Love...Under Different Skies (2 page)

“Right, that’s it. I’m writing you up, James!”

“It’s Jamie, you brown-nosing little ass wipe! JAMIE. J-A-M-I-E. Always has been. If you took even five seconds to try and get to know the people who work for you, you’d know what my fucking name is!”

He’s gone red now. A delightful shade of crimson that would look nice in the bathroom with the new mats we bought at Walmart last week.

Alex holds up two knobbly fingers in front of my eyes, holding them a scant inch apart. “I’m this close to firing you,
Jamie
.”

This is it, then. My last chance to back down and keep my job. In such moments the course of our lives is decided once and for all. I can calm down, apologise, and soldier on with Kayleigh’s “Living” supplement. Alex will put this outburst down to the stress of having my hours reduced, and within a fortnight everything will be back to normal. The bills will continue to be paid (more or less) and I’ll continue to let my soul die by small increments.

Or I can go all in. Penny and pound. Sacrifice the next few weeks and months of my life for one glorious five-minute explosion that will destroy my bank account (and possibly my marriage), but will do wonders for my sense of self-worth. Sometimes in life you just have to leap without looking…

My eyes narrow. My voice lowers to a whisper. “Fire me, you little scrotum. Go ahead.”

I’m rewarded with Alex’s face going a whiter shade of pale, a colour that would go well with the curtains in the spare bedroom.

He starts to speak, but I hold out one hand. “No, no. Let’s not keep this monumental occasion to ourselves.” I throw open my office door. Outside a plethora of heads are already turned towards me. “Hello everyone. Alex has an announcement to make.”

Alex follows me out. “This is ridiculous, James…Jamie.”

“Is it? As ridiculous as a newspaper making massive cutbacks while its owner suntans his hairy arse on a beach, and his trophy wife seduces the pool boy back in the hotel penthouse?”

There are gasps from the audience—sorry, my work colleagues—as they digest this.

“I think this is a private matter between us,” Alex says and tries to pull me back into my office.

“Oh, I don’t think it is, Alex. You’re one of those odious little shit bags—” more gasps, louder this time “—who likes to dish the dirt behind closed doors where no one can see you. This time, though, you’re going to spew your loathsome words in front of everyone.” I put out an arm. “So please, tell the boys and girls what you’re doing with me.” I fold both arms and lean against the door frame, watching what Alex does next.

“You give me no choice, Jamie. Really no choice at all. I don’t like to do things like this.”

I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ, get on with it, you oily tick.”

The gasps are joined by not a small amount of laughter. I might be leaving with my belongings in a cardboard box, but at least the poor bastards who have to carry on working in this dive can go home with a smile on their face and a decent anecdote to tell their friends at the pub tonight.

“You’re fired, Jamie! Collect your belongings immediately and leave!” For once Alex actually sounds commanding. Then he ruins it by whispering, “The HR Department will be in touch later today about your final pay slip
.”

“Excellent!” I shout and clap my hands together. “You finally managed to grow a set and do it. Well done, Alex! And may I just say that working for you has been slightly less pleasant than lying with my mouth wide-open under the back legs of a camel with diarrhoea?”

“You tell him, Jamie!” a voice calls from the back of the room. I think it’s Clare, but I can’t be sure as the speaker is keeping herself well hidden behind some filing cabinets.

“And while we’re at it, I’d very much like you to pass on a message to Mr. Keene. Please tell him that he is a cunt of the highest,
highest
order. Also, his wife is nowhere near as attractive as she thinks she is. She is also a moron. I know nothing about women and am fairly sure I could come up with a better feature for a women’s supplement than ‘what’s the best chocolate to eat while you’re on a treadmill.
’
”

“I suggest you leave right now Jamie,” Alex spits.

