He looks at me oddly for a second. Then he filches a string of spaghetti from the boiling water and, tipping back his head, tests it for firmness. ‘You fit me in.’
‘That’s different,’ I laugh. ‘You’re my best friend.’
I’m expecting him to smile at the compliment. But instead, he wipes his hands on his jeans and turns away to get wine from the fridge.
‘Well, you’re coming to my Christmas party even if I have to box you up and have you delivered.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
When he had a large staff, Fez’s Christmas parties were legendary. He’s decided to continue the tradition this year by holding a party for friends.
I know I have to go. But I haven’t been to a big bash like that for ages, not since my London days. And apart from anything else, I’ve got nothing to wear.
To change the subject, I say, ‘Hey, did you see what was on that DVD you brought me the other night?’
He shakes his head. ‘I deliberately didn’t look. I thought you should watch it first – in case there was anything risqué on it. Why, is it good stuff?’
‘It was – um – interesting. I was going to bring it over to show you but I couldn’t find it.’
‘By the way, have a look at that.’ He tosses something onto the table in front of me.
I pick up the pamphlet and glance through it.
It’s an advert for a new gallery that’s opening nearby in an old, renovated factory. I study the examples of sculptures, paintings and jewellery. They want new talent to exhibit.
Fez is watching me.
‘And?’ I drop the leaflet on the table and fold my arms.
He shrugs. ‘Thought you might be interested.’
For a few seconds, a glimmer of excitement flares in my belly. Real butterflies at the thought of getting back to the work I love; the thrill of turning an idea for a painting or a glass vase into something real.
Then I bring myself to heel.
I’ve already proved that being creative doesn’t pay the rent.
I have to be practical and focus on saving all the money I can for Tim’s operation.
I will not let Mum and Tim down.
On Monday morning, there’s a jewel among the junk mail:
Dear Ms Blatchett
You’ve convinced me. Glass-blowing sounds incredible. I’d like to see your work.
Sorry I took so long to reply but I was out of the country – and now I’m late for a meeting, but I’ll be in touch later.
Ronald
I make myself hold off replying till after lunch:
Dear Mr McDonald
Hope your meeting went well. You sound very grand for a reservations guy. ‘Out of the country’ indeed! I expect your Jag is waiting outside. Are penthouses all they’re cracked up to be?
I send it off, then a minute later wish I’d remembered to press him on the hotel deal.
There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to send him another message.
I’m only doing my job.
Mr McDonald
Have you got me that great deal yet? The Boss might murder me if I don’t come up trumps soon and you wouldn’t want blood on your hands, would you?
Actually, Carol hasn’t even mentioned it. But just in case she does, I need to keep the lines of communication open. And besides, I’m enjoying my banter with Ronald McDonald. It’s the most fun I’ve had at work since – well, ever, actually.
Next day, when I get back from lunch, Shona says, ‘Someone phoned while you were out. A Mr McDonald?’
‘He phoned?’ I blurt out.
Shona looks over curiously. ‘Yes. About ten minutes ago. Why? Who is he?’
‘Oh, no one important.’ I adopt a casual, ‘I’m not really bothered but I suppose I’d better phone him back’ sort of expression. ‘What did he say?’
‘Just that he’d email you. And he – er – hopes your goldfish is okay?’
I laugh.
‘Is that a euphemism?’ asks Shona.
‘Sorry?’ I’m trying to open up my emails but the damn computer is being so slow today.
‘I just wondered if the goldfish is a euphemism,’ she says, with a sly grin. ‘You know, a word that’s code for something else. You’re looking very flushed.’
‘I know what a euphemism is,’ I snap, as a new wave of heat ramps up my under-blouse temperature.
‘So is it?’
‘No, of course it’s not a euphemism. It’s a goldfish.’
She gives me an arch look. ‘I didn’t know you had a goldfish.’
‘Well, I don’t have to tell you everything, do I?’ I laugh.
‘I suppose not. So do you?’
‘What?’
‘Have a goldfish?’
Aha! At last I’m in. And yes, there is indeed a new email from Ronald McDonald.
‘Well?’
‘No, I do not have a goldfish, okay?’ I say incredulously. ‘Now can we stop this nonsense? I’ve got a … a thing to attend to.’
She smirks. ‘Now that’s definitely a euphemism.’
Dear Bobbie
How did you know about the Jag and the penthouse? You’re obviously much cleverer than you sound. I hope your boss appreciates that fine intellect.
P.S. Penthouses are great but they get a bit boring after a while – you know, same-old, same-old …
I reply straight away, trying not to smile while I’m typing so as not to enflame Shona’s over-active imagination.
A boring penthouse? My heart bleeds for you. Expect you also have a boring holiday home in the Caribbean and a boring yacht moored in the south of France.
P.S. The closest I ever came to experiencing a penthouse was vicariously, through my hamster. He had a teeny-tiny top storey to his little hamster house …
I wait till Shona goes to get coffee before checking for a reply.
Yes!
Lucky hamster. And yes, you guessed it. Fabulous holiday villa in the Carribean and big yacht in Monaco. Your psychic powers are truly amazing. Have you ever thought of changing your name to Gypsy Rosalee?
My reply:
Never mind a psychic; I want to work in hotel reservations.