also where you’d prefer to stand, which is in the solicitor’s office next door because at least it’s warm in there).
‘I owe you, Bobbie.’ Shona whisks the tie from her brown bushy ponytail, gathers the rebellious bits that have gone AWOL and, with a snap of elastic, gets the troops under control. ‘Your midnight dash probably saved my life.’
I grin. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. And anyway, she seems to have other things on her mind this morning.’
Shona spins round. ‘What other things?’
‘I’ve no idea. But I notice she’s wearing the Chanel blouse, and yesterday she told me to hunt out the coffee machine.’
‘Oh, Lord. I knew something was up.’
I laugh. ‘She’s probably just drumming up new business.’
‘Yes, but the coffee machine?’
‘Hmm, you’ve got a point.’ I bite my lip thoughtfully. Important client or not, the only coffee on offer here is the instant brown powder that comes in an industrial-size tin from the Cash and Carry. (The first sip makes you shudder but it’s any port in a storm when you need your morning caffeine fix.)
‘Plus,’ says Shona darkly, ‘she’s been really secretive lately.’
‘How?’
She shrugs. ‘Phoning people directly instead of shouting through to me to do it. Surviving on fags. And snippy. Really snippy.’
‘So what’s new?’
A roar from next door makes us both jump.
‘Shona-a-a-a-a? Is this crap meant to be coffee? If I’d wanted dishwater, I’d have asked for fucking dishwater!’
As bosses go, Carol McGinley is a complete and utter nightmare.
It’s hard to believe that, until a few years ago, she and I were as close as best friends could possibly be.
‘Bobbie? In here!’
The Boss bellows like a drill sergeant in a corny movie and I rise to attention.
I know better than to hang around when I’m summoned.
I go into her office and sit down, studying her curiously as she checks something in an ancient ring binder file. Her green eyes are bruised with shadows. Not that this is anything new; these days she always looks like she’s a week behind on sleep.
At last she looks up. ‘I need you to book me a hotel.’
‘A hotel?’ I can’t help sounding surprised. The Boss never stays in hotels. She never goes anywhere, just works all the time.
She grabs her fags and lights up.
‘Yes, a hotel.’ Her tone is rich with sarcasm. ‘You know, one of those things that looks like a house but bigger.’ She draws on the ciggy as if it’s a life-saver and blows smoke all over me. ‘I’m in London overnight. I’ll need a room.’
She shoves her desk calendar at me. A Saturday several weeks ahead has been circled furiously in red.
‘It’s a party. I’ve got to be there,’ she says, her tone suggesting that, given the choice, she’d rather be pretty much anywhere else in the known universe.
‘What’s the do in aid of?’ I’m taking my life in my hands, asking such a personal question.
‘Seventieth birthday.’ She scowls. ‘My father’s.’
I nod. ‘That’ll be nice?’ It’s a probing question more than a statement of fact.
‘No, it won’t. Actually, ‘party’ is the wrong word for it. It’ll be a gathering of his business cronies under one roof with the potential for making more money.’
‘Right. But at least you’ll see your family.’
She ignores this, draws hard on her fag and blows the smoke out, sideways this time. ‘They’re all booked into the hotel where the function is. I’d rather be somewhere else.’
She slaps a sheet of paper on the desk in front of me. ‘I’ve written down my requirements. I do not want an economy hell hole that looks like a block of council flats and where you’re expected to bring your own soap. And where the walls are so thin you can hear the guests in the room next door shagging all night.’
I bristle slightly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with budget hotels.’
‘Maybe not – if you’ve never stayed anywhere else,’ she says pointedly, knowing I never have. ‘I’ll have had a really stressful day. I will want to crash in a chic, comfortable room, go for a swim and a sauna, and eat in a decent restaurant.’
She points her ciggy at me. ‘I do not want to choose from a menu that’s the size of a protester’s placard and is laminated for ease of wiping, okay?’
‘Well, there are plenty of small, boutique hotels in London.’ I shrug. ‘You’ll be spoilt for choice.’
‘Er, hang on a sec. Before you start splurging my cash, I am not paying’ – she grabs the list of requirements and scribbles something at the bottom – ‘any more than that.’ She stabs the figure and I glance at it and nod, assuming she’s mistakenly missed off a nought.
‘Fine. Except you’ve missed off a nought,’ I tell her cheerfully.
‘No. I haven’t.’ Her icy green stare challenges me to argue.
I look at the figure she’s prepared to pay and shake my head. ‘No way.’ It will just about cover the cost of a sleeping bag and a hot dog.
‘Yes. Way. Now go and organise it. Please.’ She flashes me a fake smile. ‘And I want it sorted today.’
With a feeling of dread I return to my desk and go online to research hotels.
It’s a hopeless task because how will I ever find anything to suit her miserly budget?
I spend the next few hours making embarrassing, abortive calls to reservations staff, who are incredibly nice at first – until I mention the budget. I can almost hear the goodwill evaporate, like water droplets on a hot oven ring, as they switch from ‘helpful’ to ‘hang on, is she taking the mick?’
By four o’clock, I’m so brassed off, I start cutting to the chase as soon as someone picks up, as in, ‘Hello. You’ll probably think I’m a complete nutter but … ’
There’s absolutely no point telling Carol I’m having no success because she’ll only stand her ground and make out that it’s my lack of ability that’s the problem. Plus she’ll enjoy my discomfort.
I glance anxiously at
