Читать книгу Four Christmases and a Secret - Zara Stoneley - Страница 17

Chapter 5

Very, very late p.m., 24 December (or early 25 December)

I think not knowing about my imminent loss of job could partly be my own fault. Because my data allowance had nearly run out this morning, I was very sensible (this is part of my sorting my finances out strategy) and turned my mobile data off. Then turned my phone off, because what’s the point if you can’t check on Twitter and Facebook? Then forgot all about it as I had so much to do (and the lady in the beauty salon won’t let me near my mobile until my nails are definitely dry).

This is why I have had no notification of my possible change in circumstances i.e. jobless status. Though I have to admit that I was slightly concerned that nobody at all had messaged to wish me a Happy Christmas. I hadn’t thought I was that unpopular at work, or in general.

There is a delay when I switch my mobile back on, while it fiddles about in hyperspace looking for the Wi-Fi, then it goes berserk. Honestly, it is bleating and tweeting like a sheep that has suddenly spotted its lost flock.

I stare, rather drunkenly, as it bleeps and flashes. It is just like cooking popcorn, gradually the time between bleeps gets longer, until it is safe to open the bag.

There’s an unread email. Lots of emails.

There are texts.

Voicemail messages.

I am rather drunk, but I need to read them all, listen to the messages.

Have I really been sacked the day before Christmas? Am I going to start the new year destitute and homeless, relying on my mother (oh my God) to provide shelter and food? Will I have to live in a stable like the baby Jesus (fine, I know he didn’t live in a stable, but I’m drunk, and upset, okay?)?

This is so unfair. Even before seeing Ollie at the party tonight and realising just how pathetic my life really is in comparison to what it should have been, I had decided something has to be done.

I was going to kick off next year demanding a better job, or at least a pay rise, so that I could find a better flat. I do love Frankie, but honestly, my room is so small I end up piling all my books in the corners like mini towers of Pisa. One day they will all lean in so far they’ll meet in the middle then collapse and kill me in my sleep. I had been determined to be more organised, to budget, to change my life.

And now this.

I won’t panic. I will be logical about this and start at the beginning – and not with the most recent, and most eye-catching email with the subject HELLLP MAD COLLIE ON MY HANDS. This one is from Carrie, who runs the dog re-homing centre and is Stanley’s official guardian. She is slightly unhinged, but very well meaning, and I would normally put her top of the queue. I want to help her, and I want to help any dogs that need helping.

I will also prioritise and ignore Frankie’s text ‘Oh my fucking God, send ambulance, won’t be able to walk tomorrow, make up sex is the best! P.S. Did you get the pompous prick’s number just in case?’

No, I can’t ignore it. ‘In case of what?’

‘Injury.’

This is cryptic. I’m not sure if she means hers, or Tarquin’s. I suspect the second, she might be calling on a substitute if he runs out of steam (or something snaps) before she does.

It is very hard to concentrate on possibly life changing emails when all I can think of is Tarquin’s dick snapping off, and I am drunk. But it’s essential. I need to know the worst-case scenario before I tuck into my Christmas turkey a few hours from now.

The first unread email (after one asking if I’ve considered a penis extension, another selling support underwear, and the mad collie one) was sent by my boss David approximately five seconds after I left the office. No wonder he was cross with me – it wasn’t that he was grumpy about Christmas, he was waiting for all staff to leave so that he could drop his bombshell.

He’d had his finger poised over the send button as I was waving and wishing him a happy Christmas.

Twat.

Not only is he a bit of a sex predator, he is also spineless and pathetic. And rude. And a terrible manager. I am sure (given his age) he has been offered a fabulous early retirement package that will mean he can jet off to Spain and never have to face any of us again. Our village is quite small, he would have to face up to all the mutterings and turned backs, the funny looks and rotten eggs. He might well be the headline in the free local newspaper, and he won’t want to hang about for that.

I take a deep breath, clutch Stanley to my pyjama clad breast, and click on the email.

It is very brief; he regretfully wishes to inform us that in the New Year the Hunslip and Over Widgley Local Guardian will cease trading as an individual entity. He has accepted a retirement package and is moving to Kent (not Spain) and will miss our camaraderie (I won’t miss his). A caretaker boss has been appointed and will oversee the operation for the next three months, after which we will have an opportunity to apply for a job within the new organisation. The office will be unavailable from 24 December as the lease has come to an end, all belongings will be packed and sent to a new temporary location for the New Year. Full details attached blah, blah, blah.

Oh my God! You have got to be kidding me? Not only have I lost my job, somebody will be rummaging through my drawers! Have I left anything incriminating on my desk, or anything I’ll miss? There were definitely spare tights, spare knickers, a packet of festive Pringles, a collection of pens that clients have given me. Who has been touching them? Has David himself packed the boxes (eurgh – I do not want my undies back!)?

Good luck team! Have a great Christmas.

How can he expect us to have a good Christmas now?

