Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  I set off for work at a determinedly breezy pace. Everything is going to be fine. I’ve even rehearsed in my head my response to Shona’s sympathetic enquiries about my health. ‘Flu, yes. Terrible. A really bad dose. Only just managed to haul myself out of bed.’

  But walking past the car park along from the office, I see Charlie’s car in there and stop dead in my tracks.

  No!

  The Festive Farce is too fresh in my mind. I still perspire with humiliation whenever I think of it. I can’t possibly face him yet.

  It’s bad enough I’ve got to see Carol and endure a post mortem of what went wrong. And grovel to Shona for abandoning the sinking ship on Saturday, leaving her and Charlie to sort out the mess.

  The thought of Charlie looking at me with disappointment – or even worse, pity – just seems like a masochistic step too far.

  Time to go home.

  No one returns to their desk on a Friday, do they? I’ll have the weekend and go back on Monday—

  Charlie’s car door opens and out steps someone wearing huge sunglasses, a hat and a dark, voluminous overcoat.

  Not Charlie. Unless he’s developed a passion for very high stilettos.

  I peer closer. It’s Carol. She spots me and raises a hand.

  Damn! I plaster on a smile and wait for her to catch me up, bracing myself for the inevitable bitchy comment.

  Why is she driving Charlie’s car? I should be relieved it’s not him but for some reason I feel disgruntled. And annoyed at myself for not taking the whole week off.

  ‘How are you?’ She lifts her glasses to look at me as we fall into step.

  I shrug. ‘Oh, you know.’

  I’m about to launch into my explanation – Flu. Terrible. Really bad dose etc etc – when she clears her throat and says, ‘This – erm – flu has done for me. Really bad dose. But we need to pull the presentation together for Wednesday. Have you made much progress?’

  I stare at her. So she’s been off work, too. The other ‘man down’ was Carol, not Ella. ‘You’ve had flu?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She looks distracted and very pale.

  ‘You said you had flu?’

  She focuses. ‘Oh, yes. Flu. Yes. Terrible. Only just managed to haul myself out of bed.’ She produces a loud, hacking cough that causes a nearby cat to take fright and shoot up a side street.

  ‘I’ve been off this week as well,’ I tell her, since she clearly has no idea. Poor Shona must have been running the office single-handedly.

  ‘Have you?’ She stops at the main door and studies me, totally oblivious of the fact that we’re blocking the entrance and a solicitor who works in the building is trying to get past. ‘Why?’

  ‘Flu, actually,’ I say with a ‘would you believe it’ laugh. ‘Really bad dose.’

  She nods in sympathy and together, we chime, ‘Must be going around.’

  I follow her in, thinking, So far, so good. She hasn’t bawled me out like I thought she would – or even given me the icy treatment. It gets even better when I walk into the office. Shona and Ella look absolutely delighted to see me; in fact, they both applaud and shout ‘Hurrah!’, which boosts my spirits no end. I almost feel I should make a little speech, thanking all those who supported me during my ‘illness’.

  Then I sit down at my desk and see the dozens of post-it notes with scribbled messages and the hundreds of emails awaiting immediate attention (if not sooner), and my pleasure subsides. No wonder they’re ecstatic I’m back.

  But at least ploughing steadily through my workload means lunchtime comes round quickly. I decide to nip out for a sandwich (shop bought, a real indulgence for me, but I deserve a treat after the time I’ve had) and carry on with the rotas. As Carol seems to be marginally human today, I pop my head round her door to see if she needs anything.

  She has her nose in a book and doesn’t notice me, so I give a discreet cough.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks up, startled, then snaps the book shut and leans on it. ‘Bobbie. What can I do for you?’

  I pause. What she could really do for me is tell me immediately why she’s got Charlie’s car. Because it’s been driving me mad all morning. The obvious conclusion to draw is that they’re now ‘an item’. (Strange term for a full-on passionate relationship. ‘An item’ sounds more like a sad ornament in a charity shop.) But the trouble is, if I pose the question, she’ll probably start accusing me of having a ‘thing’ for Charlie, which of course I haven’t.

