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Now Claire is brandishing an elaborate and lovingly rendered picture of a giant cock and balls.
“…and…and…”
She adds ball hairs.
“…makes an important contribution to morale.”
“Then,” Jonathan snaps, “I’m sure she can cope without you for a day. This isn’t a request, Samwise.”
I just about manage not to make a noise, but I physically cringe. I know it’s my name, but nobody’s ever used it except my mam, and I don’t want to be thinking about her right now. “Please don’t call me that.”
“The point is, Sam, I’m your boss and you’re coming to Croydon tomorrow. The company will reimburse your travel.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else. Which, at this point, is probably for the best.
“Are you all right?” Claire has put down the dick pic, which is what you might call a small mercy.
I sink into my chair and sit on my hands to stop them shaking. “Yeah. He’s such a…such a…”
“Dick?”
“Sucha dick.”
“Do you want to”—and now she’s giving me the sort of uneasy look you should never get from somebody whose paycheques you sign—“talk about it?”
“He just gets to me, and I can never tell if he’s evil or if he doesn’t know or if he doesn’t care, or which would be worst.”
She thinks about it for a moment. “He’s evil.”
“I have to go to Croydon tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I thought he was going to fire you.”
“He still might,” I point out.
“That’s not very likely. To drag someone all the way from Sheffield to Croydon just so you can fire them, you’d have to be a complete—oh.”
“Yeah, it’s not looking good, is it?”
Another pause. Claire runs a hand through her platinum blonde hair and looks at me like I’ve got brown sauce on my face and she doesn’t know how to tell me. “I’m trying to come up with something comforting here, but you’re totally fucked.”
“I know. But”—I do my best to pull myself together, to pretend this isn’t affecting me—“what can you do? You can’t stop a dick from being a dick. Will yez be okay to look after the place tomorrow?”
“Love, it’s a bed and bath superstore, not a nuclear submarine.”
“Yes, but Brian’s opening up.”
“Then we’re screwed.” Now Jonathan’s off the phone, Claire’s looking more serious. Maybe because she heard enough of my end of the conversation to know we’re in a serious situation. “You know,” she says, “if Jonathan’s getting on your case about numbers, you might really need to look at letting Brian go.”
I can’t believe she’s saying it. I mean I can, because she is, and because she’s said it before, but still. “Brian’s one of us.”
“He’s the worst Customer Advisor I’ve ever worked with, and I worked with Chel.”
Them’s harsh words. “Chel punched a child.”
“A very annoying child. And she didn’t cost us money.”
“Technically”—nothing good ever followstechnically—“everybody costs us money.”
