Chapter One
Ros hated being late but if she needed a good excuse then taking a custard pie to the face was probably it.
‘Seriously!’ she snapped as she blinked gloop out of her eyes.
A group of student types in varying states of drunkenness fell about laughing.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said a kind male voice.
Ros looked up and was surprised to see someone quite a bit older than the others, with rainbow chalk-sprayed bushy hair and wearing a bright orange tutu. In any other situation she may have found him good-looking. ‘Thanks, but I think you’ve done enough.’
‘It wasn’t me who threw it although it was meant for me and I did kind of duck out of the way. So, apologies.’
‘Fine,’ said Ros, scraping the worst of it off her face before realising it had all blobbed down her suit. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘It’s just shaving foam – it’ll wash out. I promise,’ he said with a smile.
‘Come on! Time for birthday shots!’ shouted one of the other tutu-wearing gang and the rest broke into a chant of ‘Shots! Shots! Shots!’
‘Hang on!’ he shouted at them before turning back to Ros. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked.
‘Never better,’ she said, as she marched away trying to ignore the sniggers of the people she passed. Southampton city centre was student party central on a Friday night and Ros berated herself for not picking somewhere quieter to meet her friend. She was thankful that it wasn’t far to the little Italian restaurant and she was pleased to see Darla sitting at a table in the window, her highlighted hair in a ponytail and wearing her favourite ‘going out’ top. Ros went straight over, picked up the napkin and began wiping off the last of the mess.
‘Blimey! Foam parties. That takes me back,’ said Darla.
Ros gave her friend a long-suffering look. ‘Some idiots chucked a plate in my face.’
‘Shit. Sorry. Are you all right?’ Darla was checking her over.
‘A paper plate piled up with shaving foam,’ elaborated Ros. ‘Is there more on me anywhere?’ she asked, feeling that she’d done a good job of tidying herself up.
Darla pointed to her head. Ros whipped out her phone, put it on camera and an image of her with an Elvis-style foam quiff appeared. ‘Bloody students. They’re a menace.’
‘Shall I order you a white wine while you pop to the ladies?’
‘Yes, please. A large Pinot Grigio. But only if it’s been properly chilled,’ said Ros, dashing off.
Ros felt better for sorting herself out in the ladies, and the damage was really only some unfortunately located damp patches in the boobs area of her jacket, although her fringe was now sticking to her forehead in that unattractive way it did when she got caught in the rain. She brushed out the rest of her dark shoulder-length hair to make herself more presentable. She returned to the table to find a large glass of wine waiting for her. She sat down and finally felt some of the tension ease in her shoulders.
‘Bad day?’ asked Darla.
‘I don’t understand why someone else’s lack of planning instantly becomes my crisis.’
‘Because you’re good at sorting things out?’ suggested Darla.
She wasn’t wrong but Ros still found it incredibly frustrating and completely unfair that they called on her as the risk manager, expecting her to suddenly dive in to fix things and stop them contravening something they shouldn’t just because they hadn’t adhered to due process in a timely manner. She produced lengthy and meticulously detailed reports and yet they were rarely read by anyone other than herself. ‘But if people just thought ahead it would make life so much less—’
‘Fun, spontaneous, enjoyable?’ offered Darla.
‘I was going to say stressful.’
‘That too. Talking of stressful, I tried the cruise ships again but no luck. Apparently my skill set isn’t what they’re looking for.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ros. ‘But aren’t you sorted jobwise with the house-sitting, cleaning and bar work?’
‘Whilst I obviously love the glamour, I would ditch it all in a second for a chance to travel and get paid – a job on a cruise ship would be perfect. That’s why I came to Southampton in the first place after The Wanker did what he did.’
Ros realised she didn’t actually know the real name of Darla’s ex; he’d always been referred to as The Wanker. A fitting title given he had squandered money on get-rich-quick schemes – all of which had come to nothing – whilst incurring debts along the way. What Darla hadn’t fully comprehended until the bailiffs had turned up on her doorstep was that most of the debt was either in joint names or on her credit cards, and the minute he had disappeared she had become liable to repay it all. Her choice had been between finding a way to repay everything or declaring bankruptcy and forever having a terrible credit rating, but in either case she had to admit – to herself but certainly not to her parents – that they were right about her choice of boyfriend. She’d chosen the former and had planned to get a job on a cruise ship, which would pay her enough to make the monthly payments and eventually repay it all, only her plan hadn’t gone to plan so to speak, so now she had got herself into a situation where her parents thought she was away travelling when in fact she was working her bum off in low-paid jobs in Southampton.
