‘It’s South African,’ says Percy. ‘Short for Tamara.’
We stare at him.
‘How d’you know that?’ asks Maryam.
‘I asked,’ says Percy.
‘When?’ I say.
‘On the afternoon break,’ he says. ‘You were in the loo. Maryam was on the phone to her mum. It was just me and Tammy, so I asked. Polite conversation.’
Maryam hmphs again.
‘Hi everyone,’ says Tammy, suddenly appearing at our table from the cigarette haze of the pub.
‘You left before we could ask you along,’ says Percy, fast, before the rest of us even take in who Tammy is.
‘That’s all right,’ says Tammy. ‘I’d agreed to meet the boss here anyway.’ She points towards the bar, and sure enough, there’s the boss holding what looks like a pint of Guinness and a G & T. Maryam from Africa sighs and starts scooting over to make room for Tammy and the boss.
‘No need,’ says Tammy. ‘We’re sitting over there with some of the workers from the other rooms. What am I saying? I’m sure you know them better than I do.’
We all look to the corner she’s pointing at. From the silence, I gather I’m not the only one who doesn’t recognise anyone.
‘Every room is kind of its own little world,’ says Percy.
‘Of three people?’ says Tammy hysterically. Is she on drugs that she’s this upbeat? ‘Awfully small world, if you ask me.’ She punches Percy playfully on the shoulder. He falls off his chair to the green, sticky carpet. ‘Oh my God,’ says Tammy. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ says Percy, helping himself back up. ‘You weren’t to know.’
We all hear the boss say Tammy’s name across the pub. He still has the drinks. He sees us, but he doesn’t come over. That’s the way everyone wants it.
‘Gotta go,’ says Tammy. ‘See you all tomorrow.’
‘I hope she doesn’t have any problem meeting her quota,’ says Percy, watching the back of Tammy move away from us.
‘She won’t,’ says Maryam from Africa. ‘Probably get the quota raised, her.’
‘And you’re married, Perce,’ I say.
‘It doesn’t mean my eye is wandering if I hope that someone doesn’t get sent to the end of the hall,’ he says.
‘Never gonna happen,’ says Maryam, before downing the rest of her pint. It’s even more beautiful when she does it this time.
9
‘I don’t mean to alarm you, madam,’ I say, ‘but it’s a fact that crime rates for Hove are through the roof this year.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘With our self-defence course, though, that fact doesn’t have to scare you.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘In fact, it’s not self-defence we’re selling. It’s peace of mind.’
‘You’ve said fact three times in a row.’
‘I believe in the product, madam.’
‘How much are you asking for it?’
‘Can you really put a price tag on peace of mind?’
‘You obviously have.’
10
Today Tammy’s nametag says ‘Tammy On Top.’ I hear her talking to a customer on the phone behind me.
‘Listen, Mrs Rosen,’ she says, ‘I got your phone number, didn’t I? Ex-directory is only a lie that keeps you from getting called by those too lazy to do further searching.’
We’re given a list of phone numbers to call every day generated by some marketing firm somewhere. It isn’t supposed to have any ex-directory numbers on it. Mine doesn’t.
‘And if I can get it, think how much more information the malevolent criminal mind is going to find out about you, Mrs Rosen. You. He’s going to come after you, and he’s going to know a lot more about you than your phone number, I can tell you that. He’s going to know when you’re alone; when you’re in your nightgown; when you make your evening cup of tea and sit down to The Times crossword. He’s going to break into your house silently. He’s going to take your phone off the hook. He’s going to come up behind you, and then he’s going to silence you. But he’s not going to knock you out, Mrs Rosen. Oh, no, he’s got better ideas than that. He’s going to keep you awake, because before he robs you, he’s … well, I hesitate to even suggest. I’d hate to give you nightmares.’
In less than another minute, she’s got Mrs Rosen, no doubt a widowed pensioner because that’s today’s target audience, to sign up for the top-of-the-line classes which include advanced jujitsu, proper use of a knife, and nighttime camouflage, all for more than what Mrs Rosen will spend on food in a year.
Jesus dammit.
11
There’s a sheet up on the wall that lists our quotas for the week and our progress towards them. We each write our daily sales numbers in a box beside our name and underneath the day. Tammy’s only been here since Wednesday. It’s Friday morning. She’s already outsold Percy and is only three behind me. The second-to-last sale I made yesterday made me reach weekly quota. Percy has to sell four more to make it, no problem really, but none of us can believe that Tammy will probably make a full week’s quota without even needing to. Tammy is in a meeting with the boss. A new employee thing, we all assume, probably accompanied by many smiles and laughs if Tammy’s performance on the quota sheet is anything to go by.
‘It’s because she’s new,’ says Maryam from Africa.
‘Aye,’ I say.
‘All that enthusiasm for the product in the first couple of days,’ says Percy.
‘It’ll wear off,’ says Maryam.
The company only gives Maryam from Africa the numbers of African women her own age, and her sales are so far beyond mine and Percy’s that her quota is higher. She passed it Wednesday morning, but she’ll only report passing it this afternoon. If they knew she’d passed it so easily, they’d raise it again, and it’s already twice the usual. She takes it easy the rest of the week, a sale here, a sale there. I’d do the same.
Tammy appears suddenly, in the way that we’re already trying to get used to, and I notice that the three of us act like guilty children getting caught
