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The disappointment took me aback. A definite pang of regret, even though the idea was both curious and absurd.
“Am I back on bar, then?” she asked, seemingly resigned to another week of general labour.
“It would appear not.” In a heartbeat I’d flipped the coin in my palm, shocking myself as I held it up for her to see. “Third time lucky.”
The victory seemed to rouse her. A sly smile swept across her lips, and her back straightened, shoulders high. “I win?”
I handed her the evidence, woman on top. “Yes, you win.”
She examined the figures on the coin. “You’re not going to backtrack are you? This is my week, Andy, I mean it. Fair’s fair.”
“No, Faye, I’m not going tobacktrack. It’s only seven days, don’t get ahead of yourself.”
She got to her feet, arms folded, and it took just that one sorry moment for me to register the error of my ways. “I’ll be taking your desk,” she said. “You have all the important shit over there.”
“Whatimportant shitdo I have that you will need access to in these seven poxy days, Faye?”
She pulled her chair over to my station and plonked herself down, staring unapologetically at the financials screen in front of me.
“That’s what I’m about to find out,” she said. “I want you to walk me through me every single thing you do for this club, Andy. Starting right now.”
Faye was like a fucking dog with a fucking bone, dipping into this and fucking that, poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted. Financials, suppliers, membership procedures, marketing. She wanted the low down on the whole pissing lot of it, as if it would have ever been that simple.
“Three years,” I snapped. “You’re expecting me to walk you through three years of management. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Faye, and you aren’t going to waltz in here and take on my role in seven poxy days.”
“I’m not expecting you to walk me through three years of management, Andy, I’m expecting you to help me understand exactly what goes on around this place.”
“And what exactly about this place is it you wish to understand?”
She sighed. “Don’t make this impossible. I won the coin toss, I get my week.”
“And this week I’ll start walking you through the financials.” I opened the profit and loss spreadsheet and she slammed her hands on the desk before I’d even started.
“I’ve already got this information and you know it,” she snapped. “Show me something new.”
“Just because you’ve already got this information doesn’t mean you understand it. Tell me how we display bottle versus draft revenue and what impact that has on our stock lines. Tell me where we record additional membership revenue for one-off events.”
Her face was the very picture of exasperation, and I fought the urge to pull the little bitch over my knee and slap some humility into her. “Fine, show me the profit and loss spreadsheet, and then show me all the other reports you’ve already palmed me off with, and all the others you’ll use to stall because they don’t mean shit,” she hissed. “But tomorrow wewillbe looking at marketing, and youwillbe telling me what I want to know whether you like it or not.”
We simmered and we festered and we managed to somehow trawl our way through a whole day of my show and tell puppeteering, but by the close of play on Sunday evening, I had no intention of rolling over and letting her bulldoze through my marketing strategy.
I kicked off my shoes as soon as I was back through my own doorway, grabbed a triple of vintage bourbon and flicked on the TV I hadn’t used in months. My pulsed raced as I considered the unthinkable, but I did it regardless; cancelling every one of my morning alarm calls.
Time to take an impromptu duvet day. I’d fucking earned one.
***
I called Topaz on her mobile, smiling to myself at the surprise in her voice as she registered who was calling. I imagined her still in bed, green hair splayed out on her pillow like a bird’s nest as she groped for her handset. To say she wasn’t a morning person would be an understatement. The girl sounded half fucking dead.
“I’m not coming in today,” I said. “You can tell Faye when you see her.”
“Not in?! You mean, not at all?”
“Just tell her,” I snapped. “And don’t be late.”
I’m such a fucking cunt sometimes.
I kicked back on the sofa, flicking through TV channels in horror as I came face to face with the dregs of daytime TV. I lasted through all of twenty minutes before I had twitchy feet, mind racing through the stacked up to-do list at the office. I imagined Faye’s pouty, self-entitled face to keep me glued to my seat, and it worked well enough. My mobile was on the coffee table in clear view, ready for the stream of text messages and calls when she realised she didn’t know shit about running our club. Only they didn’t pissing well come. I didn’t hear a single peep out of her.
