Rosie shook her head.
‘For god’s sake, what are you like?’ James laughed, relaxing by degrees as they sped towards their destination. ‘What’s his name? You asked that, surely?’
‘No,’ Rosie told him, her head spinning. She wondered what on earth was wrong with her. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
September
Chapter 2
Towards the end of a boring Thursday several months later, Rosie glanced at the time display in the bottom right-hand corner of her computer screen. She sighed inwardly and concluded that her chance of leaving work on time this evening was approximately zero.
It was 5.56 p.m., and her ten-hour shift was supposed to finish at six.
The customer she was currently dealing with – a Mr Geoffrey Bathurst of Eastgate Close, Whitchurch, Shropshire – did not seem ready to face facts, preferring instead to rant down the phone at Rosie in the mistaken belief that she had some power to alter them.
He blustered on relentlessly about Cover 4 U’s ‘erroneous,unconscionable, frankly OUTRAGEOUS’ decision not to pay his recent car insurance claim. The firm had rejected it on the grounds that his wife – the named driver on the policy – was apparentlynotthe main user of the gigantic Range Rover Velar that had been backed into a neighbour’s garden wall. In fact, the neighbour in question had informed Cover 4 U’s investigator that the diminutive Mrs Bathurst was a rather nervous driver – terrified to get behind the wheel of what she alternately referred to as ‘her husband’s pride and joy’ and ‘that ludicrously expensive penis extension’. By all accounts, she was barely equal to pootling around their village in her own Mini Cooper – let alone tackling country lanes in a car not much smaller than a minibus.
Thanks to six years’ experience as a Cover 4 U claims handler, Rosie understood that this was a classic case of fronting: fibbing about who drove a vehicle most frequently in order to secure insurance at a lower price.
She had so far refrained from using the word ‘fraud’ during this evening’s conversation with Mr Geoffrey Bathurst, as she strongly suspected he wouldn’t care for it. However, fraudwasthe operative term here – as well as Cover 4 U’s justification for not buying Mr Bathurst a new back bumper or replacement brake lights.
‘I’m sorry you’re disappointed, sir,’ Rosie said into the mouthpiece of her headset, seizing the opportunity to speak when the man took a moment to draw breath. ‘Unfortunately, our investigators found that the information you gave us when you took out your policy wasn’t accurate. That means we’re unable to pay your claim.’
‘This is unacceptable!’ Geoffrey Bathurst bellowed. ‘Shameful! I’ve paid the premiumeverymonth! This is not on. Not cricket. NotBritish!’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s nothing more I can do,’ Rosie said calmly. ‘Your claim can’t be taken any further.’
She hoped very much that if she continued to repeat this mantra, Mr Bathurst would demand to speak to her manager. Rosie wasn’t allowed to suggest it herself – and didn’t dare to in case the call was being recorded – but passing this guy on to Martin would kill two birds with one stone.
First, it would mean she could get out of here for the night – something she was keen on doing as quickly as possible, not least because she was meeting Niamh for dinner. Secondly, it would reroute Mr Bathurst’s warpath in the direction of her smarmy, self-satisfied boss.
Martin was universally disliked among his team of claims handlers, and justifiably so: he was a small, mean-spirited man for whom the mere suggestion of power over others was intoxicating. When he’d refused a perfectly reasonable holiday request from Ellie last week, the act had affected him like a shot of tequila. He’d spent the whole day with a smug smile on his face that Rosie – as well as the rest of her colleagues – had longed to wipe off it.
‘Not good enough!’ Mr Bathurst continued, bringing her back to the here and now. Rosie winced as his volume increased in direct proportion to his outrage, causing her cheap plastic headphones to vibrate.
‘Isn’t it your job to solve this problem? To sort thisout?’ he demanded.
Rosie raised her eyes to the polystyrene-tiled, fluorescent-lit ceiling and swallowed a groan. It was 6.06 p.m. ‘My job is to process claims, sir, which has now been done. As I said before, I’m sorry you’re not happy with the outcome but there’s nothing further I can do.’
‘Not happyis something of an understatement,’ Mr Bathurst barked. ‘Do you have any idea how much spare parts for this type of vehicle cost, young lady?’
Oof.Young lady. If this conversation continued much longer, Rosie would score a full house on the Problem Caller Bingo card Ellie had given her at last year’s Christmas party – a joke present that Martin had made clear he ‘did not find funny in the slightest’.
Rosie resisted the urge to inform Geoffrey Bathurst that she was thirty-two years old. Nor did she point out that she had no idea how much Range Rover parts cost, though she imagined they were extortionate – on which basis,shemight have avoided reversing into a stationary obstacle that stood a clear metre off the ground … especially in a car that doubtless had both cameras and sensors designed to prevent such mishaps.
‘I suppose your silence means you haveno conceptof how much this is going to cost me,’ Bathurst went on. ‘Well, I can tell you I’ll be making a complaint. You – JOBSWORTHS like you – you’re part of the problem, you know. No common sense, no proper education … it’s allcomputer says no. YOU’RE what’s wrong with this country.’
This, Rosie couldn’t help thinking, was a bit rich. She’d done well at school, worked hard and paid her fair share of tax. Perhaps more pertinently, unlike the man on the other end of the line – who she now imagined was a red-faced, Barbour-wearing boomer –shewas fundamentally honest.
Rosie was also kind to strangers, would do anything for the people she loved and (though she’d never admit it to her boyfriend) regularly fed the stray cat that lived in the alley behind their flat. However, because she was well-practised at not rising to the bait from irate customers, she kept this to herself, merely explaining: ‘You’ll find the complaints procedure you need to follow on our website, Mr Bathurst. Or if you’d prefer, I can send you the relevant forms in the post first thing tomorrow.’
The man spluttered incoherently, wrong-footed by Rosie’s refusal to defend herself or argue with him.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?’ she asked, keeping her voice light, pleasant and dignified.
‘No. I don’t imagine there is!’
‘Then thank you for calling us today. Have a lovely evening,’ Rosie said sweetly.
