Talking to Addison

by Jenny Colgan

  She bustled through officiously.

  ‘Now, here is the telephone,’ she announced, pointing to the telephone. ‘Incoming calls only, if you don’t mind, unless you have to speak to suppliers, or me, or Mr Haffillton.’

  ‘When might I need to speak to Mr Haffillton?’

  She fixed me with a glare.

  ‘Never! I am the only person who communicates with Mr Haffillton!’

  I nodded my head as if this made sense.

  The phone rang suddenly.

  ‘Ah. Now, Holly, listen carefully: this is how we answer the telephone. Good morning, That Special Someone, how can I help you?’

  Her helpful expression changed quickly, however, and she shot into the phone: ‘You’d better make it quick, you procrastinating minx, or I’ll be letting Mr Haffillton know, do you understand?’

  Then she slammed the phone down and resumed her beatific smile.

  ‘That was Chalitha. She’s been a trifle … held up, but she oughtn’t to be long. Now, through here, this is our staff room.’

  There was a tiny chair behind a curtain, with a kettle on a shelf and a sink. There was no window, only a fluorescent bulb.

  ‘We each bring our own tea, coffee, milk, cups and sugar; that makes life a lot easier, don’t you find?’

  I nodded in a way that indicated that in fact I found this the apotheosis of efficient tea-making.

  ‘Ten minutes break in the morning and the afternoon, and forty-five minutes at lunchtime – quite generous, don’t you think? Mr Haffillton always was most … generous.’

  I tried to work out why she was talking in the past tense. Maybe he really was dead, and they just propped him up for formal occasions.

  ‘The vans deliver at ten from the markets – do check the merchandise, they’re never above trying to pass off those rancid African daisies, and it makes me most upset, do you understand? Then the orders for the day will be HERE –’ she stabbed a long, deadly pink nail at the wall – ‘and you start making them up immediately. Then you phone the collection boys …’

  It seemed rude to enquire who the collection boys were –

  ‘… They’re positively indolent, and they get the tips, but we can’t do it without them, unfortunately. Don’t let them get away with anything, and keep an eye on them when they’re in the shop. Now, have you got your NVQ in wedding floral artistry?’

  I confessed that I hadn’t. She let out a large sigh.

  ‘Ohhh well. Perhaps we’ll wait until we’re on the job for that, shall we? Right, must be off, Chalitha will be in soon, one supposes. You do understand that I can’t open the till until she gets here – you don’t seem like a thief, dear, but they’re everywhere, you know?’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, worried that she was going to leave me.

  ‘Oh, you don’t think this is the only project Mr Haffillton has up his sleeve, do you? Oh no, I am the Executive Sales Director, and I’m extremely busy. But remember, be polite on the phone. And we do check all outgoing calls, you know, so don’t think about trying anything – not that you would, I’m sure, but you never know, people have relatives all over the world these days. I’m sure that girl will be in shortly; normally we run an extremely tight ship, but she’s officially been delayed, hopefully not in an accident or anything like that …’ She appeared to fantasize about the possibility for an instant. ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t. Now, you have got everything straight, haven’t you? Orders off the phone, orders on to the nail, orders off the nail, orders through to the boys. I’m afraid you won’t be able to take a break until Chalitha turns up, but then you don’t appear to have any tea with you, so that won’t be a problem anyway, will it? Bye!!!’

  And she disappeared in a flash of polyester. I stared after her as she sped down the road, then slowly looked round the small shop. I remembered vaguely a TV show where people would be set up with new jobs, left on their own, and then gunge would be thrown at them, or someone pretending to be the President of the United States would phone up or something, and sighed. Also, suddenly, I was gasping for a cup of tea.

  I wandered around the shop, picking at stray bits of ribbon, examining the stock – mostly dusty house plants – before the day’s delivery turned up, and praying that the phone wouldn’t ring.