  It’s just I can’t help my wildly uncontrollable mind feverishly running over possible sequences of events that might have led to Carol being sat at the wheel of his car.

  The theory that’s nudged to the head of the queue is that after I ran from Mum and Bunty’s character assassination, Carol – in a similarly shell-shocked state – phoned Charlie who immediately came round and offered his broad shoulder to cry on (kind man that he is). And in fine When Harry Met Sally tradition, Carol acted all weak and helpless and needy, managed to seduce him (he probably felt really sorry for her, kind man that he is) and they’ve been together ever since (Charlie not wanting to upset her fragile state of mind by suggesting it was anything more than a fling, kind man that he is).

  But obviously I can’t ask.

  So instead I say, ‘I’m nipping out. Do you want anything?’

  She thinks hard. ‘Erm – fruit salad!’

  ‘Really? What, in a tin?’ ‘Carol’ and ‘fruit’ are not normally words that occur in the same sentence.

  ‘No! The fresh stuff. You know, in a little plastic tub.’

  I nod. She must be on a health kick. Charlie’s influence, no doubt. ‘Right. No problem. Is that all?’

  She frowns and digs in her bag. ‘You couldn’t get me some fags, could you?’

  Okay. Well, the fruit’s a start.

  As she hands over the cash, I get a glimpse of the book she’s trying her best to hide. It’s entitled: I’m Good Enough, I’m Kind Enough and Hey, Guess What, People LIKE me!

  She sees me looking and furtively sweeps the book into a drawer.

  I grin as I walk down the High Street. Before now, I’d have thought Carol eating Vitamin C (deliberately) and doing daily affirmations was about as likely as me climbing Mount Everest with a couple of sherpas strapped to my back.

  We’re living in interesting times.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After The Festive Farce, I wouldn’t have minded if I never set foot in the Masonic Hall again.

  But here we are.

  This time, we’re shooting the video for our presentation to the council and thankfully, there’s not a mince pie in sight.

  In line with her plans to move into commercial cleaning, Carol has hired an impressively large sweeper machine for the day and right now, the five staff members who’ve volunteered to be featured in the video are taking it in turns to have a go. They’re all a bit wary about being on film – except Bouncy Brenda, who’s having a whale of a time, posing for an imaginary camera, leaning seductively on the handle with her ‘bouncies’ in full view and bursting into squeals of laughter.

  I’m not sure this is quite the sort of image we should be presenting to a team of serious-minded council workers. The sort of bottom line they’re interested in is unlikely to include Brenda’s ample rear.

  I glance expectantly at Carol. Any minute now, she’s going to wade in, shriek for order and tell Brenda to stop fooling around like an arse and get back to the office. And actually, that would be a shame because at least Brenda is animated. The rest are standing round nervously, looking more wooden than a field of frightened scarecrows. Not that I blame them. I’m personally very glad to be this side of the camera.

  ‘I didn’t tell you,’ says Shona, emerging from behind her camcorder for a moment. ‘Guess what the big sell-outs were at the Fayre? Your Christmas baubles and your candles. Clever old you!’

  ‘Really?’

  After the time I’ve had, I feel pathetically pleased.

  ‘It’s just a s
hame for you and Tim that the day was cut short so spectacularly.’ She glances at Carol and lowers her voice. ‘If it had gone to plan, we might have raised thousands not hundreds. But instead, she gets drunk, starts a catfight and ruins everything.’

  I look at her in surprise. Is that what everyone thinks? That the whole debacle was Carol’s fault? I’m not entirely sure that’s fair.

  ‘It takes two to have a bust-up,’ I murmur.

  ‘Christ, we’ve got a budding Linda Lovelace over there.’ Carol’s at my shoulder. ‘Shona, can you organise them and start shooting?’

  ‘Brenda’s auditioning for Carry On Cleaning.’ I grin. ‘Oo-er, missus. I think she needs to be told it’s serious.’

  Carol folds her arms. ‘Well, tell her, then.’

  ‘What, me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ I’m genuinely worried. Her eyes look puffier than usual, now I come to think about it.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she snaps. Then she mutters something that sounds like, ‘I don’t want to upset her.’

