Читать книгу Meet Me at Pebble Beach - Bella Osborne - Страница 8

Alex stared at the stain spreading across his trousers.

‘They’re very absorbent,’ said Regan, grabbing a box of tissues from the desk opposite. ‘At least it missed your keyboard.’

‘You utter cow.’ Alex’s voice was a low grumble.

Regan’s grin slid from her face. ‘What did I do?’

He pointed at his coffee-stained groin. ‘You did this on purpose.’

‘No, you did that all by yourself, pal.’ She shook her head. She understood he was cross, but she wasn’t taking the flack for something that wasn’t her fault.

‘You loosened the bloody lid!’

‘No, I di …’ Regan thought back to the new sugar process. ‘Ah, no. You see the sugar isn’t in the little packets any more—’

But Alex wasn’t listening. ‘Just because I kicked your pen in that meeting. You do this?’

She wished he’d stop pointing at his groin. Regan did feel a sense of responsibility, but she didn’t like his assumption that she was this vindictive.

‘It was an accident, Alex. You need to calm down.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but an office door opened at the other side of the room. Managers and the visiting director spilled out. ‘You’ll need to take my place. But then I’m sure that’s exactly what you planned.’

‘Shit. No. I’m not taking your place. Man up and say you spilled your coffee. I don’t want to go to some dull meeting,’ said Regan, throwing the soggy tissues in the bin.

Alex quickly sat down and wheeled himself under the desk to hide the large coffee stain. It was a smart move. He then leaned on his mouse mat and froze. Regan glanced in his direction. ‘What?’

Alex slowly lifted his arm to show that his once-pristine crisp white shirtsleeve now had a soggy brown coffee patch. ‘Whoops,’ said Regan, cringing. ‘Think I missed a bit.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ said Alex.

The herd of management made their way over. Thankfully, someone more ambitious than Regan led the discussion. Alex was quiet; he kept his lower half under his desk and intermittently scowled at Regan. She shrugged. It was unfortunate, but she couldn’t feel too guilty about it. It was only a meeting – it wasn’t like he’d missed the last lifeboat.

‘And Alex will be joining us to give an overview of the challenges he and his colleagues are facing with invoicing,’ said Nigel, with a confident nod in Alex’s direction. He seemed puzzled as to why Alex was facing the wrong way.

Alex twisted in his seat. ‘I, um …’ He frowned hard. ‘I think Regan should attend instead of me. She knows the department and its challenges as well as I do.’

‘Oh, well. Regan. Um. That’s …’ Nigel appeared to have developed a facial tic. Regan’s mouth lifted at the side. He was clearly dreading the thought of her being let loose in a meeting with the grown-ups.

The director tipped his head. ‘Regan is an unusual name. From Shakespeare, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Regan, surprised that he recognised it. Most people assumed it was her surname. ‘It’s from King Lear.’ Her mother had had ideas well above her station so had saddled her with a name she felt was interesting and unusual. For Regan it was pretentious and annoying, but something she was lumbered with because she was too lazy to change it.

‘Excellent,’ he said. Nigel gave an uncertain smile of agreement. ‘We’ll see you later then, Regan.’

‘Can’t wait,’ she said, holding her smile in place as they filtered away. Once they were safely in the lift, she turned to Alex. ‘Ugh, thanks for that. I don’t …’ she began, but Alex got up and stormed off.

She decided she’d buy him a doughnut at lunchtime. That usually cheered him up. She’d get Kevin one too.

Her phone – which she’d remembered today – buzzed into life. It was Cleo on FaceTime. Without thinking, Regan answered it. ‘Hi.’

Despite hours on a flight, Cleo still looked perfectly coiffured. After a few minutes on the Isle of Wight ferry, Regan usually looked like she’d been mauled by hyenas.

‘This is the hotel,’ said Cleo, scanning the phone around a room about the same size as Jarvis’s entire flat.

‘What country?’

‘Dubai.’

‘Is that a bath in the bedroom?’ asked Regan, catching a glimpse as the camera moved past.

‘Jacuzzi bath. So I can lie here and admire the view.’ Cleo turned the camera and Regan took in the vibrant blue sea. ‘I’m on what they call the Palm.’

‘It’s amazing,’ said Regan, trying to stop her mouth from falling open. ‘What was business class like? Did you get—’ But her questioning was interrupted by a cough behind her. Regan turned to see Nigel scowling at her and running his fingers down his tie. It was the same tie he wore every day; that, or he had a whole rack of the same one at home, but Regan doubted from the iffy stains on it that that was the case. Nigel poked a finger at her phone. That was the trouble with FaceTime; it was on loudspeaker, so it had obviously alerted everyone around her and now they all looked like meerkats on parade. If only she’d remembered her ear buds.

‘Sorry, got to go.’ Regan hurriedly ended the call.

‘Regan, we’ve spoken before about personal calls. Haven’t we?’

