Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  No, far better to concentrate on keeping The Boss sweet so that I can hang onto my job, however mundane it might be, and eventually get Tim his operation. And as I keep saying to Fez, The Boss isn’t all bad. She’s consistent, which is a good thing. There are never any nasty surprises because she’s consistently horrible. So you know exactly where you stand with her (and 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.

  Chapter Two

  ‘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 my watch. My brother’s been suffering from a bad chest infection. I promised Mum I’d collect his medication and take it round to her tomorrow, on my way in to work.

  But the chemist’s closes at five-thirty and I’m down to the final hotel on my list.

  My very last hope.

  Punching in the number, I offer up a silent prayer that this time I’ll speak to someone who is at least a little sympathetic to my plight. I will offer to bake them muffins, read them a bedtime story – God, I’ll even send hard cash – if they will only give me what I need. Then I can get the hell out of here for another day.

  It rings – smile and look positive! – and it rings.

  It keeps on ringing.

  Then it rings some more.

  With each electronic shriek, an iron band of frustration tightens around my gut, increasing my sense of panic.

  ‘For God’s sake, what kind of a place is this?’ I drum my fingers hard on the desk, tensing my ear muscles against the phone shrieks. ‘Christ, have all the staff taken the same day off?’

  Shona and Ella are frowning sympathetically at me.

  I am so incensed it doesn’t immediately register that the phone has stopped ringing.

  So, as it filters through my jangling head that someone is actually speaking, I am simultaneously yelling, ‘Bloody fucking stupid bastard of a hotel!’

  There is a deafening silence at the other end.

  And then a man says, ‘Well, you know, that’s not how we’re currently described in the
Good Hotel Guide.’

  My heart leaps with horror.

  Oh, buggery bollocks!

  Heat envelops me, I am sweltering like a greenhouse in high summer. What do I do now? Hang up?

  Then I think of Carol, hatchet-faced, drumming her fingers, expecting a miracle.

  This man is my last hope. I’ll just have to grovel.

  ‘Gosh, I do apologise.’ I pull out my T-shirt neckline and desperately waft some cool air in. ‘I’m – er – having rather a stressful afternoon and it all got a bit – well … ’

  ‘Too much?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He laughs. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve all been there. Try squeezing a tennis ball.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That’s what I do when I feel like leaping off a cliff. You’ve got to put a hole in it, obviously.’

  ‘A hole,’ I repeat, feeling somewhat bemused. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘Works wonders. Honestly. You should try it.’

  His voice is deep and oddly soothing, and my panic subsides a little.

  ‘So what’s stressing you out? Is your goldfish ill? Or is your boss giving you a hard time?’

  I’m about to laugh wearily and say, ‘Spot on!’ Then I think: No, I’ve got to be nice about Carol. She has to sound like the perfect hotel guest.

  ‘The Boss?’ I take a deep breath and cross my fingers. ‘Oh no, she’s great. Firm but fair. Always puts the welfare of her staff before profits. And she particularly asked me to book her a stay at your hotel. We’ve heard – er – fabulous reports.’

  I can see Shona giving me funny looks. But I don’t care. I’ll tell as many porkies as required in order to bag a deal and get out of here.

  ‘Right, well, we’ve obviously got a lot to live up to. So let’s see what we can do for you.’ His tone is laced with humour. He sounds so laid-back, I can’t imagine him ever needing to leap off a cliff.

  I gulp. ‘There’s – er – just one thing. The Boss has a budget.’

  ‘Of course. Fire away.’

  I close my eyes and mumble the figure.

  There’s a brief silence.

  Then he laughs.

  Roars with laughter, in fact, and my heart drops into my boots.

  I stare murderously at Carol’s door.

  I knew it was useless.

  ‘I’m glad you’re amused,’ I say primly, when Reservations Guy has stopped clutching the desk, wiping his eyes and falling off his swivel chair. ‘I, on the other hand, don’t find it in the least bit funny. Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’

  I hang up, my dignity in shreds, and punch ‘bargain hotels London’ into Google with so much force, it comes out as ‘bqrghain hireks Libdon’.

  A second later, the phone rings, and when I snatch it up, a familiar voice says, ‘Let me lessen your stress. As I said, I’ll see what we can do for you.’

  I sit bolt upright. Reservations Guy. ‘Oh. Right,’ I mutter hoarsely. ‘Er, that’s great, thanks.’

  ‘Give me your email address.’ He sounds like he’s smiling. ‘The name’s – er – Ronald McDonald. I’ll get back to you. Oh, and look after that goldfish.’

  I laugh and give him my details, feeling a whole lot better.

  A minute later, I pop my head round The Boss’s door. ‘Job’s a good ‘un.’

  ‘It bloody better be,’ she yells after me, as I skip out and grab my coat.

  Chapter Three

  I’m in such a hurry to leave, I don’t even notice the rain.

  All week, the weather reporters have been banging on about a spectacular storm that will sweep north, arriving just in time for today’s commuter exodus.

  Luckily, I thought to wear my new raincoat this morning – the one I fished out of a bargain bin at a camping shop. It’s fairly obvious why no one wanted it. The last time swirly orange and purple Paisley pattern was on trend, I probably wasn’t even alive. Plus it’s a large size and therefore swamps me. But it’s functional, and that’s what’s important.

  As I emerge from the chemist’s, the sky turns spookily dark and thunder crashes overhead. A fork of lightning splits the sky and big fat raindrops begin to splat onto the pavement. Everyone hurries to get somewhere.

