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I’m about to ask who Carmel is, but Owen continues. “Are you on an early lunch?”
“Yes. I take it you’re on a late lunch.”
“Yeah. But I brought you something.”
“Oh?” I try to hide my shock, which is impossible, but now the shock is being trampled by excitement. I can’t remember the last time anyone brought me something. “What is it?”
“I brought you some lunch. Just couscous and falafel. Do you like them?” He glances at me, his face pale, worry lines wriggling around his eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had falafel, or, if I have, I didn’t know I was eating it, but I like couscous, and it probably beats the chicken sandwich I’ve brought.” I haven’t dared bring grated cheese again, as I thought Owen was going to break out in hives when he watched me eat it in his garden on Monday.
“I’ll bring it out to you if you’d like.”
Bring it out to me?
Owen must pick up on my confusion, as he adds, “You can eat in the garden. It’s a nice day again. And I could probably take a short break when you have your lunch.”
Okay, this makes sense, and it means I should be able to do some more digging—the nosey kind, not the gardening variety, which I don’t think I’ve ever done in my life. And I don’t think Owen would let me within even an inch of the soil with a spade going by his reaction to my dropped cheese.
“That’d be great. Thank you. We have things to discuss.”
“Things?” He freezes, the steaming cup in his hand suspended as his eyes widen.
“I’m having a small dress dilemma and could do with your input.”
“Ah, right you are.” He appears to relax.
“I’ll see you outside at twelve,” I confirm.
“See you then.”
He leaves the staffroom, and I sigh at the sight of those tight trousers. If I ever get to meet Paul, I will shake him by the hand and congratulate him, because there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to see what’s underneath those well-cut suits.
13
Owen
It’s exactly noon, and I’m trying not to look at the stray bits of box hedge that have grown since I last trimmed it, or the loose stones that have eloped from their home between the paving slabs.
Three months ago, I bought a handheld trimmer, which is small enough to carry around and bring to work to keep up with the shrubs and hedges in the garden. Spring started early this year with an abundance of rain, which meant the greenery grew like wildfire, and I had to catch snippets of dry weather to keep up with it all. Only now are we starting to see the summer sun, and so everything is growing again.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Alice announces as she pushes her way through the gate, closing it behind her.
I want to reassure her by saying, “You’re not that late,” but it’s four minutes past twelve, which means not only is she late, but I only have eleven minutes left of my fifteen-minute break.
Alice takes a seat opposite me and flicks her hair over her shoulder, a move I’ve seen her do countless times, which always makes me want to gather her hair in my hand and slowly pull it, tilting her head back and exposing her delicate throat.
“I got stuck with this guy who wanted to examine every drawer unit we have and measure the capacity, even though the measurements are clearly labelled. I tried to sneak away and leave him to it, but then he started getting utensils out of his bag and laying them in the drawers to ‘check if they would fit.’ I wasn’t too disturbed until he pulled out a sandwich toaster, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in a while, which he then put in the drawers. I mean, who brings the entire contents of their kitchen drawers to see if they’ll fit in the new ones?”
“Which kitchen?” I ask, trying to ignore the prickling breaking out on my palms at the mess he might have left in one of the drawer units.
“Luckily, it was the display units in the technical area,” Alice says.
The technical area is where base units and drawers are displayed that have no style or finish. They’re purely there for customers to see the width, size, and measurement of the units before they choose which style they want. It’s probably my favourite area of the showroom, as it’s no-nonsense, no frills, and has no garish colours.
“I’ll let Ralph know when I go back inside,” I say, wondering if it’ll just be quicker to clean the drawer myself, although Ralph has a handheld vacuum that I’m insanely jealous of. It’s a far better model than mine.
“It’s okay. I passed him on the way out and told him. He was furious. I suggested we should maybe put up signs telling people they can’t bring their kitchen equipment from home, and he said, ‘We shouldn’t need to. It’s not really the norm.’ Then I said, ‘But what if people saw this guy today and think it’s acceptable?’ Before you know it, we’ll have people lugging their microwaves in to see if they’ll fit under the units of the Bancroft or in that small gap in the utility area of the Rosemont.”
