I cut her off before she starts waxing lyrical about the joys of the season. ‘OK, thanks for the heads-up.’
‘So I can mark you down as going?’ she says brightly.
‘Fine,’ I mutter.
I spend the rest of the morning fuming, feeling like a trapped rat at having to go to the stupid Christmas function. Parties are sonotin my wheelhouse, especially Christmas parties. I don’t like being coerced into something ‘just in case’. But I do like this job. I don’t want to be laid off for something menial like not being more visible. I’m not even sure you can fire someone for that. But I suppose I could be managed out. Next thing I could be on a PIP and having to prove my worth.
Crumpet whines from underneath the desk.
‘I know how you feel, mate. Festive hell just took a turn for the worse.’
Chapter 2
Friday evening, 22 December
I’m jammed into a lift with a bunch of women in gaudy outfits chattering at high decibels. The one in front of me is wearing a purple sequin dress and a reindeer headband. She’s shorter; and every time, she moves, Rudolph’s antlers smack me in the face. This isnothow I choose to spend my time. I close my eyes, rub my temple, and take a deep breath.
I was praying this Christmas do was going to be a sedate affair of sipping mulled wine, lounging on comfy sofas, and engaging in pleasant conversation. But I’ve got a bad feeling it’s going to be a ‘screeching to be heard over unsk unsk music’ one. Luckily, I’ll only be here for fifteen minutes. Max.
The lift doors open, and we all spill out onto a highly polished marble floor that’s slippery as fuck. I’m fine because I’m wearing black rubber-soled combat boots, so I adjust my matching black minidress and march off towards the faint sound of music, leaving the women to clutch at one another and gasp in their spindly heels. Not my problem.
Upon entering the function room, I’m pleasantly surprised. I was expecting to be assaulted with cheesy Christmas tunes, but there’s a string quartet set up in the corner playing an uplifting rendition of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’.The room is half full of people, and not everyone is wearing sequins, thank God.
‘Holly! You made it.’ Andrea breaks off from a nearby huddle and greets me with a big grin.
‘Well, it was either that or get fired,’ I say grumpily.
But she doesn’t react, just smiles, and runs her eye over my outfit. ‘Nice dress. I like the batwing sleeves.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘The back of my wardrobe.’
Andrea laughs, but I’m not joking. I went digging last night to find something to wear and discovered a whole bunch of clothes stuffed in there from ten years ago, when I used to be marginally more fun. I’ve also run out of contact lenses, so I’m wearing oversized glasses with black chunky frames. The whole ensemble is making me look like a nerd attending a funeral rather than a Christmas party. Whatever.
I push my glasses back up my nose and scan the room. ‘So which one is the famous Mr Kirkcaldy?’ All I need to do is give him is a quick hello and a handshake so Valerie is satisfied I’m being morevisible.Then I can get the hell out.
‘I don’t think he’s here yet. It’s an open bar, so I’ll get some drinks. Why don’t we sit over there?’ She nods to a row of unoccupied buttery-suede couches alongside a ten-foot-high window looking out over the city. Everyone’s chatting in groups, and I can’t see anyone else from my team, so I’m relieved Andrea seems to want to hang out. Otherwise, I’d be standing in the corner like Nancy No-Mates.
‘OK.’ I head over and settle in, and she comes back with two tumblers of what I think is Coke until I take a sip. It’s got enough rum in there to strip paint. I pull a face.
‘Is it all right? He was a bit heavy-handed.’
‘It’s fine. I need it.’ I take a longer swallow, and the alcohol makes my ears tingle. Andrea sits opposite me and crosses her legs. She’s wearing a cornflower-blue pencil skirt with a black skivvy and looks like she’s come straight from the office.
‘It’s great you came, I know you hate parties,’ she says. I feel a rush of relief and companionship that she understands.
‘Yeah. One drink and I’m out of here.’
‘Oh, stay and keep me company for a couple at least. We haven’t clapped eyes on Lewis yet.’
I sigh and scan the milling crowd. The party appears to be gathering momentum, and the string quartet has changed it up a notch to Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like,’ I say idly.
‘I do.’
‘Wait, what? How do you know? He said his webcam was broken!’
