Every morning this week, The Boss has burst through the door, held up her handbag or pointed to some item of clothing and announced, ‘Ten pounds from Oxfam!’ or ‘Twenty pence from the jumble sale!’ before charging to her office and slamming the door off its hinges.
The Boss takes a perverse pleasure in being miserly – thrift rules her life – and Mrs Hetherington wounded her pride.
‘Do you think she’s busy?’ Ella asks me, with a nod at The Boss’s door.
‘Um – not sure. Why?’
‘I need to check something out with her.’ She flicks back her blonde-streaked hair, releasing a freshly-washed scent of summer meadows.
‘Oh? What is it?’ I ask casually.
She touches the side of her nose and murmurs confidentially, ‘A PR opportunity she simply can’t afford to pass up.’ Standing up, she slips off her fake fur and hangs it on the back of her chair.
I wait for her to give me more but she doesn’t, so I say, ‘Oh, great. Why don’t you talk to me about it first and then I can tell you if I think it’s something she might go for?’
Ella eyes me coolly, probably worried I am going to steal her idea. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. I am merely keen to stop her barging into the lion’s den and becoming lunch.
Just then, The Boss emerges from her office, points at Shona’s empty chair and barks, ‘Where is she? I need that list.’ Her voice has a hint of gravel, especially when she’s going through a chain-smoking phase. The air emerging from her office is thick and acrid, and Ella starts to cough.
‘You asked for coffee,’ I remind her. ‘Shona’s making it.’
The Boss is tall – over six feet – with the angular shoulders of a swimmer and a high metabolism that ensures she never puts on weight, lucky cow. Her blonde crop makes her look principal boy handsome and ultra-feminine at the same time. When she smiles, that is. But bad temper is taking its toll. Her recent habit of substituting meals with fags has dulled her complexion and given her a creased look, which reminds me of my pile of ironing that needs attention.
Suddenly, I feel a pang of sadness. It’s a cliché, I know, but there was a time she could light up the room with a smile. At what point did the desire for money hijack her personality so completely?
‘For Christ’s sake, why didn’t she get me the list first and then make the coffee?’ she growls, shooting a filthy look at Ella.
I can’t think of an answer to that. And anyway, poor Ella is now coughing so furiously she’s hanging onto a chair, so I doubt I’d make myself heard. I dash into the kitchen for water and The Boss stomps back to her fume-filled office.
Ella sips gratefully from the glass then spends the next ten minutes trying to rescue her mascara with a folded paper hanky.
‘She shouldn’t be smoking in the work place,’ she announces, far too loudly considering The Boss’s door is partially open.
‘Try telling her that,’ mutters Shona, returning with a coffee tray.
‘No, don’t!’ I yelp, fearing our elephant-skinned junior is about to sacrifice herself on the altar of passive smoking.
Shona delivers the coffee then shuts the door firmly behind her.
‘Do something about the temperature, Shona,’ The Boss yells. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here.’
‘You mean put the heating on?’
‘Well, what else would I mean? Build a friggin’ bonfire? Oh, and Bobbie, did you find the coffee machine?’
I put my head round her door. ‘We’ve run out of the freshly-ground stuff. Do you want me to go out and buy some more?’
The Boss pulls out her purse and draws a note from its compartment. She checks carefully to make sure there aren’t two stuck together and holds it out to me. ‘Get the good stuff.’
‘Wow. Who’s the lucky visitor?’
‘And some biscuits.’ She ignores the question. ‘Chocolate.’
I nod.
Her grip is firm on the ten pound note.
‘Let go,’ I murmur.
‘What?’ she snaps. ‘Oh, yes.’
I get my coat, pocket the money and head along to the local supermarket, glad of the breather.
I walk back into a Tense Situation.
Ella is standing by The Boss’s office, effectively blocking her from getting in, and I arrive just as she’s gushing, ‘ … amazing way to publicise the business!’
Shona’s head bobs up in alarm.
‘The thing is, I was out with my friend, Amy, at the weekend, and she works for the local radio station and she’s helped organise this incredible initiative where people donate money and they give food parcels to the needy at Christmas time. They’re asking companies like ours to make a donation.’
In the silence that follows, Shona sneaks a look my way.
‘So I told Amy I would ask you.’
I can’t bear to look at Ella’s pleased expression.
The Boss arranges her features into a smile. ‘To donate to a charity?’
Ella nods.
‘You want me to donate money? To the poor people?’
‘Yes! It’s ever such a good cause and just think what it would do for the image of the company.’
The Boss nods as if she is giving it her full consideration. ‘Hmm, so you think our image could do with a bit of help, then?’
Ella’s face falls slightly. ‘Well, no, I didn’t mean – I just meant it would be good publicity. That’s all.’
The Boss raises an eyebrow and disastrously, Ella takes this as encouragement to continue. ‘It wouldn’t have to be very much. Just a few hundred, maybe? I mean, obviously that would be up to you.’
I look over at Shona. Her shoulders are up to her ears, as if she expects the ceiling to fall in on us at any second.
‘I don’t think so.’ The Boss’s tone is as icy as a skating rink.
She takes Ella’s arm and steers her firmly out of the way.
To my horror, Ella moves back into the doorway and continues talking. ‘But that kind of publicity is like gold dust. It must be worth a try. Don’t you think?’
In the silence, you could seriously hear a false nail drop.
I feel as tense as I do when someone on telly hears a strange noise in the attic and decides it would be a good thing to investigate.
The Boss shakes her head and places her hands on her hips. ‘If you seriously imagine I’m going to hand over my hard-earned fucking cash to a bunch of stinking, dirty lay-abouts, who lie around all fucking day watching their fucking friends on the fucking Jeremy Kyle Show and can’t be arsed to go out and get a job, you really do need your head examined, Ellen.’
She shimmies into her office and kicks the door shut.
Poor Ella – enduring the added insult of being called by the wrong name – needs two cups of nettle tea before she starts feeling normal again.
As I’m packing up to leave the office later, Shona, looking red-faced, hisses, ‘Guess who’ll be drinking the posh