Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  Maybe they’ve fallen madly in love and he’s just upped sticks and followed her here. But no, he was renovating a house nearby, so he would have been coming up North anyway, wouldn’t he? Maybe it’s just a happy coincidence, then, that they met, got on and found they live near each other. Serendipity, I think it’s called. But what sort of relationship do they have? Friends? Or more than that? Have they spent the weekend shagging? Oh God, that’s obviously why she didn’t want to come back yesterday as planned. She wanted one more day of Ronald/Charlie. Not that I’ll ever find out what happened. We don’t confide in each other about personal stuff any more …

  Weirdly, just as I’m thinking this, she leans forwards, places a hand on my shoulder and starts chattering gaily as if we have never been anything less than best friends. Apparently they met in the bar where she was sobbing into her martini. (What?) They found they had loads of things in common. (Really?) And they spent the whole night talking, then went for breakfast at a greasy spoon and talked some more.

  Luckily, she doesn’t seem to require too much of a response from me – just the occasional raised eyebrow in the mirror and the odd, ‘Gosh, really?’

  All the time, though, I’m vaguely on edge, waiting for the moment she tells me they went to bed and shagged for England. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster that just keeps swooping and rising and never actually comes to a stop to give me time to draw breath.

  ‘By the way, what was that stuff about Ronald McDonald?’ she suddenly demands.

  I catch Charlie’s sheepish smile in the mirror. ‘Just a joke,’ he says. ‘Sorry, Bobbie, I never thought we’d actually meet.’

  The rollercoaster plummets. No, of course he didn’t.

  ‘Oh my God, you don’t know, do you?’ The Boss sits back with a little squeal of disbelief.

  ‘What?’ A feeling of doom washes through me.

  ‘That Ronald McDonald is a clown?’

  The ‘golden arches’. Yes, of course.

  Oh my God.

  ‘So he’s not actually a real person.’ She glances at Charlie and laughs.

  ‘Well, I’m sure there are people called Ronald McDonald,’ I say, with a face like beetroot, trying to claw back some dignity but failing spectacularly. ‘I mean, not all Ronald McDonalds can be clowns, can they?’

  Oh God, that doesn’t even make any sense to me.

  I feel like the biggest chump on earth. For believing Charlie was called Ronald McDonald. And for believing we had some sort of ‘connection’.

  There’s a funny ache in my throat.

  How stupid am I?

  My emails probably livened up a dull patch at work for him. Nothing more.

  When we draw up outside the building, The Boss tells Charlie he absolutely has to come upstairs and see the office and I exit smartly just in case he doesn’t and there’s a fond farewell scene with me as gooseberry. I take the stairs two at a time, wondering what Shona will make of it when The Boss arrives with a buff man in her wake.

  As it turns out, she is amusingly gobsmacked and blushes bright red when Charlie smiles and shakes her hand.

  Personally, I feel like I’m in some weird Sliding Doors-style movie and any minute, the action will switch tracks and get back to me firing off silly emails to someone who is or isn’t called Ronald McDonald and a sour Carol stomping about taking doors off hinges.

  We get cake that afternoon and we don’t even have to pay for it.

  I take a piece when it comes round but I find it hard to swallow.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spend the next few days dreading going into the office, in case I bump into a man who may or may not be called Ronald/Charlie.

  The humiliation is still much too fresh.

  But as the week goes by with no sign of him, I start to breathe more freely. Perhaps Carol’s alcohol-fuelled all-nighter with Charlie was simply a one-off that was enjoyable while it lasted but that neither of them is in a tearing hurry to repeat.

  On Thursday, I arrive at the office to find Shona and Ella poring over a magazine on Ella’s desk. They both look up when I enter as if they’ve been caught red-handed.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, nosing at the article they’re reading: ‘From Frump to Fantastic. Ten ways to vamp up your image.’

  Shona gives me a sheepish look. ‘Ella’s taken me in hand. She’s been doing my make-up. Do you like the eye-shadow?’ She bats her eyelids at me. Beyond the glasses, her eyes are dark-lashed and subtly smoky.

  ‘Nice,’ I say approvingly. ‘I hope Barry appreciates your efforts.’

