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Chapter Eight

It’s another inspiring day at the office and I’m supposed to be doing an inventory and ordering supplies. But an email from Ronald McDonald has just pinged onto my screen and I’m trying to think up a reply.

His message:

Morning Ms Blatchett

How are you today?

And how are things in the cleaning world? (I looked you up online.) Interesting name, ‘Spit and Polish.’ Your boss obviously has a great sense of humour.

Ronald McDonald

My reply:

Oh yes, she’s a laugh a minute!

I’m all right, thanks, apart from the fact that my brother tried to paint his scooter with my blusher brush and paints.

What’s your boss like?

I’m smiling as I hit ‘send’, wondering how he’ll reply. It brightens up a Thursday morning, at any rate.

When I get back from lunch, I quickly check and there’s another message:

Little brothers, eh? Mine’s twenty-one and he still winds me up. (But I keep my make-up brushes in a safe place.) What do you paint?

I reply:

Watercolours. At least, I used to. It was my dream to be an artist but I got wise to the delights of a regular income. Rent doesn’t come cheap!

And back bounces the following:

Ah, yes. The rent. That’s a dream-crusher if ever there was one. But what would you do if money weren’t an issue?

I’m about to type something flippant like, ‘buy myself an island and become a latter day Robinson Crusoe.’

But instead, I pause, my fingers suspended over the keyboard.

Then I take a deep breath and write:

Glass-blowing. That’s what I’d do. I learned at college and I decided I wanted to spend my life creating beautiful beads and vases and Christmas baubles. Molten glass is such an amazing thing to work with.

A minute later, he replies:

Glass-blowing. You’re full of surprises, Miss Blatchett. What’s so special about it? (I’m not being polite; I’m genuinely interested.)

I’m smiling as I type :

Did you know glass is made of sand? Not the sort you find on the beach but a purer kind. And you can add things to the melt to make different colours. Put a little cobalt oxide in and you get this lovely deep, rich blue. Add a pinch of gold and it makes a glorious ruby red. When you first pull the molten glass out of the furnace, it has this incredibly beautiful clarity. So I like to work as quickly as possible because the less the glass is handled, the more stunningly pure it looks.

Bobbie

I send it off and stare into space for a while, remembering my excitement when the trading allowed me to buy a small furnace and all the tools I’d need to start up. I even managed to find a workshop, just around the corner from the London flat. But I never got as far as renting it. The trading wiped me out before I had a chance and most of my lovely equipment had to be sold.

It’s Friday lunchtime and Ronald McDonald still hasn’t replied to my last email. Maybe I bored the pants off him, going on and on about glass-blowing.

What an idiot.

I don’t know what came over me.

I’m walking back to the office with Shona and she’s telling me about Barry, her long-time boyfriend who she’s known since they were fourteen.

‘He’s lovely, you know. He’ll do anything for me. He’s my best friend, really.’

‘Sounds great.’ I suspect a ‘but’.

‘But we never have sex.’ She frowns. ‘We’re like brother and sister. All the excitement has completely gone. But the thing is, I do love him.’

‘That’s a bummer,’ I agree. ‘Couldn’t you try to spice things up a bit?’

She pushes her glasses up her nose thoughtfully. ‘What? Like handcuffs or role play or something?’

I shrug. ‘Might be worth a go.’ I try to imagine Shona handcuffed to a bed but it’s a bit of a stretch.

When we get back to the office, the first thing I do is check my emails.

Still nothing from Mr McDonald.

Oh, God.

I’ve frightened him off with my self-indulgent outpourings.

He’d better not have forgotten his promise to get me a great deal.

‘There’s something going on,’ I tell Fez later, watching him chop a red onion dangerously fast.

We’ve recently got into a nice Friday night routine of dinner and a catch-up at his place.

‘Shona’s convinced we’re going to lose our jobs.’

‘Why? Have you been inhaling too much of the office oxygen? Or were you caught doodling with an office biro?’

‘Oh, ha ha.’ I wish I’d never mentioned the pens.

‘I’m surprised she hasn’t told you to write very, very small.’ He grins. ‘To save on ink.’

‘She was joking about the pens. I think.’

Fez shrugs. ‘She’s anal about other things.’

‘True, but she’s always rationed the paperclips. And the heat. And the compliments.’ I sink my chin gloomily on the heel of my hand. ‘I think she might be selling up. She had a meeting with our main rivals the other day.’

‘Why would she sell up?’ He throws chopped red peppers into the spaghetti sauce. ‘She must be raking it in.’

‘That didn’t stop you, did it?’

‘No. But I wanted a simpler life, out of the rat race.’

‘You couldn’t be more different. Carol would rather have money instead of a life. You’d rather have the life.’ I pull a face at him. Fez built up a successful computer software company from scratch then sold it because he decided he wanted to learn the building trade. When I asked him why, he laughed and said he’d always liked working with his hands and solving problems, and eventually, he wanted to be able to build his own house. Plus, he wouldn’t have to attend another tedious business meeting or corporate dinner ever again in his entire life.

‘I still can’t believe you’re learning carpentry.’

‘Among other things.’

I glance at him slyly. ‘Is it to attract the women? You know, hefting wood about and being all hot and sweaty and macho.’

He grins and chucks the onions into a pan. ‘You do talk a load of shit.’

‘Yes, but it is high time you had a woman in your life. I mean when was the last time you – you know … ’

‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle!’ He points his knife at me. ‘Why don’t you practise what you preach?’

I snort. ‘No time.’

Fez shakes his head sadly.

‘But it’s true! If I’m not in the office, I’m running errands for The Boss or I’ve got my head down someone’s loo because one of our regular cleaners is off sick. Or I’m round at Mum’s making sure they’re okay and supervising Tim’s hospital appointments. How can I fit a social life into a routine like that?’

He looks at me oddly for a second. Then he filches a string of spaghetti from the boiling water and, tipping back his head, tests it for firmness. ‘You fit me in.’

‘That’s different,’ I laugh. ‘You’re my best friend.’

I’m expecting him to smile at the compliment. But instead, he wipes his hands on his jeans and turns away to get wine from the fridge.

‘Well, you’re coming to my Christmas party even if I have to box you up and have you delivered.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

When he had a large staff, Fez’s Christmas parties were legendary. He’s decided to continue the tradition this year by holding a party for friends.

I know I have to go. But I haven’t been to a big bash like that for ages, not since my London days. And apart from anything else, I’ve got nothing to wear.

To change the subject, I say, ‘Hey, did you see what was on that DVD you brought me the other night?’

He shakes his head. ‘I deliberately didn’t look. I thought you should watch it first – in case there was anything risqué on it. Why, is it good stuff?’

‘It was – um – interesting. I was going to bring it over to show you but I couldn’t find it.’

‘By the way, have a look at that.’ He tosses something onto the table in front of me.

I pick up the pamphlet and glance through it.

It’s an advert for a new gallery that’s opening nearby in an old, renovated factory. I study the examples of sculptures, paintings and jewellery. They want new talent to exhibit.

Fez is watching me.

‘And?’ I drop the leaflet on the table and fold my arms.

He shrugs. ‘Thought you might be interested.’

For a few seconds, a glimmer of excitement flares in my belly. Real butterflies at the thought of getting back to the work I love; the thrill of turning an idea for a painting or a glass vase into something real.

Then I bring myself to heel.

I’ve already proved that being creative doesn’t pay the rent.

I have to be practical and focus on saving all the money I can for Tim’s operation.

I will not let Mum and Tim down.