  Worse happened, though. The bell at the door of the shop went off as an enormous greasy hulk stooped his head to come in. He was wearing a filthy old leather jacket and jeans holed and stained with oil, and his hair was long. In fact, he resembled a Status Quo fan from the eighties, and, as such, made me shudder. He popped his motorcycle helmet on the counter about a foot away from me and rubbed his stubble contemplatively with the heel of his hand.

  ‘’Oo are you?’

  ‘I’m Holly Catherine Livingstone,’ I replied, trying to sound insouciant. ‘Who are you?’

  He grunted by way of response. ‘Where’s Charlie, then?’

  I had no idea whom he meant.

  ‘Are you in the right flower shop?’

  ‘What? Course I am. Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We were at stalemate. He looked around cautiously, just in case he had, in fact, walked into the wrong flower shop.

  ‘So ’as, Charlie, er, left, yeah?’

  ‘He might have done … I’m new.’

  He shook his head in disbelief. I noticed he was wearing one of those really visceral heavy-metal T-shirts – somebody’s eyeball being punctured with a nail – and I tried not to concentrate on it.

  ‘Yeah, all right then … sorry.’

  ‘No problem!’ I said, pleased with how well I’d dealt with my first customer.

  ‘If you see ’er, right, tell ’er Gareth was looking for ’er.’

  ‘Well, of course, I wouldn’t know her if I did see her – but, as I said, no problem!’ I replied jauntily.

  He backed out of the shop, pausing at the doorway to look around it suspiciously one more time, as if I might have hidden her in one of the pot plants. Then he shook his head again, and the next thing I heard was a little hairdrier motorbike engine kicking into life. I patted my hands successfully, and started putting the flower buckets outside, using a black marker pen to strike out all the unnecessary apostrophes.

  Eventually, whilst bending down by the kerb, I realized someone was watching me, and straightened up very slowly. The longhaired, dark-eyed girl from the interview was studying me appraisingly. I wiped my hands on my trousers and spluttered a bit.

  ‘Hi … Chalitha …’

  ‘Chali,’ she said dismissively, marching into the shop, ‘that’s what most people call me.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, then thought about it. ‘Ah,’ I said again.

  I followed her into the back, where she slung off a black PVC mac and started touching up her already heavy eyeliner in a mirror the size of a cigarette packet.

  ‘Ehm, I think someone was in here looking for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A big bloke. I didn’t realize it was you and told him you didn’t work here. I’m sorry …’

  ‘Did you? Was he big and greasy with stupid long hair, and did he smell?’

  ‘Ehm … well, yes, to all of the above.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Someone smiled at me for the first time that day. ‘Where did you say I’d gone?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘Good. But specifics are better – he might follow me there. Next time, could you tell him I’m in Bhutan?’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  She grinned again.

  ‘Did the old witch get you started?’

  ‘She … ehm, Mrs Bigelow was very helpful.’

  ‘Really? Maybe she’s had a brain transplant. Cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  I followed her through to the little kitchen. Chali was about nineteen years old, and today was wearing tight black leather trousers and a ripped top. Her silky black hair came down to her bum – something I had always longed for as a child –
and she had matching gold hoops in her ears, nose and lip. She was gorgeous.

  ‘OK, always use Biggie’s tea,’ she instructed, picking up the box of Earl Grey. ‘And if she asks you, deny it. You have to get your fun where you can around here.’

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  Chali snorted and raised her eyes.

  ‘One hundred and forty-seven years. Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  We took our teas back into the main shop and sat down.

  ‘God, I had a killer night last night. Do you go clubbing?’

  There is nothing I despise more than being made to dance in public in front of sulky teenagers in very little clothing whilst paying four pounds for a bottle of water.

  ‘Yeah, you know … occasionally.’

  ‘Right, where do you go?’

  I searched my brains desperately, but all I could remember was the one down from my school where I grew up.

  ‘Erm … Cinderella’s Rockefellers?’

  Seeing her disbelieving face, I hastily added, ‘It’s ironic.’