  I glance anxiously upwards. The clouds are black and menacing, like giant angry gods. Raincoat or not, I’m going to get soaked.

  Remembering the teashop Shona keeps raving about, I hurry down the next side street and dive thankfully through the door. I flump down in a seat by the window of Frankie’s Tearoom and observe the storm with wonder for a moment. Rain is now lashing against the windows and it’s so black out there it could be midnight.

  I shrug off my coat and glance around to gauge the clientele. There are pearls and stiff perms in abundance. This is clearly an establishment that embraces old-fashioned values: white tablecloths, low lighting, waitresses in black with frilly white aprons, and exotically-named teas that arrive with a strainer on the side. It’s the sort of place where you plan what extravagant cake-y treat you’re going to have well in advance. Beneath the glass case I spy luscious-looking cherry bakewells, scones bursting with sultanas and generous slabs of something gooey and chocolatey. Shona says she comes here for a bit of peace and sanity on days when The Boss is being narky. On that basis, I’m surprised Shona isn’t the size of a modest bungalow.

  It’s a maelstrom outside. Cars are crawling; pedestrians keep their heads down, buffeted by the storm. But it’s safe and warm in here, behind the glass.

  I order a pot of Earl Grey and watch a man dash from newsagents to van with a paper over his head.

  The waitress delivers my tea and I am just about to bring out my book when the door opens and in bursts an amply-fleshed middle-aged woman in a strawberry-patterned mac. She shakes the raindrops from her thick, honey blonde hair and glances around expectantly. When her eyes settle on me, she bustles straight over, her generous hips almost divesting an alarmed couple of their starched tablecloth and jam pot.

  With no preamble whatsoever, she says in a loud and cheerful Welsh accent, ‘This is probably going to sound a bit strange but can I interest you in a tea leaf reading?’

  My heart sinks.

  I glance quickly around. An older couple in the corner are looking over with unconcealed interest.

  Oh God, of all the people in here, why do I have to be the one lumbered with Mrs Whacko?

  ‘No thanks.’ I give her an apologetic smile. ‘I don’t have any cash on me.’

  She looks shocked. ‘Oh, Heavens, no, you misunderstand me. I’d be doing it totally for free. I’m still learning, see. Started night classes last week down the college.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, that would have been lovely,’ I tell her regretfully, ‘but I have to go in a minute.’

  ‘But it’ll only take a minute.’

  Of course it will. Silly me.

  Her smile is so warm and eager, I really haven’t the heart to refuse.

  There’s something slightly familiar about her but I can’t think what.

  She drops her green velvet shoulder bag on the table and unbuttons the mac to reveal a bright yellow blouse, rugby forward’s arms and an eyeful of cleavage that quivers when she moves like a nearly-set custard.

  ‘Miriam Cadwalader.’ She holds out her hand.

  ‘Roberta Blatchett.’ Her hand, when I shake it, is surprisingly small with neat, with hot-pink lacquered nails. ‘But everyone calls me Bobbie.’

  Mrs Cadwalader gives her hands a gleeful rub. ‘Right, Bobbie, love, let’s get right down to it.’ She draws her chair closer to the table with several high-pitched screeches of wood on wood and more customers turn to peer in our direction. Completely oblivious to the stir she is causing, Mrs Cadwalader flicks through a notebook filled with big curly handwriting.

  Staring at her thick, curly hair, I suddenly remember where I’ve seen her. She’s the woman on the bike in the bright orange tracksuit!

  I watch her with a mix of amusement and
wariness as she runs her finger down a list. I assume it’s a step-by-step ‘how to’ guide.

  I’ve managed to get myself on a fairly even keel since the disaster that was London and Bob the Knob. My life is fine now. There are no great surprises, of either the nice or nasty variety. I do my laundry on Monday nights and my ironing on Wednesdays. I trek to the local supermarket on Saturday afternoons, buying just enough to fill a decent-sized rucksack before going home for ‘treat night’ which involves a long soak in the bath, a glass of wine and a good movie. And that is exactly the way I like it, thank you very much. I do not want to hear that I will travel to foreign shores, meet the man of my dreams and move house.

  And I do not believe for one second that future events can be gleaned from the remnants of my cuppa.

  Mrs Cadwalader seems very nice. But tea leaf reading at night class? The course organisers must be laughing all the way to the Bank of Gullible Fools and People With More Money Than Sense.

  She reaches for my cup, swills it round and deftly tips the tea into the saucer. Then she peers at the contents.

  ‘You have a lovely man,’ she says, looking up and beaming at me.

  ‘I do?’

  Her smile slips. ‘You don’t?’

  Just what I thought. It’s a complete load of bollocks, just like all the other ‘clairvoyant’ pedlars of hocus pocus, who encourage poor hopefuls to part with their cash.

  I shrug apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not.’ Unless you count Bob the Knob, of course, who – even after three years – is still moved sometimes to phone up begging me to take him back, which is ridiculous on a number of levels but particularly because he lives three hundred miles away in London. (Ten pints and a kebab seems to be his tipping point these days. Cue copious outpourings of guilt, over-the-top declarations and a surfeit of wind from both ends.)

  Mrs Cadwalader grabs the cup and frowns into its depths. ‘Oh, hang on.’ Her brow clears. ‘That’s because he hasn’t arrived yet.’

  ‘Ah!’ I suppress a smile. ‘So will he be along any time soon?’ I ask, looking at my watch. ‘I think they close at six.’