed my eyes and listened to the gentle rhythm of the water and the soft call of the birds.

  I don’t know how long I sat there because I genuinely found myself thinking of absolutely nothing, a rare treat indeed for me, but a drizzle started, and I knew that my hair would be a frizzy mess in no time, so I stood with a sigh and walked back to the hotel. As I made my way to the stairs, I walked past a doorway to my left and noticed the bar was empty apart from one employee, a few years younger than me, who was busy polishing glasses. She saw me and smiled, and I took that as an invitation and walked towards her.

  “Hi, can I get you anything?” she asked, in that soft accent I was coming to love.

  “Erm, I was just looking for a hot drink, to be honest; it’s started drizzling outside so I came in, and I didn’t want to head up to my room just yet,” I replied by way of explanation.

  “You’re Miss Cartwright,” she affirmed; it wasn’t a question. “Would you like a tea or coffee or perhaps something to warm your cockles?”

  “Is it too early?” I asked, smiling,

  “No, never,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Whisky or brandy?” she offered.

  “Not whisky.” I pulled my face and wri
nkled my nose, then realised it was the national drink. “Sorry, no offence,” I added

  “None taken; can’t stand the stuff myself.”

  “Oh, I thought it was a legal requirement to like whisky.”

  “It is,” she winked, “but I’m a rebel.”

  “Brandy coffee, please; that would be nice.”

  We chatted amiably for about thirty minutes, talking about the area and where she grew up. Rosie explained that business had been booming around twenty years ago, with the gas and oil fields off the coast, and there was a lot of wealth in the area, with prestige car dealerships popping up all over. It had changed a few years back when the oil price fell, and it became unprofitable to even pull the stuff out of the seabed, so the area went into decline. It was making a bit of a recovery, but it was slow. Her family, which had owned the house for over a hundred years, had seen it all come and go.

  It was fascinating, and she sounded older than her years. I liked her a lot, and I was disappointed when her attention was taken with couples arriving for dinner.

  I took this as my chance to leave and decided I would freshen up and then come back down for something to eat.

  Back in my room, I checked my phone and sent a quick message to my mum along with a couple of pics of the room. I washed my face and reapplied my make-up, which took about five minutes, brushed my teeth, ran the straighteners through my air to get rid of a few kinks, and I was then back out of the door.

  The dining room was as lovely as the other communal rooms, and I was seated in one of the bay windows overlooking the front of the property, the path that I had walked on today just in front of the window, and I wondered if I had looked like a right loner walking past alone earlier.

  The dining room was quiet, but it was mid-week, and few people came and went. I ordered monkfish risotto, and a lemon tart for dessert, and within the hour I was done and back in my room. God, travelling alone was rubbish. But I did have a reasonably busy day tomorrow and wanted to go over my presentation again before bed. Nick had said it was informal, but I still wanted to give a good impression. The general manager and operations manager of Campbell’s were going to be there, and there could be a few of the senior managers in attendance. They had asked for a potted history, and I had used my usual induction presentation. I guess that may seem lazy, but it was something I delivered often, and it had all the things they had asked for, including an overview of the culture, ethos and employment issues relevant to us.

  Just before 10pm, I was tucked up in the massive king-size bed; my work clothes were ready to go; and I had set three alarms on my phone – one for7am, one for7.15am and one for7.20am.It was my ritual when I stayed in a hotel on business; it was a ridiculous habit as I always woke many times in the night, and still before 6am. I couldn’t sleep anywhere apart from my own bed. It had taken me a few weeks to sleep through at the apartment.

  I watched TV for an hour or so, just flicking through the channels, and shut it off at around 11pm; and, although the bed was lovely and soft and luxurious, I couldn’t sleep, and tossed and turned all night. Right on cue, I awoke at 6.12am and then dozed fretfully until the first of the three alarms went off; I never felt rested, but I was used to it so it would be fine.

  I was ready far too soon so flashed up my laptop for a quick couple of run-throughs, and I even put on my semi-high heels and practised my relaxed stroll and talk technique. I had no idea, apart from the background reading I had done online. I wasn’t here in Aberdeen to talk about any of the technical stuff; in fact, I knew very little about the actual process of what we did, as it was highly skilled and engineered and that wasn’t my forte. I had been in HR for eight years and had worked my way up from assistant to officer and now manager. Campbell and Co. were interested in how we worked and what, if anything, they could learn.

  So, here I was. I had an idea from Nick that there would be around eight people at the presentation, which included the general manager, ops manager, head of finance and a few of the manufacturing managers. There were also a couple of family members, which I understood to be Donald Campbell, the chairman and septuagenarian with sparkling blue eyes and a kind smile – well, that was what the website picture represented – and his son from Canada, who from my age guestimate was anything between thirty-five and fifty.

