‘It’s amazing,’ said Regan, trying to stop her mouth from falling open. ‘What was business class like? Did you get—’ But her questioning was interrupted by a cough behind her. Regan turned to see Nigel scowling at her and running his fingers down his tie. It was the same tie he wore every day; that, or he had a whole rack of the same one at home, but Regan doubted from the iffy stains on it that that was the case. Nigel poked a finger at her phone. That was the trouble with FaceTime; it was on loudspeaker, so it had obviously alerted everyone around her and now they all looked like meerkats on parade. If only she’d remembered her ear buds.
‘Sorry, got to go.’ Regan hurriedly ended the call.
‘Regan, we’ve spoken before about personal calls. Haven’t we?’
Regan wondered if Nigel went to the same school of condescending arses that Jarvis had studied at. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ she said, but they both knew it would.
‘If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d replenish the printer paper stocks and get me a coffee?’ He gave her a reptilian smile and she begrudgingly went to do as he’d asked. He wasn’t the worst manager she’d ever had, but he was quite picky, self-important and always seemed to be on Regan’s case, which – some of the time – wasn’t justified.
The meeting with the great and the terminally dull was a lot less taxing than she’d feared. Alex had handed over his notes and figures, so she simply reeled them off when asked, while everyone nodded and her boss gave a deep sigh of relief. Really, these people had no faith.
She nipped out at lunchtime and bought three exorbitantly priced doughnuts, but it was on the magic contactless joint account card so it was fine. She wanted to drop one off with Kevin, though he was trickier to find at lunchtime because he often got shooed away from the market during the day by the manager. Eventually, she managed to track him and Elvis down to the supermarket car park, where occasionally a benevolent shopper would give him something from their trolley.
There was a fancy concrete bench affair outside and they sat there to eat their doughnuts together. Regan liked Kevin. He was probably a similar age to her dad, but it was hard to tell with the beard. Unlike her dad, he had a calm way about him. Like he’d seen it all and done it all. She never liked to ask him too many questions, although it didn’t stop her being curious about his situation.
‘I haven’t had a doughnut for years. That was tasty, thanks,’ said Kevin, letting Elvis lick the sugar from his fingers. ‘It’s funny the things you miss.’
‘Like what?’ asked Regan, trying hard to avoid jam dripping down her top.
‘Eye contact,’ he said with a wan smile. He and Regan exchanged knowing looks. The homeless were somehow invisible to most people. Kevin tilted his head back. ‘I miss my mates, sofas … and those little chipped potato things …’
‘What, chips?’
‘No,’ said Kevin, with a chuckle. ‘Sort of cube shaped. I used to like those.’
‘What about your family?’
Kevin took a deep breath. ‘Goes without saying that I miss my folks, but …’
Regan felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Families are complicated, right?’
Kevin turned his gaze towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear to disappoint mine again.’
Regan opened her mouth to speak and was surprised by the loud bark that erupted until she realised it was from Elvis, who had spotted someone with a tray of coffees walking past.
‘I best be off. Thanks again,’ said Kevin. ‘Carpe diem.’ And he made his way across the car park, Elvis lolloping after him.
She felt there was so much more to Kevin than just some homeless guy. Regan sighed to herself then looked at her watch. ‘Shitterama!’ Did someone fast-forward her life when she wasn’t looking?
Back in the office she waved the doughnut bag in front of Alex’s face. ‘By way of apology for the earlier accident.’
Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. But that was over the line for a gag, Regan,’ he said, swiping the bag.
‘Not a bloody gag. Why won’t you believe me?’ She was getting irritated now.
Alex looked in the bag. ‘Ooh, chocolate dreamcake. You’re forgiven.’
‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.
The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothed the waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.
As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.
Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message: Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET
No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.
‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’
‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’
‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’
‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’
‘DiCaprio?’
‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.
‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’
Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah, she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.
Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him