Читать книгу It Won’t be Christmas Without You - Beth Reekles, Beth Reekles - Страница 10

Friday nights were the one time Cara let herself go home at five, on the dot. Like so many of the others did every other day of the week.

But this Friday it was two in the afternoon, and she and Jen had cracked open a bottle of prosecco in the loos while they did their make-up. Most of the others had gone home to get ready. Their boss, founder and CEO of Klikit, Marcus, had declared the office shut as of half eleven that morning, saying they should all go home and get ready for the Christmas party. Cara had still had a few things to finish up for the weekend, and Jen knew what she was like.

So Jen, Christmas angel that she was, and always Cara’s saviour when she was in desperate need of some caffeine or a pick-me-up, had gone home, gathered her shit and brought it back into the office to get ready.

Jen knew Cara well enough that she didn’t have to ask what Cara would do about her outfit. The sequinned spaghetti-strap dress was folded neatly inside her backpack, along with a clutch. She’d planned to leave her things in the office over the weekend: her keys, money and phone would fit in the clutch.

“I love you, have I mentioned that lately? You’re literally the best friend ever. Like, an actual hero. The kind of hero who needs her own TV show.”

“Only about three times in the last minute.” Jen laughed, leaning into the mirror to fix on a fake eyelash. She grinned at Cara in the mirror. “But keep going, please. It fuels my ego.”

Cara reached for the bottle of prosecco, taking a swig. Why pour it into mugs when you could just drink from the bottle? They were a classy pair: getting ready in the bathroom at work, glugging down cheap prosecco from the Tesco Express down the road at two in the afternoon, with a Spotify Christmas playlist blaring out of Jen’s phone as loud as it could go.

The party wouldn’t start until five-thirty, but it’d take the best part of an hour to get there in traffic.

Which gave them a solid two and a half hours to get through three bottles of prosecco (they’d been on offer, they couldn’t just buy one) and a box of Quality Street.

Cara would’ve been happy to save money on a taxi and get the Tube, but Jen had been horrified at the idea, moaning about what it would do to her hair, and had Cara seen the size of her heels?

“But it’ll be so expensive.”

“Don’t be so bloody miserable. I’ll pay. I’m not getting the Tube. I’m not putting this much effort into my make-up just to sweat it off on there.”

And of course Cara wouldn’t just let her pay, but she’d need a good drink before forking out that much cash on a bloody taxi. She was trying to tot up how much tonight was going to cost her before realising maybe Eloise was right. Maybe she was a bit of a Scrooge.

Cara shook it off, and took another gulp of fizz before hopping up on the counter and plucking cheap, glittery red nail varnish out of her make-up bag. No Christmas party outfit was complete without a little glitter.

There was shiny foil confetti all over the tables. White tablecloths. Silver-painted leafy centrepieces adorned with pine cones and ribbon. Piano covers of Christmas carols played gently through speakers and a photographer was hanging around in front of the giant blue-and-silver decorated Christmas tree.

Cara hiccupped. “This is goddamn adorable.”

Jen giggled, squeezing her arm. “Think it’s too early to start on the wine?”

“Naaah.”

The bar was packed. The whole office had turned out – all forty-three of them – and were keeping the three people behind the bar on their toes, to say the least.

“Ah, there she is!” Cara turned, and Dave was grinning at her, beer in hand. “I almost didn’t expect you to show up. We thought you’d still be working.”

She laughed but didn’t know how to respond. Was it really such a bad thing, working hard?

“I should probably buy you a drink,” he said.

“Why?”

“Hail you as my successor properly. I don’t know that I’ll get chance after I leave.”

Cara blinked at him for a long minute. The prosecco had really gone to her head on an empty stomach. They’d only made it through a bottle and a half.

Successor.

The word took a while to register.

“Wait. Are you saying I’m – I’ve got it? I’m getting your job?”

Dave laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. “It’s not official yet, but I’ve been having a word with Marcus and – let’s just say it’s looking good.”

Cara smiled stiffly, and then Dave moved on to talk to someone else after handing her the bar’s signature Christmas cocktail, a spiced red drink with a slice of artistically burnt orange peel. She manoeuvred through a few people to catch up with Jen, who was all of two feet closer to the bar, chatting to Alfie.

It’s looking good wasn’t exactly a guarantee. He’d really got her hopes up for a minute there.

Alfie smiled at her as she wiggled into a space near them. “Alright, C?”

“Hiya.”

“Love the dress.”

This time her smile was more genuine. “Thanks. Love the tie.”

Alfie looked down, fingers lifting his tie a little. It was a bright red monstrosity with lurid green Christmas trees filled with tiny LEDs that flashed out of sync. “Subtlety is my strong point.”

Cara had to laugh at that. Alfie was thirty-four, married with three kids, and was basically a big kid himself. He’d shown up last week in a Christmas pudding outfit. He’d grown a ridiculous walrus moustache for Movember and dyed his hair pink when they did a Race for Life in the summer.

He and Jen had cocktails to match hers, and Alfie lifted his between them. “Cheers!”

The three of them toasted. Cara wasn’t sure what was in the drink; it tasted strong, and she took another sip. It was good.

“So, have they told you yet? Are you going to be the new boss?”

Jen slung an arm around her. “Of course she is! This is Cara we’re talking about. She’s a machine.”

“I’ve not heard anything for definite,” she said. Sure, Dave had sounded confident, and he wouldn’t have said anything if he didn’t think she’d get it, but she was scared of jinxing it. She poked her orange peel around with the straw. “And I wouldn’t be the boss.”

“Might as well be. You’ll be running this place in two years. Mark my words.”

“Don’t let Marcus hear you saying that,” Jen mock-scolded, then giggled. “We need him in a good mood if he’s going to buy everyone a round later.”

Conversation turned to plans for Christmas. Alfie and his husband were taking the kids to visit their grandparents in Devon. Jen was going home to her family in Brighton. Bryan, from the digital team, had joined them, and mentioned he was heading up to Scotland for Hogmanay with his family.