  It made me smile that the chairman was called Donald Campbell because that was as Scottish as it got, and his name reminded me of the trips my family and I would take to the Lake District in the summer when we would camp at Coniston Hall, near Coniston Lake. My parents, being teachers, always involved an interesting fact about the area we were visiting, and Coniston was where Sir Donald Campbell had raced and tragically crashed his beloved Bluebird during the water speed record all those years ago.

  Well, I knew the presentation inside and out, and I double-checked I had my USB copy. It was only 8am, and I still had loads of time, so I left everything as it was and popped down for breakfast. Rosie, who I had met at the bar last night, was there at breakfast; god, there was no rest for the wicked, or the hospitality industry.

  “Morning, Miss Cartwright, how are you? Did you sleep well?”

  “Morning, Rosie, I did sleep well, thanks,” I lied, and stifled a yawn.

  Rosie didn’t say anything, and her small smile was the only indication that she had even registered my gaping mouth.

  She showed me to a small table in the nook again and pointed out various breakfast items: fruit, porridge and other cereals.

  I sat down, and almost immediately a young man appeared from the kitchen swing door. He took my order of coffee and salmon and scrambled eggs and disappeared.

  I was gazing, out of the window at a blackbird digging for worms in the nearby grass, when he returned with a silver pot of coffee and toast. I absently buttered the toast and noted that toast was only ever cut into triangles when staying in a hotel. Most people cut a slice of bread in half, making two smaller rectangles from the one big one. I poured the coffee, and he returned with my breakfast, which was piping hot and delicious.

  I had another coffee and decided to stop at a third, so I didn’t get the jitters at the presentation. Back in my room, I packed up my laptop case and small handbag, double-checked I had everything and brushed my teeth again. I made my way back to reception by 9am and asked the receptionist, Morag, to call me a taxi to take me to the Campbell office.

  This hotel reminded me of Fawlty Towers, where everyone did all the jobs; I could imagine a little Basil Fawlty running around, playing bellboy, waiter and dishwasher.

  I sat at a nearby chair and waited for my taxi, thumbing through the Daily Record newspaper. I was looking at the headlines and the pictures.

  I heard the taxi pull up outside and looked at Morag for confirmation; she was on the phone but nodded encouragingly. I grabbed my things and stepped out to the taxi. I gave the taxi driver the address, and he nodded and off we went.

  Because it was after 9am, a lot of the traffic had died down, and we were at the Campbell address before 9.30am. The offices were located in an industrial park just off the main A road, and it didn’t look very much from the outside. I got out of the taxi, grabbed my things and approached the modern structure and glass front doors. Stepping inside and into reception, I gave my name and was directed to a seated area. I looked up to the double-height ceiling; there were glass panels and wire struts supporting a mezzanine floor and modern open-plan offices that you could see through more glass panels.

  After about five minutes a round-bodied man with a round balding head appeared and held out his hand in greeting. He had a genuinely lovely smile.

  “Hi, Miss Cartwright, I’m Stuart, one of the managers. The management team is still in a meeting and, because you are a little early, I wonder if you would like to make yourself comfortable in the room you are presenting in?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that, I didn’t know how long it w
ould take to get here. But thanks, Stuart, please call me Mel, and yes I would appreciate having a few minutes just to set up.”

  Stuart led me down a short corridor to a meeting room and I got set up. I felt nervous, but within ten minutes a number of people had popped their head around the door and introduced themselves. I had a feeling this was due to a comfort break in the next-door meeting room, but it was a great chance to meet a few people, and I felt relaxed.

  At around 10.10am, the same people started to file into the room, and again introduced themselves and started to sit around the table; we exchanged small talk about the flight, the weather (which made me smile) and the hotel I was staying in. Finally, Mr Campbell came in and shook my hand warmly.

  “Lovely to meet you, Melissa, and thank you for coming this far north to see us. We are waiting on a couple of people, who have been delayed on a client conference call, but they can join us later.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Mr Campbell. I am happy to wait a few more minutes if that helps?” I offered, but he was waving me away.

  “No, no, it’s fine, they may be a while. Someone get the lights; I hate to moan about the sun shining, but it’s causing a glare on the screen.”

  Someone jumped up, and the lights dimmed at the back of the room, leaving me in both the literal and metaphorical spotlight.

  “Good morning, everyone, thank you for asking me to come and see you today…”And I was off.

  Luckily the links worked, and I was able to pull up a few video clips about the company, and things were going very well; I was well and truly in my flow. The door opened, and two individuals came in and stood quietly at the back. One was a small round silhouette, which I thought was Stuart, and the other was the opposite, tall and broad; they looked funny standing together, like a number 10, and someone uttered an “Apologies” in a rough voice. But I was the consummate professional and was in my natural stride.