looked over and there was Carol, standing by the church gate.
I have never been so pleased to see someone in my entire life, either before or since.
I broke away from the group and sat with her on an ancient gravestone out of sight of the other mourners, and I cried properly for the first time, my tears soaking right through her scratchy orange jumper.
When I stormed that it wasn’t fair, losing my dad so young, she gave me her best scarf to wipe my face and said she’d rather have a dad like mine for sixteen years than another sort of dad for an entire lifetime.
Much later, I learned that her father had refused to allow her time off school to support me at the funeral, but she’d bunked off anyway. I knew what that would have cost her when her father found out. Because however often she declared she hated him, I knew that secretly, she was desperate for his approval.
As I’m sorting through the pile of invoices Carol’s just dumped on me, I quickly check my emails. All junk, except one.
A message from the hotel.
I click on it, remembering Reservations Guy and his laid-back attitude. What was his name, again? Oh yes, Ronald McDonald.
I cross my fingers as it opens, praying it’s good news.
Morning Ms Blatchett
Good news. May have a cancellation for the date you want, at a price you’d like. Will keep you posted.
P.S. Hope that goldfish is fighting fit.
Ronald McDonald
I’m so relieved, I laugh out loud.
Then I tap out a reply:
Mr McDonald
Please do not mock goldfish. They are extremely sensitive. Especially when teased about their rubbish memory.
Do keep me posted.
Less than two minutes later, he replies:
Did you know that goldfish sleep with their eyes open because they don’t have eyelids?
P.S. I’ve got a spare tennis ball if you ever need it.
Ronald McDonald
I’m smiling as I return to the invoices.
‘Shona-a-a-a!’ The Boss jerks me from my daydream. ‘More coffee! And get me an up-to-date list of all our customers. And I mean all of them, including that tit Mrs Hetherington.’
‘Okay.’ Shona slips off her reading glasses and dashes into The Boss’s office to gather up the morning’s accumulation of used mugs.
Mrs Hetherington, a customer for several months, had the gall to write a letter to the local paper, complaining that having ‘ruined’ her parquet flooring, we only agreed to pay for the damage when she threatened us with court action. The Boss was furious with Mrs Hetherington. Not only because of the legal threat, which we all thought unfair. But because of a small paragraph at the bottom of the letter, which said, ‘Perhaps if the owner of Spit and Polish spent less on designer clothing, she would have a budget readily available to compensate clients for shoddy workmanship.’
Every morning this week, The Boss has burst through the door, held up her handbag or pointed to some item of clothing and announced, ‘Ten pounds from Oxfam!’ or ‘Twenty pence from the jumble sale!’ before charging to her office and slamming the door off its hinges.
The Boss takes a perverse pleasure in being miserly – thrift rules her life – and Mrs Hetherington wounded her pride.
‘Do you think she’s busy?’ Ella asks me, with a nod at The Boss’s door.
‘Um – not sure. Why?’
‘I need to check something out with her.’ She flicks back her blonde-streaked hair, releasing a freshly-washed scent of summer meadows.
‘Oh? What is it?’ I ask casually.
She touches the side of her nose and murmurs confidentially, ‘A PR opportunity she simply can’t afford to pass up.’ Standing up, she slips off her fake fur and hangs it on the back of her chair.
I wait for her to give me more but she doesn’t, so I say, ‘Oh, great. Why don’t you talk to me about it first and then I can tell you if I think it’s something she might go for?’
Ella eyes me coolly, probably worried I am going to steal her idea. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. I am merely keen to stop her barging into the lion’s den and becoming lunch.
Just then, The Boss emerges from her office, points at Shona’s empty chair and barks, ‘Where is she? I need that list.’ Her voice has a hint of gravel, especially when she’s going through a chain-smoking phase. The air emerging from her office is thick and acrid, and Ella starts to cough.
‘You asked for coffee,’ I remind her. ‘Shona’s making it.’
The Boss is tall – over six feet – with the angular shoulders of a swimmer and a high metabolism that ensures she never puts on weight, lucky cow. Her blonde crop makes her look principal boy handsome and ultra-feminine at the same time. When she smiles, that is. But bad temper is taking its toll. Her recent habit of substituting meals with fags has dulled her complexion and given her a creased look, which reminds me of my pile of ironing that needs attention.
Suddenly, I feel a pang of sadness. It’s a cliché, I know, but there was a time she could light up the room with a smile. At what point did the desire for money hijack her personality so completely?
‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t she get me the list first and then make the coffee?’ she growls, shooting a filthy look at Ella.
I can’t think of an answer to that. And anyway, poor Ella is now coughing so furiously she’s hanging onto a chair, so I doubt I’d make myself heard. I dash into the kitchen for water and The Boss stomps back to her fume-filled office.
Ella sips gratefully from the glass then spends the next ten minutes trying to rescue her mascara with a folded paper hanky.
‘She shouldn’t be smoking in the work place,’ she announces, far too loudly considering The Boss’s door is partially open.
‘Try telling her that,’ mutters Shona, returning with a coffee tray.
‘No, don’t!’ I yelp, fearing our elephant-skinned junior is about to sacrifice herself on the altar of passive smoking.
Shona delivers the coffee then shuts the door firmly behind her.
‘Do something about the temperature, Shona,’ The Boss yells. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’
‘You mean put the heating on?’
‘Well, what else would I mean? Build a friggin’