There is a very long forwarded message from somebody called James Masters who wants to welcome us to publishing house HQ. There are a lot of words that concern me, like merger, consolidation, and acquisition which I think are best left until the morning and a clear head. I am more than a trifle concerned about the bit buried between the welcome and the Christmas wishes that mentions ‘slimming down’ and the need for some roles to go during the reorganisation (isn’t it a shame it’s not so easy for a person? A company can just chisel off and bin the bits it doesn’t want. I don’t want to be binned, but some parts of my bottom may benefit from this approach as I am rather pear-shaped). The words ‘voluntary redundancy’ and ‘flexible attitude towards suitable positions’ have also set my pulse pounding – should I take a redundancy offer and seek out a better job, or risk ‘flexibility’ meaning I could end up with the promotion I deserve?

There are also lots of attachments, including one ominously titled ‘Application Form’. I think it’s time to move on and look at my other messages, I am not in a fit state for attachments.

I also have an email from Eva, who sits across the desk from me. She excels at passive/aggressive and manages to reassure me that there will be a place in the new organisation for such a young dynamic person as myself, whilst making it clear that if I really was dynamic, I’d be working somewhere else already. Brian (desk in the corner) chips in with an invite for drinks between Boxing Day and New Year’s Day – for us to discuss strategy and possible legal action (think he’s jumping the gun a bit there), and there is a rather formal email hoping I got home safely, wishing me well and offering his services from somebody called Oz, which confuses me. Am I being headhunted? Should I move down under? Is he a stalker? Then after blinking a couple of times I realise it is from O. Z. Cartwright. Ollie.

It is rather nice of him to get in touch, but I’m not quite sure how he can help.

And why isn’t he busy bonking his girlfriend? Maybe she passed out before he had chance, unless sex is the one thing he’s not good at and it only lasted thirty seconds. Which would be tragic but explain the rapid turnover rate.

Bugger, I have to stop thinking about Ollie and sex. But what the frig am I going to do now?

Apart from wondering what the ‘Z’ stands for? I never knew Ollie had a middle name, if he ever comes to another Christmas party, I must remember to ask what it is.

I can’t help myself, I can’t wait until next year! I fire off an email thanking him for his good wishes and asking if his middle name is Zebedee or Ziggy. Either would be quite funny.

I decide it is time to close my laptop and go to sleep. My last thought as I pull my duvet up to my chin, is that I’m bloody glad I didn’t suck up to David this morning and beg for a better job before he dropped the bombshell.

5 a.m., Christmas Day, can’t sleep

Reasons this newspaper merger is a disaster:

1 The new office is miles away from the old office, and therefore my flat

2 My savings are practically non-existent and will run out soon so if they don’t take me on, I am screwed

3 Winter has to be the worst time of the year to find a new job if I fail to keep my job (or apply for voluntary redundancy)

4 I am rubbish at filling in application forms and interviews. (I tend to start to answer a question, veer off course and forget what it was. I also get panic attacks, sweaty palms and hiccups when under pressure.)

Reasons this merger could be a triumph (always be positive):

1 I could get a pay rise

2 I could get a new, better role

3 I no longer have to work with letchy David, though pass-agg-Eva and Brian-the-pessimist might also apply for their jobs back

4 This could be a new start, a start I choose rather than one that has happened by accident. And there will be more openings.

Issues – the triumph bit is littered with ‘could’s; I could quite easily end up with no job at all, or one even worse than the one I had up until yesterday.

I put my mobile down and curl up under the duvet again. The flat is quiet, Frankie will be with Tarquin, in some luxury hotel, celebrating in style.

‘We’ll be doing that next year.’ I tell Stanley, who is curled up against my feet. He wags his tail lazily, to show he’s listening. ‘Well, you’ll have your furever home, in some big house with a massive garden. I’m not quite sure what I’ll have.’

I lie back and close my eyes, but I can’t stop thinking about my job. Or lack of it. So I pick my phone up again.

There is a new email from Ollie: ‘Sorry to disappoint, nothing as amusing as Ziggy – it’s Zane. Rgds Ollie.’

I wonder if he always writes such formal emails?

‘Not a disappointment!’ It is. ‘Is it a family name? Best wishes, Daisy’ – I did write ‘Love Daisy’, but then decided that was a bit too familiar for somebody who says ‘Rgds’.

‘No idea! Night. O’

‘Good night!’

I wait a few moments to see if he sends any more messages, and when he doesn’t I open the email from James Masters.

Maybe my first step in proving to everybody (including myself) that I can be a success, is to challenge my caretaker boss and demand better a better job immediately?

5.30 a.m., 25 December

Still can’t sleep. Keep wondering about what might have happened if there had actually been some mistletoe in my snug in the bookshop when Ollie had squeezed in beside me.

This is not a good way to think.

1 He has a girlfriend (can’t see it lasting though).

2 I still kind of have a boyfriend, I think. Not sure if cancelled Christmas = cancelled relationship, or if he might want to see me again.

3 Our lives have gone in different directions, we are no longer compatible. At all. Whatever my mother thinks. He is smug and insufferable, and I hate him. Though he was very kind earlier.

Bugger! How can he be so annoying and taking up so much of my head space when he has nothing to do with me and my life? I pull the duvet right up to my ears, feeling stroppy.

He was very kind though, and I was tempted to kiss him.

I curl up, and realise I’m smiling.

It was the way he looked into my eyes, as though he understood me. As though he knew. For a moment I was the old Daisy, the teenage Daisy, the one he’d snogged.

He really does have very kissable lips, and a cute dimple, and eyes I could lose myself in …