  I laugh. ‘For a moment there, I thought you said you didn’t want to upset Brenda.’

  I glance at Shona and she starts laughing, too.

  Carol stands there, lips pursed, looking really rather offended.

  Suddenly, I recall the self-help book she was poring over the other day.

  Oh God, is she trying to be nice?

  Crikey. Okay.

  Gosh.

  Need to be supportive in that case.

  Right, how do I handle Brenda?

  She’s like an excitable puppy – lovely but slightly tiresome after a while. I’ll have to damp down her natural enthusiasm, but in a diplomatic way.

  ‘Brenda.’ I wave to get her attention. ‘We’re gasping over here. You couldn’t be a love and organise the catering, could you? Get some tea and coffee on the go? And ferret around for snacks? There’s some biscuits in my bag over there.’

  Brenda beams at me, ‘snacks’ being her middle name. ‘Yeah, I’m on it.’ She scampers happily off in the direction of the little kitchen backstage.

  Job’s a good ‘un.

  We can start filming and hopefully be finished in an hour or so.

  Three and a half hours later, Shona finally decides it’s a wrap. We are all bored witless. The initial delight at not having to do ‘real work’ subsided roughly two and a half hours ago.

  Shona has proved surprisingly firm when leading the team. She’s filmed the girls from every possible angle. And I mean every angle. Posing in a row behind the sweeper, smiling singly behind the sweeper, sitting on the sweeper, smiling wistfully at the sweeper. Steph on a set of step-ladders cleaning a window, Lisa wielding her feather duster (‘What’s that fluffy thing?’ asked Ella, in all seriousness.) Bouncy Brenda serving tea to the troops with a winning smile. Margaret hanging from the chandelier to dust it. Nora scrubbing the parquet flooring with a toothbrush. (I made the last two up, but you get the picture. Crashing fatigue, thy name is video-making.)

  What makes it more ridiculous is that Fez has been instructed to cut Shona’s footage down to a brief film of no more than four minutes.

  I think wistfully of Fez.

  Avoiding him has actually been easier than I thought.

  Some brick-laying convention in Wales kept him busy one weekend and then last Friday, he was struck down with man flu. He sent me an apologetic text saying he couldn’t wait to take me out for dinner but that he was dragging his diseased carcass off home to Mum for chicken soup and laundry services. Rather worryingly, he signed off with three kisses.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. He’s my best friend. And the idea of having to ‘let him down gently’ if he tried to kiss me again was so awful I winced every time I thought about it.

  I know I have to face him some time. But for now, I’ve worked it so that Shona will liaise with him on the editing of the video, instead of me. So at least I’ve got some breathing space.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  So much for Carol trying to be nice.

  It’s the following day and she’s back to her old screechy self, bawling Ella out because she left the light on in the kitchen by mistake, and chain-smoking in her office like a row of industrial chimneys.

  I know why she’s stressed.

  We’ve got the presentation to the council the day after tomorrow. And she’s made it abundantly clear that if it’s not a perfect pitch, heads will roll.

  I’m escaping with relief at five-thirty, when I run into Charlie on the stairs.

  Quite literally.

  I’m on my mobile talking to Mum about Tim, and I charge straight into him.

  ‘Hey, watch it.’ He laughs and pulls me in to steady me.

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ I’m knocked off balance in more ways than one. ‘Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.’

  I’m pressed right up against him and he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go. My nose is inches from his tanned chest, just visible at eye level above the black T-shirt.

  ‘I can tell.’ He grins down at me.

  When he removes his hands from my waist, I sort of stagger back against the wall.

  ‘Gerry Flack promised the accounts for today.’ He indicates the office with his thumb. ‘Do you know if Carol’s got them yet?’

  As I’m still trying to recover my composure, this information takes several seconds to register. When it does, I’m on red alert in an instant.

  The accounts! Thank God! At last he’ll see for himself what a state the business is in.

  ‘The accounts?’ He gives me a puzzled look.

  ‘Er – no idea, sorry. You’d better ask Carol.’

