Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’
The Boss pulls out her purse and draws a note from its compartment. She checks carefully to make sure there aren’t two stuck together and holds it out to me. ‘Get the good stuff.’
‘Wow. Who’s the lucky visitor?’
‘And some biscuits.’ She ignores the question. ‘Chocolate.’
I nod.
Her grip is firm on the ten pound note.
‘Let go,’ I murmur.
‘What?’ she snaps. ‘Oh, yes.’
I get my coat, pocket the money and head along to the local supermarket, glad of the breather.
I walk back into a Tense Situation.
Ella is standing by The Boss’s office, effectively blocking her from getting in, and I arrive just as she’s gushing, ‘ … amazing way to publicise the business!’
Shona’s head bobs up in alarm.
‘The thing is, I was out with my friend, Amy, at the weekend, and she works for the local radio station and she’s helped organise this incredible initiative where people donate money and they give food parcels to the needy at Christmas time. They’re asking companies like ours to make a donation.’
In the silence that follows, Shona sneaks a look my way.
‘So I told Amy I would ask you.’
I can’t bear to look at Ella’s pleased expression.
The Boss arranges her features into a smile. ‘To donate to a charity?’
Ella nods.
‘You want me to donate money? To the poor people?’
‘Yes! It’s ever such a good cause and just think what it would do for the image of the company.’
The Boss nods as if she is giving it her full consideration. ‘Hmm, so you think our image could do with a bit of help, then?’
Ella’s face falls slightly. ‘Well, no, I didn’t mean – I just meant it would be good publicity. That’s all.’
The Boss raises an eyebrow and disastrously, Ella takes this as encouragement to continue. ‘It wouldn’t have to be very much. Just a few hundred, maybe? I mean, obviously that would be up to you.’
I look over at Shona. Her shoulders are up to her ears, as if she expects the ceiling to fall in on us at any second.
‘I don’t think so.’ The Boss’s tone is as icy as a skating rink.
She takes Ella’s arm and steers her firmly out of the way.
To my horror, Ella moves back into the doorway and continues talking. ‘But that kind of publicity is like gold dust. It must be worth a try. Don’t you think?’
In the silence, you could seriously hear a false nail drop.
I feel as tense as I do when someone on telly hears a strange noise in the attic and decides it would be a good thing to investigate.
The Boss shakes her head and places her hands on her hips. ‘If you seriously imagine I’m going to hand over my hard-earned fucking cash to a bunch of stinking, dirty lay-abouts, who lie around all fucking day watching their fucking friends on the fucking Jeremy Kyle Show and can’t be arsed to go out and get a job, you really do need your head examined, Ellen.’
She shimmies into her office and kicks the door shut.
Poor Ella – enduring the added insult of being called by the wrong name – needs two cups of nettle tea before she starts feeling normal again.
As I’m packing up to leave the office later, Shona, looking red-faced, hisses, ‘Guess who’ll be drinking the posh coffee and munching the chocolate biscuits?’
I frown. ‘Who?’
‘Only The Sparkle Sisters!’ She nods at The Boss’s door. ‘And here was me thinking she hated them!’
‘But she does. They’re our biggest rivals. She spends any spare time she has sticking pins in their effigies.’
‘So what’s she doing inviting them in for a cosy chat?’
I stare at Shona.
What, indeed!
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
