‘That’s quite a leap, isn’t it?’ Anger is simmering up in me now, over being judged by my lunch choices and that he thinks I’d do something so pathetic. What motive could I possibly have?
‘Not that much of a leap,’ he says, and that’s when I snap. I don’t know if it’s about Ravi and the Kapoors, or seeing Shane, or worrying about how to tell Pam and Kamal that we can’t do what their daughter so desperately wanted us to do. I’m up on my feet now, glaring down at Rupert, my heart banging in my chest. ‘I thought you trusted me!’ I cry.
‘I do. I did. But lately, your mind hasn’t been on the job.’
‘That’s not fair!’ I protest. ‘In what way?’
‘You’ve seemed vague. Distracted…’
‘Well, yes, my oldest friend has died.’
He has the decency to flush deeply. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he mutters. ‘But I have to say, I’ve been getting the feeling that you don’t love being here, Josie.’
‘I do! Of course I do…’ It’s true. I genuinely enjoy my job, working methodically and helping our customers, despite the malfunctioning printer and the crappy tape dispenser that savaged my finger, which Rupert refuses to replace, despite his wealth. I saw a ‘pocket square’ just like his in a shop window in Jermyn Street – ‘a welcome splash of colour to your summer outfitting’, the display card said – for £95. Nearly a hundred quid for something to blow your nose on!
‘And there was my umbrella,’ he announces, having recovered his bluster.
Oh, so we’re dragging that up? Two weeks ago, that was. ‘I didn’t want to take your umbrella,’ I remind him.
‘It was pouring with rain.’
‘Yes, but I told you, I hate them?—’
‘That’s like saying you hate coats!’
‘Coats don’t blow inside out.’
Rupert groans and shakes his head. ‘Anyway, you left it in Tesco.’
Well, yes. I’d known, as he’d thrust it at me, that it wouldn’t end well. With a rubbishy telescopic brolly – the kind that collapses to pieces on its first outing – I’d have been fine. But I was so nervous about being in temporary charge of Rupert’s treasured maple-handed accessory – bought at great expense from a specialist shop that sells only umbrellas and walking canes and ‘shooting sticks’, whatever they are – that I’d lost it somewhere in the shop. I’d rushed back like a berserk mother who’d left her baby parked in its pram by the meal deal cabinet. But nothing had been handed in.
‘I said I was sorry,’ I murmur, ‘and that you could deduct it from my wages.’
He presses his lips together and regards me stonily. What am I supposed to do now? Get on with our orders, I suppose. Utilise the – I have to say – slick system that I implemented, because when I arrived it was all conducted from a ratty old ledger book, stained with coffee rings.
I turn away, about to head for the back room, when I realise I can’t do it. I can’t get on with my work as if nothing’s happened, as if he hasn’t accused me of something I didn’t do. I spin back round and glare at my boss, no longer angry but fuelled by a surge of something else. Strength – that’s what it is. I think of Pam and Kamal and Dev, and how strong they were, despite being hit by tragedy. That’s what I need; even the tiniest smidge of their bravery.
Ravi’s letter flashes into my mind. Never mind not having the time nor the money. Five days, we’re talking. Five days away from Rupert’s big, florid face, not in a far-flung land but in the North of England. It won’t kill me and Shane to carry out Ravi’s last wish. Well, it might, but at least we’ll have tried.
‘Erm, Rupert,’ I start, ‘there’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Oh? What’s that?’ he asks archly.
‘I’m going to need a bit of time off.’
‘That might have to wait,’ he growls.
‘Just a few days,’ I continue, aware of an eerie calmness settling over me. ‘This thing’s come up. Another trip up north…’ He winces at that. Rupert fears ‘The North’; he believes we eat bread and dripping, and set about one another with clubs.
‘As I said,’ he announces, ‘it might have to?—’
‘No, I tell you what,’ I cut in sharply. ‘This actually can’t wait.’
‘Fine! Go then. Just go?—’
‘What?’ I stare at him. Is he sacking me? ‘You mean… you want me to go?’ The words seem to float out of my mouth.
‘Yes, I do.’ He picks up his treasured fountain pen with the gold nib. What is he planning to write, I wonder? A letter terminating my contract but requesting instructions for how to get on the printer’s good side?