Regan wondered if Nigel went to the same school of condescending arses that Jarvis had studied at. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ she said, but they both knew it would.

‘If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d replenish the printer paper stocks and get me a coffee?’ He gave her a reptilian smile and she begrudgingly went to do as he’d asked. He wasn’t the worst manager she’d ever had, but he was quite picky, self-important and always seemed to be on Regan’s case, which – some of the time – wasn’t justified.

The meeting with the great and the terminally dull was a lot less taxing than she’d feared. Alex had handed over his notes and figures, so she simply reeled them off when asked, while everyone nodded and her boss gave a deep sigh of relief. Really, these people had no faith.

She nipped out at lunchtime and bought three exorbitantly priced doughnuts, but it was on the magic contactless joint account card so it was fine. She wanted to drop one off with Kevin, though he was trickier to find at lunchtime because he often got shooed away from the market during the day by the manager. Eventually, she managed to track him and Elvis down to the supermarket car park, where occasionally a benevolent shopper would give him something from their trolley.

There was a fancy concrete bench affair outside and they sat there to eat their doughnuts together. Regan liked Kevin. He was probably a similar age to her dad, but it was hard to tell with the beard. Unlike her dad, he had a calm way about him. Like he’d seen it all and done it all. She never liked to ask him too many questions, although it didn’t stop her being curious about his situation.

‘I haven’t had a doughnut for years. That was tasty, thanks,’ said Kevin, letting Elvis lick the sugar from his fingers. ‘It’s funny the things you miss.’

‘Like what?’ asked Regan, trying hard to avoid jam dripping down her top.

‘Eye contact,’ he said with a wan smile. He and Regan exchanged knowing looks. The homeless were somehow invisible to most people. Kevin tilted his head back. ‘I miss my mates, sofas … and those little chipped potato things …’

‘What, chips?’

‘No,’ said Kevin, with a chuckle. ‘Sort of cube shaped. I used to like those.’

‘What about your family?’

Kevin took a deep breath. ‘Goes without saying that I miss my folks, but …’

Regan felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Families are complicated, right?’

Kevin turned his gaze towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear to disappoint mine again.’

Regan opened her mouth to speak and was surprised by the loud bark that erupted until she realised it was from Elvis, who had spotted someone with a tray of coffees walking past.

‘I best be off. Thanks again,’ said Kevin. ‘Carpe diem.’ And he made his way across the car park, Elvis lolloping after him.

She felt there was so much more to Kevin than just some homeless guy. Regan sighed to herself then looked at her watch. ‘Shitterama!’ Did someone fast-forward her life when she wasn’t looking?

Back in the office she waved the doughnut bag in front of Alex’s face. ‘By way of apology for the earlier accident.’

Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. But that was over the line for a gag, Regan,’ he said, swiping the bag.

‘Not a bloody gag. Why won’t you believe me?’ She was getting irritated now.

Alex looked in the bag. ‘Ooh, chocolate dreamcake. You’re forgiven.’

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.

The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothed the waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.

As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.

Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message: Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET

No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.

‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’

‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’

‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’

‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’

‘DiCaprio?’

‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.

‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’

Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah, she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.

Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.

‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.

Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’

He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’

‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.

The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.

‘What?’ he asked.

Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.

‘Wheeler Dealers? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.

Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the mess she was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.

Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’

‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.

‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’

‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.

‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.

‘When’s dinner ready?’

‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’

‘But you’ve been in here ages.’ Jarvis rinsed the cloth and had another go at the toffee that now appeared to be firmly attached to the paintwork.

‘I’m making “special” toffee apples for Alex at work.’ She indicated a tray of four toffee-coated balls covered in chocolate sprinkles with lolly sticks sticking out of them.

‘Why special?’ he asked, frowning at the toffee patch, which wasn’t going anywhere.

‘They’re not apples. They’re onions.’ She did her ta-dah hands again and narrowly missed the toffee spoon, so she shoved her hands in her pockets for safety.

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped me in it at a meeting and kicked my pen across the floor. Then blamed me for him spilling his coffee and made me go to a director’s meeting. It’s payback.’

‘It’s juvenile.’ He returned to trying to shift the toffee.

‘It’s funny,’ said Regan, feeling deflated. It had taken a few coats of toffee to disguise the white of the onion but they looked just like innocent toffee apples now. She smiled to herself. She was pleased with her subterfuge, and it would be hilarious in the office tomorrow when Alex bit into one. What did Jarvis know? Having fun was definitely not one of his talents.

Regan had set two alarms for Monday morning so that she didn’t have to rush with the toffee onions. She had carefully stowed them in a cake box because the thought of dropping them was too upsetting and most definitely something she was likely to do. In fact, dropping things was another of her many talents. Someone had once suggested she might be dyspraxic but she’d never bothered to investigate it further. She rested the box on the coffee shop counter while Penny fetched her usual order.

Her phone rang – it was Jarvis. ‘Regan, did you remember to put the washing on?’ he asked.

