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‘Bugger. And no chocolate crumbles either.’
‘I didn’t think he’d clear them all single-handedly,’ replied Polly.
‘Greedy twat,’ said Chris, having to make do with a digestive. ‘I hate these,’ he was grimacing as he crunched. He looked like a recalcitrant toddler. ‘Next time, don’t give Jabba my Jaffa Cakes,’ he added, reaching for another of the biscuits he hated.
The next time Jabba and his missus come round to the house, I won’t be the one making the coffee and putting out any biscuits, Polly thought.
Chris huffed a bit more and chuntered under his breath and then said, ‘I should have told you about me staying at Camay’s on Friday night. I forgot.’
Polly carried on wiping down the table with a cloth.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. It couldn’t have been more perfect in fact. A whole clear evening to pack and take her time about it. For a full month now, she’d been getting rid of what she no longer wanted in her cupboards and the loft, and organising what she would take with her so she could just sweep it all up and throw it quickly into suitcases. She was banking on Chris being out for the count on Saturday night and that’s when she was going to do the bulk of her packing, quietly, when he was asleep. This arrangement would make everything so much easier. She knew that when she told him she was leaving, he wouldn’t be assisting her out with her things and waving her off with a cheery ‘bye bye’ because he didn’t take rejection very lightly. He’d still been dragging a massive bag of luggage around with him when they met – and he’d been divorced for five years by then. Although, Charlene Barrett had given him chlamydia, contracted from her sister’s husband whom she’d subsequently married. Polly wouldn’t be leaving him for anyone else; shedidn’t want to cause him pain, she just wanted to go and be out of pain herself.
Polly felt Chris’s eyes on her and when she lifted her head, it was to find him staring at her.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m okay,’ he replied, then turned and went into the lounge to watch some more sport.
TheDaily Trumpetwould like to apologise to Sue Dyer of Sue’s Hair and Beauty for the advertisement that appeared in Sunday’s ‘Treat Yourself’ Supplement. We inadvertently printed ‘book early to avoid appointments’ when it should of read, ‘book early to ensure disappointments’.
Chapter 2
Five days to the renewal of the vows ceremony
‘Polly, put the kettle on,’ said Jeremy, popping his head out of his office door. He grinned as if this was the first time he’d ever said it and not the millionth. He truly was a man of astounding wit. Or at least something rhyming with it.
Sheridan, the office administrator and fourteen years Polly’s junior, made a move to get out of her seat.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said, uttering ‘wanker’ under her breath, as if it was the first time she’d ever said it and not the millionth.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Polly. ‘You shouldn’t even be working, never mind running around making coffees.’
‘You do it and I’ll never speak to you again,’ said Sheridan, using her scary do-not-mess-with-me voice. ‘I need to rub my bum and I can do that in the privacy of the kitchen. Kill two birds with one stone. Bloody sciatica.’
She levered her heavily pregnant body from her chair and waddled off in the direction of the small kitchen. Polly would miss working with this young breath of fresh air when she went on maternity leave and she’d been selfishly gladthat Sheridan had decided to work as near to her due date as possible so she could have maximum time with her new baby. Sheridan’s maternity cover had already been decided upon. His name was Brock Harrison and he was the business owner’s nephew. Polly had already met him and he was exactly the entitled spoilt brat she’d expected him to be. She could forecast what was to come. Like Jeremy, he’d start off as her junior, he’d learn just a little before he began to act like her senior and long before he was ready, that’s exactly what he would be because the male hierarchy would move to promote him above her – and in no time at all, he’d be popping his head out of his office and also asking Polly to put the kettle on.
Sheridan was just emerging from the kitchen with the coffee when the owner of the company, Charles Butler, breezed into the department, speed-walking across the executive red carpet towards Jeremy’s office. If Sheridan hadn’t made an emergency step backwards, both of them would have been splattered in milk froth.
Sheridan followed Charles into Jeremy’s inner sanctum. Polly knew she would take as long as possible to deliver the drink and plate of biscuits so she could mop up any gossip and bring it back to her seat. Sure enough, she was wearing a knowing grin on her face when she returned and couldn’t wait to lean over the partition that separated their workspaces to share what she’d just overheard.
‘You should see the backslapping going on in there, and the handshaking,’ Sheridan said. ‘It’s all to do with Nutbush’s profits. Apparently, they are through the roof.’ Her brow creased then. ‘I wonder if they’ll call you in, Pol, and start thumping you on the back as well seeing as that was all down to you.’
‘Let me see,’ said Polly, tapping her lip with her finger. ‘I think I have more chance of Leonardo di Caprio abseiling down the side of the building in the next five minutes, climbing in through the window and handing me a box of rose and violet creams.’
‘What are they?’ asked Sheridan. ‘Chocolates? They sound vile.’ She wrinkled up her nose at the thought of a flower and chocolate combo.
‘Don’t knock ’em till you’ve tried them. My uncle used to buy them for my auntie and whenever I went to visit, I could choose one from the box.’ She smiled at the thought. She always smiled at thoughts of her Uncle Ed and Auntie Rina. She didn’t have a lot of happy memories of her childhood, but the ones featuring them shone bright. A year of warmth and fun and love. Then they were gone and there were no more violet or rose creams or games of Snakes and Ladders or trips out to fairs and the seaside, museums and overflowing buckets of popcorn at the cinema.
‘You do know why your star hasn’t reached its full ascendancy here of course,’ said Sheridan.
Polly did but she humoured her young friend. ‘Go on, enlighten me.’
‘You’re lacking a dick. Two actually. One in your pants and another growing out of your head.’
Polly gave a small laugh, even though it was no laughing matter because here they were again, same scenario, different company. A business in trouble seeking their help, Polly presenting her best ideas to the panel on how to turn them around. Polly’s ideas getting nicked and repackaged, others taking the credit for the success. Polly forgotten.
‘Next time you get a company to rescue, feed the buggers a load of duff info and watch them crash and burn andthen stand back and let Germany take the credit for that,’ said Sheridan, using one of her many nicknames for Jeremy. She rocked on her seat to get comfortable. ‘I know, I know, before you start on me. You aren’t like that.’