  ‘Oh, cool. That sounds like a right laugh.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘God, I got in at four this morning, E-ing off my head at Fabroche.’

  I smiled politely.

  ‘That’s why this job isn’t so bad in the long run – they don’t care what you do, s’long as you turn up occasionally. Biggie gives you a bunch of shit, but you don’t need to pay attention.’

  She let out an elaborate yawn and went to open the door to the delivery men.

  ‘Yo. Just dump them anywhere, as usual, boys.’

  The two men brought in several boxes of flowers in different shapes and sizes and dumped them haphazardly on the floor. Chali ignored them, signed the chit without reading it and sighed theatrically at the pile. So far we hadn’t had a single customer and the phone hadn’t rung once.

  I went over to start opening up the flowers. Sure enough, the African daisies were rancid.

  ‘Who left the job before I came?’ I asked, unwrapping the plastic carefully.

  ‘Oh, no one,’ she sighed. ‘Really, you’re here to keep an eye on me, because I was turning up later and later, and the shop wasn’t opening at all.’

  ‘Why don’t they just sack you?’ I said, before it had passed across my brain censor control. I cursed inwardly.

  ‘They can’t – Mr Haffillton’s my uncle and thinks the sun shines out of my arse. And he only really runs it as a hobby – he’s minted, and he likes flowers. You can’t imagine how much that annoys Biggie.’

  I started to feel a bit sorry for Biggie.

  ‘So, do you feel up to babysitting duties?’ She lit a cigarette.

  I thought about it. Babysitting was definitely one up on where I’d just come from.

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Excellent. Listen, do you know any singers?’

  I thought about Josh singing in the bath and dismissed the image immediately.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shame.’ She tipped some cigarette ash into one of the flower buckets. ‘That’s what I really am, see? I’m just getting a band together.’

  ‘What kind of band?’

  ‘Kind of bhangra gangsta, do you know what I mean?’

  I could see immediately why she thought I might know lots of people in those kinds of bands and nodded my head sagely. Finally the phone rang.

  ‘Yeah?…Stodger. Yeah … No, I have left, yeah … No, I just came by to pick up some stuff, innit? I’m going to Bhutan … Yeah, it’s in Peru, innit? … Maybe a year, maybe two … No, I don’t think you can motorbike all the way there. There’s an ocean or summink … No, I’ll write to you. I will … Yeah. OK. Bye.’

  She slammed the phone down, and reverted back to her normal voice.

  ‘Where did you meet him?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘Oh, he said he was putting a band together,’ she said dismissively. ‘So I slept with him and everything, and next thing he’s round here like effin’ Hugh Grant every day of the week.’

  I wasn’t surprised. His gratitude must have been overwhelming.

  The day passed in an easy round of selling the occasional bouquet, rearranging the occasional arrangement, cups of tea, and one and a half hour lunch breaks. I could tell I was going to like it here. Mrs Bigelow returned about four thirty.

  ‘Hello, Biggie,’ I said, quite innocently. She stared at me as if I’d just bitten her.

  ‘It’s Mrs Bigelow, as I thought you knew.’

  ‘Erm, yes, sorry, Mrs Bigelow.’

  ‘Did you have a busy day? You!’ – indicating Chali – ‘Cash up, please, madam, if it isn’t too much trouble.’

  ‘’Ave you forgotten how to count again, Biggie? You ought to get out more.’

  Biggie hissed at her and pretended to talk to me whilst watching Chali like a hawk. This didn’t surprise me; Chali had already informed me that she used the float to supplement her meagre income, so I merely stared straight ahead in a neutral fashion until I was dismissed with a sniff from Biggie, suggesting that if I really, really behaved myself, one day I might get a set of keys.

  It was bliss coming home when it was still light. I banged in the hall joyously shouting, ‘Hi, honeys! I’m home!’ and went straight through to the kitchen to start chopping onions for Josh.

  I nearly threw up when I saw Kate was still there.

  ‘What??? Are you OK? Did you take the day off work?’

  ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I left early.’