‘Good morning,’ said Regan, trying to think of an excuse.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

She’d been far too focused on the safe delivery of her toffee onions. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll put it on later.’

‘But you won’t,’ said Jarvis. ‘You say you will but you won’t. I’m fed up with everything being left to me. I do everything around the apartment. I cook, I clean and I do all the tidying up.’ Regan rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fed up with it. It’s like being a student again.’

Regan had loved being a student. ‘I’m sorry. All right?’ She was in a good mood bubble and he was the prick that was going to spoil it.

‘No, Regan, it’s not all right. Things need to change.’ And he put the phone down.

A bang on the glass made her jump and knock the cake box. ‘Shit, Elvis,’ she said, seeing the large hound with its feet up on the glass. ‘Actually Penny, can you do me a small warm milk for Elvis?’

‘Sure, on the house. But don’t tell the boss.’ She slotted the cups into the tray and passed them to Regan. ‘Is it your birthday?’ She pointed at the cake box.

Regan grinned. ‘No, it’s a surprise for a friend.’ She tried to hide her smugness as she placed the coffees on top of the box and went outside.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ said Regan, passing him his coffee.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘Elvis, sit,’ said Regan, and the mutt’s butt hit the floor like a soldier under fire. ‘Good dog,’ she said, impressed with his response. She looked at the small cup of milk and then at the large, gaping jaws of Elvis. She hadn’t thought this through. ‘I got him some milk,’ she said lamely to Kevin.

‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling the small cup from the tray. He put down his own drink, took the top off Elvis’s milk and carefully tipped a little into the dog’s mouth. His tongue began working overtime even though it was fairly redundant because no lapping was required. The drink disappeared in seconds.

‘Kevin, that was brilliant,’ said Regan. Such a tender act of kindness. Elvis gazed adoringly at Kevin. They were a match made in heaven. ‘Take care,’ she said.

‘You too,’ called Kevin and Regan left with a spring in her step and a happy heart.

She took a moment before she walked into their office space because if she was grinning like a mad clown Alex would know there was something up. Once composed, she walked in with her shoulders back and her head high.

‘Good morning,’ she said to the back of his head. He jumped.

‘Regan, you’re early.’

‘Only a couple of minutes. Here.’ She passed him his coffee and then opened the cake box. ‘And I made you these because I still felt bad about the coffee accident.’ She emphasised the last word because she wasn’t apologising for it. She stepped back and tried to control her excitement.

‘Er, right. Thanks. But there’s something far more important.’ Regan puckered her eyebrows; her plan was getting derailed. ‘Did you check your lottery numbers?’

‘No. The ticket’s in my desk drawer.’

‘Open it, open it!’ said Alex, beginning to bounce about like a toddler on too many Haribos.

‘Why?’

‘Because I took a picture of your ticket and I’ve checked your numbers and … I think you’ve won.’ His words came out in an excited screech making Regan recoil.

‘What?’

‘I think you’ve won. But you need to check it. Check it now!’

‘What? A couple of quid?’ But she could tell from Alex’s body language that he was way too hyper for it to only be a few pounds.

Bubbles of excitement fizzed in her gut. She’d always secretly thought that one day she would win. Most people hoped they would, but she’d had a feeling that she couldn’t quite explain. A luxury lifestyle of parties and cocktails felt like her destiny far more than working in a dull office drinking coffee out of paper cups.

‘Open the bloody drawer!’ said Alex, pulling her from her thoughts. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her desk key. Inside the drawer was her ticket paper-clipped to her wish list. She pulled the ticket free. ‘Here,’ said Alex, thrusting his mobile at her. ‘Here’s Saturday’s winning numbers.’

She tried to look at the ticket and back at the phone but the numbers kept dancing about. Her pulse was racing and she was starting to shake. She took a deep breath and checked the people around her. It was early and most hadn’t settled at their desks yet. Nobody was watching them. She splayed out her hands in a calming motion and took Alex’s phone. He continued to bob up and down beside her. Regan put her finger under the first number and checked it to Alex’s phone. It matched. The second one, the same – it matched. And the third, fourth and fifth. She could no longer control the shaking. With a trembling finger she checked the last number. It was a match. ‘I’ve won.’ It was like fireworks going off in her head. ‘I’ve bloody well won!’

‘I know!’ said Alex.

She threw her arm’s around him and he stiffened. She held him at arm’s length. ‘How awesome is this?’

‘Totally awesome,’ he said, through a broad grin.

‘Alex,’ called the finance manager. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Sure,’ called back Alex. He turned to Regan. ‘Don’t do anything. I’ll be back in five minutes. Okay?’ he said, still grinning.

‘I’m not telling anyone.’ She certainly wasn’t going to share any of her winnings with the other office dwellers – most of whom looked down on her anyway. They wouldn’t be looking down on her any more. This was it. This was the turning point in her life. Everything was going to change.