  She gives me a slightly weary smile.

  ‘Can I have a look at that?’ I ask, as Ella wanders back to her desk still reading the make-over piece.

  I’ve been looking through my wardrobe, wondering what I can wear to Fez’s Christmas party. I could probably do with a few ‘vamp up’ tips myself.

  Ella slides the open magazine onto my desk.

  I glance at the photo. A model in a turquoise silk and chiffon dress lies dreamily in a hammock on a Caribbean beach.

  ‘I’ve got one like that,’ I say, remembering the flash of turquoise in the bag Mum gave me. The very same dress I was wearing in the DVD. ‘I wouldn’t wear it now, though.’

  Ella glances at the dress then peers at me closely. ‘Why wouldn’t you wear it now? You’re not, like, forty or something, are you?’

  ‘No!’ I splutter, moving away.

  She looks horrified. ‘No, I mean, you look really cool. Young. But they can do amazing things with a scalpel these days and sometimes you can’t tell a person’s real age … ’

  I smile at her to show I’m not offended.

  She points at the model. ‘You can carry that off, no problem.’

  ‘Really?’ I glance at her doubtfully.

  ‘Deffo. You’ve got a great figure under all of that.’ She waves a finger at my greige leisurewear combo, which happens to be very comfy. The she taps the magazine. ‘Take it. I’ve finished.’

  Sweeping it into my bag, I swiftly change the subject by asking how her vegan-zumba-hopi-candle regime is going.

  Secretly, I am chuffed to bits.

  If Ella thinks I can get away with it …

  A minute later, The Boss arrives and my perky mood starts to deflate. She’s doing that humming thing again, like a princess from a Disney movie. Ever since her return from London, she has taken to singing and it’s driving me nuts.

  The funny thing is, she’s got quite a good voice. But that makes it worse, somehow. At least if she sang off-key, we’d all get a laugh.

  I used to sigh and wish we had a boss who came to work in a good mood and treated her staff like people with feelings. Be careful what you wish for, that’s all I can say. She is Julie Andrews on speed, trilling from the mountain top. Today it is ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ – on a loop.

  I can’t help thinking it’s something to do with Charlie.

  Poisoning her coffee could be my only option.

  Shona likes the singing. She’s also keen to see Charlie again. Mysteriously, she says she can tell a good’un by his teeth. And at just after five this afternoon she finally gets an opportunity to further peruse his dental attributes.

  Dressed in pale jeans and a black jumper, he lifts a hand in a general greeting and catches everyone’s eye in turn. I instantly think Ronald McDonald and turn a crossly indignant shade of red. Oh God, why do I have to be the only dork on the planet who didn’t know Ronald McDonald was a clown? We couldn’t afford fast food when I was a kid. But that’s hardly an excuse.

  Ducking behind my computer, I tell myself we’re not likely to bump into each other very often, if at all. He’s only here today because he’s having a drink with Carol straight from work.

  As for thinking he was attractive – well, I’ve given that a great deal of thought, too. And I’ve decided that actually, he might be a bit too gorgeous for me. In the past I’ve always gone for ‘quirky’ not ‘hunky’, so that’s good.


  All in all, then, no harm done.

  In fact, I’m congratulating myself on my lucky escape. Thank goodness The Boss has taken him off my hands.

  It’s fairly clear from the way she swept him straight into her office the instant he arrived that she regards Charlie as her personal property, although I’m still not sure if there’s anything going on between them. (Shona keeps speculating but I bat her comments away with a look of boredom.)

  Good luck to them, that’s what I say. I’ll just get on with the inventory I’m doing and forget all about them. But with Charlie holed up in her office and Carol bursting into squeals of girlish laughter every five seconds, it’s a bit of a challenge.

  Shona wiggles a lascivious eyebrow and says, ‘Remember those early days with a new man when you couldn’t keep your hands off each other?’

  ‘Vaguely. But my memory’s not what it was,’ I reply shortly, wishing she’d change the subject.

  Some of us have to work to do.

  ‘Wasn’t it bliss, though?’

  I laugh. ‘You sound just like an old married woman.’