  ‘What happened – did the junior doctors form an action corps and get you released?’

  ‘No … I just felt like an early night.’

  Josh popped his head round the door. ‘Holly, is that you? Can you take over suicide watch for me?’

  ‘OK.’ I nodded.

  ‘Oh, and if you’re chopping those onions, could you do them a bit finer this time?’

  ‘OK, MR PRISSY.’

  I sat down carefully. ‘Ehm, Kate, you know, sometimes, bad things happen to good people.’

  ‘Bugger off.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. Read my lips. He – is – not – going – to – phone – you. OK? You had a lovely night, he was clearly a dickhead and you will never hear from him again. But look on the bright side: at least you didn’t take your knickers off, and that’s what I’d have done, so reclaim your self-respect, girl. Comprendez? Capisce?’

  Kate looked at me with pained eyes. ‘Holly?’ she said weakly.

  ‘Yes?’ Tough love. It always works.

  ‘Would you mind watching the phone while I go to the toilet?’

  ‘Argh. If he phones whilst you go to the toilet I am going to tell him you hate him and put the phone down on him, as it will save you the bother of doing it in two years time if you actually had a relationship with this man.’

  ‘You don’t know him!’

  ‘Neither do you! You think he’s Kevin Costner!’

  She shrugged. I shrugged back at her and picked up the bag of onions, as she started manhandling her mobile and her pager into her dressing gown pockets and sidled backwards out of the room with the phone cord.

  I hollered for Josh.

  ‘Do something with her.’

  ‘Sorry, darling – you know how much she listens to me. Why don’t we all have a nice dinner and forget about it?’

  ‘Huh.’

  Kate marched back into the room.

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ she announced stridently, picking up the various bits of electric equipment.

  ‘Oh no!’ I whispered to Josh. ‘She’s reached breaking point! This is where she starts really beating up on herself for standing around waiting for a man to phone and then decides to get drunk, then phones up all her ex-boyfriends at four o’clock in the morning and berates them for treating her so badly, then falls asleep in a pool of her own vomit and wakes up overcome by self-disgust and remorse.’

  ‘I give up,’ said Kate. ‘This is ridi
culous. I am an adult, after all.’

  Josh sniggered at me.

  ‘Glass of wine, Holl?’

  ‘And my old address book, please,’ I replied glumly.

  Four

  Josh was explaining his party invitation strategies over dinner.

  ‘OK, there’s this girl in the office called Sophie, right? She’s really gorgeous …’

  ‘Is she blonde, posh and up herself?’ said Kate, restored to near-normal service, and starving after her long vigil. How anyone could sit in a kitchen for forty-eight hours and forget there were one hundred and sixty-six Penguins in the cupboard was beyond me, but love does funny things. Kate was one of those people who complain that when they’re depressed ‘the weight just falls off me; I can’t eat a thing; it’s awful.’

  ‘Ehm … well, she is blonde, and she did go to Cheltenham Ladies. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘No, she is definitely not “up herself”, as you so charmingly put it. In fact, she was in the top six of her year at the bar.’

  ‘And she told you this, did she? You didn’t find out from anyone else?’

  ‘No, she told me.’

  ‘Well, that proves it then,’ said Kate, mopping up the remnants of her coq au vin. ‘Definitely up herself.’

  ‘She sounds nice,’ I said comfortingly.

  ‘Oh, she’s brilliant. Normally she spends weekends in the country, but I’ve thought of a foolproof plan to get her to come to our party.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Kate. She was obviously more used to Josh’s seduction attempts than I was, but I did recall a few.

  ‘It’s not the one where you’ve got leukaemia, is it?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Exchange student visiting?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘We’re her possible half-sisters?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Tell the truth, Josh.’

  Josh hung his head.

  ‘OK … um, well, I was going to tell her that you two were interested in reading for the bar, and could she come along and give you some tips.’

  ‘What???!!!’ we cried simultaneously.

  ‘What’s “the bar”?’ I asked.