I called last week but they said you weren’t back until this morning. Would be good to have a chat about future advertising if you have time to drop in at some point?
Jay
I turned to speak to Lucy but she was on a call, so I just flapped my arms in her direction until she got the hint and hung up.
‘Jay just emailed me,’ I informed her, pointing at my screen in case she didn’t understand where emails came from.
She plodded over, lukewarm pizza in hand. ‘Anything interesting? What did he say?’
She glanced over the email and laughed. ‘Dainty? His surname is DAINTY? Why didn’t you tell me this?’
‘Because I don’t think he ever told me.’
‘Check him being all professional. Mr Dainty totally wants to ride you.’
‘How on earth do you getthatfrom this email?’ I looked again to see if I’d missed anything.
‘Two reasons,’ she said, examining a mushroom she’d just picked off the slice. ‘Number one – his bar is far too trendy for our readership and there’s no way he’s advertising again. Number two – he wants you to go back and see him. This could easily be done by email or over the phone. He just wants to be in a room with you again.’ She threw the mushroom into my bin and went back to answering phones while I sat there disagreeing. As much as I hope she’s barking up the wrong tree, if she isn’t, I’d have no problem knocking him back if I had to. I of course replied in an equally professional manner, resisting the urge to just write FUCKING DAINTY, THOUGH?!
From:Phoebe Henderson
To:Jason Dainty
Subject: Re: Advertising
Good morning, Jason,
Thanks for your email. I’ll be happy to pop in – say, Thursday at 3 p.m.? Let me know if this is suitable.
Kind regards,
Phoebe
As I pressed send, I thought, there isn’t a handsome, tattooed man on the planet that could make me cheat on Oliver. Especially not a dainty one.
Wednesday April 19th
Oliver has been decent enough not to pressure me with regards to his sex jar request and has no idea that for the past four days I have secretly been practising with half a cucumber. I feel like a fucking idiot but I’ve convinced myself it’s less humiliating and lethal than a banana.
At first I just retched continuously, wondering why I was putting myself through it, but this morning I found I could withstand the gagging – not entirely, but by Jove, it was progress. I think I’m getting the hang of it.
I came in to work today so I could catch up on more of the work that had accumulated while I was away. Dorothy wasn’t pleased that Brian had phoned in sick yesterday and that Kelly had refused to take any work calls on her day off. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have either. She left shortly after the morning meeting on ‘business’, which we all knew was code for ‘doing something personal and completely unrelated to work’.
Brian pestered Lucy on whether she’d received any info or paperwork on the new manager of Scottish classified advertising and her answer was ‘Fuck off, Brian, I’m busy’. If she had she would have told me anyway.
*
Molly and I made dinner tonight, breading fish and making chips in the air fryer. She even did her own fish fingers and was very proud of herself. Oliver praised her cooking skills highly.
‘I’m going to be a Chef, you know,’ she decided. ‘With my own café.’
‘Excellent,’ he replied. ‘Your mum and I will get free chips forever.’
‘Maybe,’ she deliberated. ‘It might just be a café for girls. I haven’t decided.’
I let her watch some television before bed, while Oliver and I did the dishes together, admiring our own child like a couple of smug pricks. After we’d finished, Oliver grabbed a beer from the fridge. He looked weary.
‘Tired?’ I asked, drying the last of the cutlery.