“Oh don’t try and order me around, you slimy prick. You lost the power to do that about a minute ago.” I turn to address the floor and see a series of stunned expressions. “Goodbye everyone. Some of you I got on with quite well. Some of you I barely knew. I received a hand job from only one of you.” A snort of laughter erupts from behind the filing cabinets. “I hope that things get better here for all of you as soon as possible. Alex could certainly start that process by jumping out of the nearest high window.” I smile at the skinny weasel and give him the finger for good measure. “I’m leaving now,” I say to my enrapt audience, “and will head home to tell my wife what has happened here today. If you wish to visit me in hospital, I would imagine I’ll be at St. Mary’s as that’s the nearest one to my house.”

I turn back into my office and slam the door so hard it can probably be heard in the Maldives. Fifteen minutes later I’m chain-smoking my way out of the parking lot. Forty minutes later I’m sitting outside the house, sheer terror gripping every inch of me…except my ass, which has completely stopped throbbing, I’m pleased to report.

On shaky legs I open the front door, walk into the house and straight through to the living room. Laura looks up at me and sees the expression on my face.

“What have you done now?” she says. I can almost feel the needles
in her voice.

Placing the dining room table between me and my concerned wife, I begin to weave my ugly tale.

LAURA’S DIARY

Thursday, October 29

Dear Mum,

First of all, let me offer you a couple of much-needed apologies.

I haven’t left a diary entry for over three weeks now, and for that I am sorry. A combination of unholy rage and sheer exhaustion has put me in the kind of mood that’s not conducive to creative writing. Which leads me to my second apology—for the foul language you were subjected to in that last entry.

I used words and phrases no person should ever have to listen to, even if they aren’t alive anymore. I’m frankly surprised you didn’t come back as a ghost to smack my bottom until it was red raw as punishment for the use of such obscenities.

I reread the entry just before writing this one, and even I am amazed that I could spout such evil filth over the course of two whole pages. I can never let Jamie read it. He’d be taking out five restraining orders on me before the sun went down.

I do feel my reaction was understandable given my idiot husband’s nearly successful attempt to ruin our lives completely by getting fired from his job. We’ve never had an argument that lasted eight days before. I’m thinking of ringing the
Guinness Book of Records
.

Thankfully, something has transpired in the intervening fortnight that has made my disposition a lot sunnier. I’m also absolutely terrified, but in a good way.

Allow me to explain:

A week ago it felt like my life was more or less over. I had a husband with no work and a new propensity for walking round the entire day in his dressing gown. Meanwhile, I still went to a job that I can’t stand at the best of times, but where I now find myself begging for more hours to make up for Jamie’s little outburst at the paper.

I was trying very hard not to feel towering resentment towards my husband, but given that he’d forced me to work more and see even less of my rapidly developing daughter, I could have cheerfully extracted his eyeballs with an ice cream scoop.

It was in this frame of mind that I started my working day at the Morton & Slacks pit of misery, vaguely hoping that at some point there’d be an earthquake and I’d be crushed to death by a pile of Luxury Selection boxes.

What made this particular day even worse was that one of my staff—a timid thing of sallow complexion called Amy—had taken the day off thanks to a twinge in her back. I hardly feel that a slight pain above the pelvis constitutes an excuse not to come into work, but employment law unfortunately disagrees with me, so I was forced to run the shop with just Jonathan in tow. Jonathan, as you may remember, could spend three solid years studying human anatomy and still not be able to tell an arse from an elbow at the end of it.

Still, it was a Wednesday—customarily a quiet day in the shopping centre—so I was looking forward to some idle staring out of the window while Jonathan tripped over things in the storeroom.

And for a majority of the day, this is exactly what happened.

We had a grand total of eight customers before lunch—two couples, one businessman who’d obviously forgotten an important anniversary, two single men who probably hadn’t, and Larry the local homeless bloke who I had to shoo out of the shop before he sucked the alcohol out of all the chocolate liqueurs.

I ate a Sainsbury wrap for lunch that I barely tasted and settled back in behind the counter for an afternoon of much the same thing.

Seven more customers came in and bought a variety of tasty treats before five fifteen rolled around, and I began to think about closing up. Then Maisie entered my life. I didn’t know that Maisie was her name initially, but I do know it’s one I will never forget for as long as I live.