  ‘I do, don’t I?’ she says, thumping back to earth with a heavy sigh. ‘Old married women don’t have sex either.’

  ‘Neither do young, single women.’ I point at myself to cheer her up.

  I haven’t told Shona about seeing the company’s financial records. There’s no point worrying her before we know what’s happening. But I have to say, The Boss’s sudden change in attitude is baffling.

  An invisible axe is dangling from the ceiling and could fall on us at any moment – by Christmas, if the figures are anything to go by – but to look at The Boss these days, you’d really never know it. I haven’t seen her this irrepressibly zingy since a glitch in the system led to the local supermarket offering six for two on egg mayonnaise sandwiches, instead of the usual three for two. (Her office smelled completely rank for days.)

  We are awash with smiles and cake.

  But I’m uneasy.

  In the bad old days, if Shona had come to work sporting today’s outfit of orange fluffy mohair jumper and bright red lipstick, The Boss would have snapped, ‘Christ, Shona, you look like a bloody fruit bowl on legs,’ or something equally rude. But today, when she comes out of her office to get a file, she simply strokes her secretary as if she’s a pet rabbit and murmurs, ‘Lovely colours.’ And I swear I detect not even a hint of irony in her tone.

  Charlie emerges with his coat on and collides with Shona as she’s packing up to go home. When he puts his hands on her arms to steady her, she giggles and blushes, and I want to shout, Traitor! He already thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind without you fainting into his manly arms!

  ‘In a rush? Got a hot date?’ he asks her with a lazy smile.

  ‘I wish,’ Shona laughs, and escapes down the stairs.

  A minute later, there’s a huge clap of thunder right overhead and rain starts splattering against the windows. Poor Shona is going to get drenched. I decide to sit tight until it wears off.

  Charlie puts his head back round Carol’s door and seeing she’s on the phone, holds up his hand and she waves back. At the door, he pauses and asks me if I want a lift home.

  ‘No, thanks.’ I shrug. ‘I’ll hang on a bit till it dies off.’

  ‘For God’s sake, take a lift,’ shouts The Boss. ‘I’m going to be a while here. And he’s desperate to try out his new car. Aren’t you, Charlie?’

  I hesitate, wanting to say no.

  I object to being badgered into accepting a lift.

  Another thunderous crash shakes the foundations.

  Oh, bugger it.

  I smile frostily at Charlie and start closing down my computer. ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Are you going to Fred’s Christmas party?’ he asks, on our way downstairs. ‘Carol seems quite keen to go.’

  ‘Fred? Oh, you mean Fez? Yes, I expect so.’

  It’s news to me that Carol’s looking forward to it. When Fez told me to invite the office, I naturally assumed The Boss would decline, as she always does. But the new Carol is not quite so boringly predictable. She’s probably already planning a stunning outfit that will enslave Charlie and keep him glued to her side all night.

  When we emerge from the building, each with an office golf umbrella, the rain is bouncing off the pavement and flooding the road, and I’m starting to feel glad I accepted the ride – especially when a man driving a top of the range Beamer speeds by and dumps a bucket of water over us.

  ‘Prat.’ I stare grumpily after the car as it zips along in the atrocious driving conditions. ‘I’m sure he did that deliberately.’

  Charlie is wetter than me, having done the gentlemanly thing of walking on the outside of the pavement. He just laughs and shakes the water off one side of his coat.

  ‘I hate people with more money than sense,’ I shout over the swish of the rain as more cars drive by. ‘Just because he’s got a big, in-your-face status symbol, he thinks he can do what he likes and everyone will be sooooo impressed.’

  ‘So you disapprove of big, in-your-face cars?’

  ‘Not really. It’s more their owners I can’t stand. You know, the sort that wastes money accumulating possessions they don’t need. I once cleaned for a woman who was doing up her house and she spent nearly ten thousand pounds on taps alone.’

  Charlie nods. ‘She must have been very clean.’

  ‘Yes, but ten thousand pounds?’ I step to one side to avoid a puddle and we collide.

  He shrugs. ‘Some people spend thousands on beer and fags. Or holidays abroad. Or garden gnomes. It’s their choice. I suppose her passion was her house.’

