Читать книгу Playing by the Rules: The feel-good heart-warming and uplifting romance perfect for Valentine’s Day - Rosa Temple - Страница 14

Chapter 8

I switched on the breakfast news for a weather check the following morning as I got ready for work. The bright and sunny August morning I’d woken up to the day before had been replaced by one that was cloudy and threatening rain. I kept missing the weather report as I flitted in and out of the room, half listening to the daily dramas being unleashed both at home and abroad: the wildfire being controlled in California, the explosions at a port in China, Sam Smith licking his waxwork double at Madame Tussauds in San Francisco and, front-page news at home, the politician about to be ousted from government. Despite the greyish morning, I chose my lucky open-toe shoes, in an attempt to ward off the impending drama at the office.

Maybe the finance department would report to Anthony that, yes, the company was sunk and that my job would be gone in the blink of an eye and I’d never see Anthony again. I smarted at the possibility of Mother throwing a commiseration party, only this time I’d keep my big mouth shut and not insist that Father be there.

Anthony was already in his office when I arrived. The meeting was at nine o’clock and I arrived at eight-thirty to do PA type things like make sure the coffee was brewed. I’d bought pastries on the way in to soften what might be a hard blow for Anthony, making sure there was a good supply of doughnuts as I remembered he liked those and not muffins.

‘Magenta, you’re brilliant,’ Anthony said from the doorway of the kitchen.

‘Just doing my job,’ I said.

‘Well let’s hope that after the meeting we both still have jobs.’

‘We will,’ I said trying to hide the doubt in my voice.

‘Would you like to sit in?’ he asked.

‘If you’d like me to, sure.’

Over his shoulder I noticed the other members of staff arrive. They were grim-faced. I looked at the plate of pastries I’d taken time to arrange and hoped to goodness that along with the open-toe shoes, they’d do their magic and keep me in a job.

A little while later I walked into Anthony’s office with my tray of refreshments, straining under the weight of cups, a coffee pot and enough baked goods to anchor a small boat. In a room that seemed ominously grey and heavy with bad news, Anthony, who had taken off his jacket, sprang to his feet to help me.

‘Please, Magenta. Let me.’ He put the tray down on his desk. I eyed up Graham and Thelma from finance and crossed my fingers in my head but the financial forecast didn’t sound good when Thelma, a thickset, fifty-something with wiry hair, talked Anthony through the sales figures and projections. Anthony nodded a lot and looked at me once in a while and I tried to smile and look encouraging. I’d looked at some of these reports on my first day but the numbers that had looked pretty neat in boxed-off rows on a spreadsheet took on a different light once Thelma explained their significance.

‘So,’ Anthony said when Thelma had finished. ‘From what I can see and by what you’re saying, this company could go under in about six months?’

Thelma blushed and nodded. ‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘we did warn Arthur about this last year but your father was, what shall I say, very optimistic and he wouldn’t take our advice.’

‘Which was?’ said Anthony.

‘Either he sold up or downsized.’

‘But wouldn’t that mean cutting jobs?’ Anthony’s frown grew ever deeper as the meeting progressed.

‘It would.’ Thelma shuffled in her chair. ‘And I think that was the part Arthur didn’t want to face.’

Anthony slumped in his chair and rubbed his forehead. ‘So he retired and left it to me. As if I’d be any better.’ His voice was quiet and my heart went out to him. I raised my hand and wriggled in my seat.

‘Do … do you want to go to the toilet, Magenta?’ Anthony asked after I’d waved my hand for a few seconds.

‘No. Not at all,’ I said though it was partly true. ‘It’s just that I have this idea. It’s not a solid idea; it’s just something I’ve seen in a film. Well more than one actually.’

‘Look, we really need to focus on this,’ Graham said. ‘We can always talk films later.’ He tutted.

‘No, no, no,’ I insisted, looking at Anthony. ‘You see, whenever there’s a crisis at Head Office, someone from the company always flies out to where the workers are to make cuts and then they discover that there was a way to turn things around after all and everyone ends up keeping their jobs.’

‘Was Renée Zellweger in that?’ Thelma asked.

‘Maybe,’ I said and turned back to Anthony. ‘Why don’t you fly out and look at the factory and maybe something will come to you.’

‘Good idea,’ Anthony said. ‘But the factory is in East London so I think we could take a cab.’

‘We?’ I said.

‘Well you’re my PA. Set it all up, Magenta, and let’s go. We don’t have time to lose.’

Anthony’s little boy lost turned into little boy who’d just hit the neighbour’s apple tree with his catapult and came up with toffee apples. Sadly, Graham and Thelma left the office shaking their heads as if they thought we were just as delusional as Arthur Shearman. Thankfully they took the cloud of doom and gloom with them.

Meanwhile, Anthony and I grinned at each other with what was probably naïve enthusiasm. I kept on giving Anthony encouraging smiles and he tried not to let his smile slip. In the back of my mind I had a vision in which we’d take a trip to the factory, meet the workers and quickly realise there was no happy ending. All was lost. This was closely followed by a vision of me trying to sell heather outside a tube station in last season’s shoes and a Burberry scarf (any season) around my shoulders.

Just two days later Anthony and I sat in the back of a taxi on the way to the factory of A Shearman Leather Designs. The building was old, on two floors and set in an industrial estate that housed various other factories, lorries, bare-chested men and the smell of steak and ale pies.

‘This is it,’ said Anthony. ‘Fingers crossed there’ll be something we can salvage from this … this …’ He looked at the factory with a frown and I couldn’t hide the one on my brow because the factory looked close to collapsing. I took a deep breath.

‘Come on, Anthony. We can do this,’ I said and started marching eagerly towards the open door. Just inside it was a man with ancient lines on his face. I say ancient because his face looked more than old and I was sure each line could tell a story. He sat at a desk in a small and dim corridor, reading a newspaper. His reading glasses sat at an angle on the tip of a rather bulbous nose and he squinted to see in the faint light. Anthony cleared his throat.

‘If you’re looking for Go-Karting Kings,’ the man said without looking up, ‘they packed up and moved out Kent way.’ He licked his thumb and turned a page in his newspaper.

I was wearing Prada. Did I look like I wanted to jump in a go-kart? I stepped forward and introduced myself.