At approximately 5:20 p.m. in she shuffles wearing a crumpled red plastic raincoat three sizes too big for her and a black porkpie hat stuffed over the worst blue rinse this side of an episode of
Coronation Street
. She looks no more harmless than a baby deer covered in bubble wrap.

“Good afternoon,” I tell her, hoping she won’t launch into a story about how she managed to get tights during the war.

“Hello my dear,” she replies and shuffles over to look at the fudges.

I breathe a sigh of relief. No war stories today it seems. I go back to staring out of the window. Larry is across the way outside Boots, and I’m taking mental bets with myself as to how long it’ll be before he tries to piss up against the window.

This occupies me for a good five minutes, until Jonathan stumbles over.

“Er, Laura?” he says in a low voice.

“Yep?”

“I think that old lady is shoplifting.”

“What?”

“She’s stealing stuff.”

I look over at her. She’s shuffled over to the novelty stand and is examining the six-inch Barney Bear in dark chocolate with some intensity.

Is there a slight bulge in her oversized raincoat where there was none before?

I continue to study her for some time, but she doesn’t appear to be making any moves to steal our stock, so I look back at Jonathan. “I think you’re mistaken, Jon. She’s not doing anything suspicious.”

“But I swear I saw her lift a box of the Belgian specials just a second ago!”

“Maybe you just
thought
you saw her do it, but—”

Barney the frigging Bear has disappeared. Where once his big, stupid chocolatey smile was on display for all to see, what remains is an empty shelf that could probably do with a good dusting.

The elderly woman is now edging her way back towards the entrance, feigning interest in the minihampers. For all the world it looks like she’s completely innocent.

Thanks to Jonathan’s timely warning though, I know better. The bulge of Barney Bear is quite obvious. In fact, looking closer at her coat I can see there must be several lifted items under there given how much larger she looks than when she came in.

“Stay here,” I tell him in a gruff voice. I must confront this miscreant and bring swift justice down on her before she is allowed to get away.

I wish I had a badge and a gun at this point—or a cape of some description. I stride over to where the old crone is now nearly out of the shop.

“Excuse me?” I say in a strident tone.

She looks back at me with the kind of wisened expression that grandchildren love the world over. “Yes, my dear?”

“Could you open your coat for me please?” I demand.

The look of cheery good nature disappears faster than a Greek savings account. “Why do you want me to do that?” she snaps.

“Could you just do it for me please, madam?” I repeat in my best police voice. All those episodes of
Motorway Cops
I’ve been watching are now paying dividends.

Given how commanding and authoritarian I sound, I fully expect her to capitulate and give up the pretence. I’m already considering letting her off with a warning. Colour me completely surprised, then, when she says “Screw you, love!” and runs away. Actually
runs away
.

I would have pegged this old lass as the type who could barely get above a zombielike shuffle, but here she is speeding past BHS towards the shopping centre exit as fast as her crabby old legs will carry her.

The shock is so extreme I descend into cliché. “Stop thief!” I wail and point one finger skywards. This has no appreciable effect as we live in the twenty-first century and not in 1955. Nobody comes to my aid so I shout, “Mind the store!” at Jonathan and take off in hot pursuit.

I sprint towards my elderly nemesis, who turns to see me hunting her down and increases her pace even more. She’s like a fat little red pinball bouncing her way through the crowd, both hands clasped over her belly to prevent Barney Bear and the rest of my merchandise from falling out.

Fast as she is, I am a good forty years younger and catch up with her outside the British Heart Foundation shop within a few seconds.

“Give me back my fucking chocolate!” I screech as I grab her arm. All pretence of politeness is out the window now I know she’s a dastardly criminal.

“Oooooohhh!” the old duffer wails. “Somebody help me!”

It occurs to me that from the outside this situation doesn’t look good. As far as any bystanders are concerned, a healthy woman in her thirties is bullying a sweet little old lady by one of the local charity shops.