  I shoot him a look. Is he deliberately missing my point?

  ‘Here we are,’ he says, flicking the remote to unlock his new car.

  Which just happens to be a big, in-your-face Beamer.

  ‘Nice car.’ I smile cheerfully.

  He laughs. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’

  I open the door and slide in. ‘I’m not being sarcastic. It’s a lovely car.’

  We buckle up and he murmurs, ‘Well, I can afford it, so why not? Boys and their toys and all that.’

  ‘Right.’ I glance at him curiously. ‘I suppose hotel staff in London earn a lot more money than they do up here.’

  He gives me a puzzled look. ‘I thought you and Carol were best friends.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘Yeah, she told me lots of things.’ He smiles at the memory. ‘It was quite a bare-all session, come to think of it.’

  ‘Oh God, spare me the details,’ I blurt out, before I realise what I’m saying.

  He laughs. ‘‘Bare-all?’ As in, confessing things? I didn’t say we were naked.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I wave my hand dismissively and turn away to hide my flaming cheeks. As if I care two hoots anyway!

  ‘So what I can’t understand is why Carol didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That I don’t work in Reservations.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  I turn and stare at his profile, which is irritatingly handsome. Except that rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, which looks a bit ridiculous.

  Ha!

  He looks over and says, as if in apology, ‘I own the hotel.’

  He owns the hotel?

  But how can that be? He sorted out my reservation personally. He told me his boss was as narky as mine. But if he’s the owner, then he’s the boss!

  Oh hang on, this is just another of his stupid fibs, isn’t it? Owns the hotel indeed! He can’t fool me. Not any more. I’ve got his number all right.

  ‘And I suppose you’ve got a penthouse apartment as well,’ I say sarcastically. ‘And a yacht in Monaco.’

  He cringes slightly and looks at me like I’m a farmer and he’s been caught stealing my apples. ‘Well, yes, actually. I do.’

  My face must be a picture.

  I can’t believe this. S
o the whole lot was a tissue of lies. Not just the Ronald McDonald bit. Okay, he said he had a yacht in Monaco and a penthouse apartment, but he knew I assumed he was joking! So that’s an even more despicable lie! (My head is spinning trying to wrestle with all these double negatives and triple bluffs.)

  I think hard, going back over our email conversations.

  ‘So the Jag … ?’

  ‘Is real.’

  ‘And the penthouse?’

  ‘A fact.’

  ‘And the villa in the Bahamas?’

  ‘Definitely three-dimensional.’

  ‘Bloody Hell, so you’re rich!’ It bursts out of me before I can stop myself.

  He shrugs. ‘Yes.’

  I contemplate this in silence for a while.

  The more I think about it, the more annoyed I am.

  But worse than that, I feel completely humiliated for imagining I’d made this great ‘connection’ with a man called Ronald McDonald.

  I’d gone to work every morning with a spring in my step, hoping for a message, sensing he felt the same. Turns out it was all lies, idle amusement to while away the odd boring moment.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive Charlie for not being Ronald, if that makes any sense at all.

  ‘Pull in here, please,’ I tell him frostily.

  He slows the car and frowns up at the buildings. ‘Is this where you live, then?’

  ‘No, but I want to get out.’

  ‘But you’ll get soaked.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll survive.’

  ‘So where’s your house?’ he asks, looking along the High Street.

  I glare at him. ‘Actually, my main residence is in Paris. And I avoid airport queues by commuting in my own private jet.’

  He looks slightly taken aback.

  ‘Oh yes, and I’m working for Carol free of charge to give something back to the community.’

  Lie for lie, tit for tat.

  I prepare to sweep haughtily out of the car but my bag handle catches on the gear stick. I give it too vigorous a tug and the stupid thing pings back and disgorges sundry items onto the floor at Charlie’s feet.

  He bends and retrieves a small screwdriver, two red dice, several money-off coupons and a dog-eared National Trust pamphlet, which he holds out to me with a neutral expression. I gather them up crossly and dump them back in the bag. Then I fling open the door – almost knocking out a passing dog – and scramble out with as much dignity as I can manage.