  He smiles a little sheepishly. ‘Actually, I’m here to see you.’

  ‘You are?’

  My heart starts to thump more strongly in my chest.

  ‘Yes.’ His intense gaze is making me hot under the collar and everywhere else besides. ‘I kept wondering how you were after your – er – scrap at the Fayre.’

  I swallow hard. ‘Oh, I’m fine now.’

  ‘Good.’ He looks mildly amused. ‘I saw you run out and I followed you and stood outside your building for ages buzzing your flat. But you didn’t answer.’

  I stare at him in amazement. ‘Wait, that was you? I thought it was Mum.’

  ‘No.’ He twists his lips at one corner. ‘It was me.’

  ‘Gosh.’ My face must be the colour of beetroot. So attractive.

  ‘Then I had to fly out to the Caribbean, unfortunately, so—’

  ‘Unfortunately?’ I laugh. ‘Just give me the chance.’

  Oh God, shut up!

  He’s already invited me (in my imagination) to Barcelona. I hope he doesn’t think I was angling for another invite …

  ‘I was going to offer you the car to use while I was away,’ he says. ‘But I ended up getting Carol to look after it instead.’

  ‘Gosh, thanks.’ I smile foolishly at him, mesmerised by the lovely crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  I never say ‘gosh’. So why have I said it twice in the last thirty seconds? I’m starting to sound like Bunty. It must be rubbing orf, don’t you know!

  Carol appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, hello. I thought I heard voices. Have you come to see me?’

  ‘Yep,’ says Charlie with a quick grin at me. ‘I’ll be up in a sec.’

  Carol disappears and without thinking, I blurt out, ‘Hey, we never had that drink, did we? At The Grapevine. You wanted to talk to me about something.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He looks down at his feet. ‘We’ll do it soon. I’ll phone you.’ He gives me a brief smile then turns and takes the stairs two at a time.

  I stare after him. It’s just like the last time. He can’t seem to get away fast enough.

  ‘Charlie?’ I have a sudden urge to know. ‘What were those women talking to you about that time at the Fayre?’

  His pace slows slightly.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me.’ My voice sounds
croaky. ‘But sometimes, talking about things can help.’

  He turns. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘I must have got the wrong impression.’ I feel bad for pursuing it, but something is urging me on.

  He stares at me for a moment. Then he exhales sharply and points to the galley kitchen we share with the office next door. I climb the stairs to his level and he holds the door open for me. Then we go in and stand facing each other in the cramped space, me with the sink at my back and Charlie leaning against the work top.

  He gives his face a rub with both hands before studying me, as if he’s still debating with himself.

  My imagination cranks into overdrive. Crikey, what’s he going to say? What can be so bad that he’s struggling to tell me?

  Oh God, maybe he works for MI5 and those women at the Fayre blew his cover. Or perhaps he’s about to confess that he’s a reformed crook and his luxury hotels are the result of ill-gotten gains. Or … maybe it’s something altogether more personal, like he’s had a sex change and used to be a woman called Charlene or something. (Please don’t let it be that. Not that I’ve got anything against transgender folk. I’m sure they’re all terribly nice people. It’s just—)

  He’s speaking. ‘When I was nineteen … ’ He draws in a breath and exhales slowly as if every word is torture. ‘When I was nineteen, I won The National Lottery. Six point two million.’

  I stare at him.

  In the silence, the rickety fridge labours away.

  Then my whole body sort of slumps with relief.

  That’s all!

  He won The Lottery!

  And then I think: Bloody Hell! I’ve never met a real, live Lottery winner! Oh God, was my mouth open? He must be so fed up with people like me reacting like this. I’ve got to say something!

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Well … Gosh. Lucky You!’ As a response, it sounds ridiculously inadequate. Like he’s just cracked open a double-yolk boiled egg or something.

  He shrugs, in a sort of grudging agreement.

  ‘Wow.’ My head is still reeling. Charlie is a millionaire six times over! ‘And you were so young when it happened!’

  ‘Too young,’ he says shortly. ‘I didn’t handle it well.’