Читать книгу Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas! - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 16

Chapter Ten

My phone is ringing when I arrive at the office next morning.

Shona, who is walking past my desk, balances the coffee tray in one hand and bends to pick it up.

‘I’m here! I’ll get it!’ I shout and charge across to snatch it up before she gets there.

She gives me a knowing look and murmurs, ‘Let me guess. Goldfish Guy.’

I flash her a look of wide-eyed innocence – just as someone on the other end says, ‘Can you hold? I have Mr McDonald for you.’

‘Er, yes, of course.’ I’m somewhat thrown by the fact that Ronald McDonald in Reservations seems to have a secretary. I suppose they do things differently in London.

I ignore Shona and put on my best ‘waiting for a very important business call’ expression, drumming my fingernails efficiently on the desk.

Shona would dearly love to believe there’s something flirty going on here. But she would be wrong. Ronald McDonald and I are just two people who happen to have a similar sense of humour, that’s all.

‘Hi, how’s the hamster with the penthouse?’ he asks.

‘Gosh, well.’ I laugh. ‘Dead, actually.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I’m just about over it.’

‘When did you lose him?’

‘Er, twenty-six years ago?’

He laughs and I join in. I must be louder than I thought because Shona and Ella both look over.

I turn away and press the phone closer to my ear.

‘How’s the Jag?’

‘Doing very well, thanks for asking.’

His voice is deep and sort of resonant.

‘And the bike?’ I press the phone even closer.

‘Rode it into work this very morning.’

He must be fit.

I bat this thought away. Just because he’s funny and has a sexy voice, doesn’t mean he’ll be gorgeous looking as well. Goldfish Guy is probably fat and balding with a nasty body odour problem.

‘So do you have a deal for me?’ I switch into business mode.

‘Right. Yes. The deal.’

He tells me what he can do for us and I scribble it down gratefully. He’s probably had to stretch the rules a fair bit to give me such a ridiculously cheap package. Even Carol can’t quibble at this price.

So why aren’t I feeling more pleased than I am?

‘Are you still alive?’ he asks. ‘You’ve gone quiet.’

I force a laugh. ‘Just gobsmacked at the price. Thank you so, so much.’

There is a brief pause. Then he says, ‘My pleasure. I enjoyed doing business with you, Ms Blatchett.’

‘Me too. Well, bye, then.’

I hang up and sit back in my seat.

I sit there for a while, doodling and trying to think what to do next.

There’s an odd sensation in my stomach. It feels sort of empty. But it can’t be hunger because I just had breakfast.

And then it hits me.

Now that we’ve sorted out the deal, there’s no reason for Ronald McDonald to carry on emailing me or phoning. No reason at all. In fact, I’ll probably never hear from him again.

It’s an odd thought and it makes me feel quite faint for a second. A bit like when you try to imagine infinity.

Unless it’s PMT. Yes, it must be. That’s why I’m feeling so weirdly emotional.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Shona, her ‘turbulent emotions’ antennae positively squeaking.

‘Yeah, great.’ I force a grin. ‘The Boss is going to love this! Hotel with pool, sauna and dinner thrown in, all for absolute peanuts.’ I stand up and wave the piece of paper then go in to deliver the news.

‘This is great.’ She skims the details then asks if I can run her to the airport for her flight and collect her on the Sunday afternoon.

My heart sinks.

She’s got this huge monster of a vintage Mercedes – one of Daddy’s cast-offs – and I absolutely hate driving it. Plus, if I have to keep it over the weekend, it’s going to look ludicrously out of place in my part of town between the white vans and the customised atrocities.

‘And could you file those, please?’ She drops a muddle of papers in front of me.

‘Sure. No problem,’ I say, shuffling them into some sort of order and heading back to my desk.

It’s only once I’m back behind my computer that I realise I’ve picked up one of her documents by mistake. I get up to take it back in to her when my eye catches the header on the front.

Monthly Financial Accounts.

I can hear her on the phone so I take the document back to my desk, keen to sneak a look at these mythical figures.

Three minutes later, I am sitting there, staring at a page in a state of total confusion.

To say the figures are not what I expected would be a massive understatement.

My heart beating fast, I flick back through the months, wondering if I’m reading the tables correctly because they’re really not making much sense to me.

Then I start from the beginning and work forward.

Gradually, the horror of what I’m reading begins to dawn on me.

Far from being a thriving business, we are apparently in deep trouble.

Spit and Polish has been losing money almost from day one. According to the records, each month the running total dips a little further and we are apparently haemorrhaging cash faster than the TOWIE girls hitting Selfridges.

Dazed, I sit back in my chair, struggling to take it all in.

I am no financial genius, but even I can see that if this dire situation continues, we will likely be bankrupt by Christmas.

No wonder Carol is desperate to sell.

The business is going down the toilet faster than a deceased goldfish.

Losing my job will be a catastrophe – for all of us. Not just me and Shona and Ella and all the cleaning girls, but for Mum and Tim, too.

The Boss will be fine. She might not like her family much but at least they can be relied on to cushion the financial blow.

But what happens to the little people like Shona and me? People who don’t have a rich daddy to dole out emergency cash or be a guarantor against a bank loan. People who don’t own a luxury apartment that can be sold or remortgaged to finance a new venture or to get the life-changing operation right now, instead of having to wait years.

I sneak the document back on Carol’s desk while she’s out. I won’t mention it to Shona until I’ve had a chance to think about it.

After work, I call by the supermarket and make straight for the booze aisle. Out of habit, my eyes dive to the bargains on the lower shelves. But then the big lump of fear and resentment wedged in my chest makes me think, Dammit, I deserve the good wine! So I pick a bottle from the top shelf, take it through the checkout and try not to wince when the girl requests a sum that would pay for my food for a week.

Back home, I sink down on the sofa and pick up one of my amber velvet cushions, running my finger over the rose in the centre fashioned from delicate, ruby red glass beads. It took me hours to sew them on by hand. I glance around at the art on the walls, the red faux silk curtains, the art deco table lamp I picked up in a charity shop for a few pounds. The lamp sits on a solid oak travel trunk, which I bought on impulse from a second hand shop. I took it home in a taxi then heaved it up the two flights of stairs all by myself.

If I lose my job, I can wave goodbye to this flat. And to the notion of ever being able to pay for Tim to go private.

I pour some wine and drink it far too fast, thinking of The Boss and how ratty she’s been lately. It’s no wonder. But why didn’t she tell us what was happening? Maybe we could have helped. Tried to work out why the business was going downhill so spectacularly.

I’d bet the money in the Tim Fund she hasn’t told her father about this.

Once upon a time she would have come to me for help and advice.

But not any more.