“Let me go!” she moans again, really laying it on thick.

“Let that poor woman go!” a fat man in a suit demands.

“No!” I shout. “She’s a bloody shoplifter!”

Everyone in the British Heart Foundation has come out to see what all the fuss is about. I’m now surrounded by pensioners who think I’m assaulting one of their own. Things could go downhill very rapidly here. I’ve never been run over by a mobility cart before, but I fear that fate awaits me if I don’t calm the situation down as soon as possible.

“This woman is a shoplifter, and I’m not letting her go until somebody calls the police!”

“I’m no shoplifter!” she moans.

“Oh no?” I grab her coat and pull.

Fantastic, now it looks like I’m sexually assaulting an elderly woman in front of a crowd of pensioners. Any minute now I’m going to be battered to death by the most arthritic vigilantes in human history.

“Aaaaargggh!” the shoplifting granny wails.

“Let her go at once!” an old man who has ex-army written all over him commands from the back of the crowd.

Thankfully the coat falls open and Barney Bear, two bags of fudge, eight Belgian chocolate bars, and a jar of pear drops fall onto the floor with a clatter. Silence descends as the crowd absorbs this new revelation.

Into the unfolding drama comes Terry, one of the shopping centre security guards. “What’s going on?” he asks, surveying the scene.

“She attacked me!” the shoplifter says and points a calloused finger my way.

“Oh yeah?” I reply. “Did I also force a load of chocolate from my shop into your coat?”

To give her some credit, the old harridan doesn’t respond. I think she knows the game is up.

“Oh good grief, Maisie,” Terry says. “Not again.”

“You know this woman?” I ask him.

“Yeah. Last time I saw her she was trying to steal four frozen legs of lamb from Waitrose. We had to call an ambulance because she caught hypothermia.” He sighs and grabs his walkie-talkie from the belt round his waist. “I’ll call the police. They can take care of her.”

“You’re a bad boy Terry Pruett!” Maisie says to him. “I’m victimised, I am.”

It seems I’ve caught up with a notorious local felon. I don’t know whether to feel proud of myself or just completely incredulous. My mobile phone, still stuffed in my trouser pocket, starts to ring. It must be Jonathan in a panic. There must be something very wrong for him to go to the trouble of calling my personal phone. Maybe the rest of the Women’s Institute have invaded the shop and are stripping every shelf of stock.

“Hello?” I say, answering it.

“Is this Laura Newman?” a voice says to me in a strange nasal accent.

“Jonathan? Have you been at the chili mints again?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Who is this?”

“My name’s Brett. I’m calling from the Worongabba Chocolate Company in Brisbane.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You applied for a job with us?” the accent is so thickly Australian it’s hard to understand, especially with all the background noise. I stand still for a second trying to process what the hell Brett is on about.

Then it hits me. “That was four months ago!”

“Yeah, I know!” Brett says with a chuckle. “Taken us a bit of time to get round to it. No worries though, eh?”

“You want to interview me for a job?”

“Yeah! Definitely. We liked your r
é
sumé. My boss, Alan Brookes, is a big fan of you Poms, so he wants to speak to you. We can do it over Skype if you’ve got it.”

Maisie, Terry, and the rapidly melting Barney Bear have left my head completely thanks to this new development. I barely notice that Maisie has attempted a break for freedom and is currently trying to bite Terry’s hand. The effectiveness of this is slightly ruined when her dentures fall out and smash on the shopping centre floor.

“Er, can I take your number and ring you back, Brett?” I ask as Maisie gamely tries to gum her way out of trouble.

“No worries. Sounds like you’re busy over there. What’s going on, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’ve just made a citizen’s arrest. Someone’s grandmother was stealing my chocolate bear.”

Brett doesn’t respond immediately. I can tell he’s thinking
very hard
about what to say next. “Heh! You Poms, eh? Always up to something weird!”

I end the call with Brett by giving him my email address so he can send his details over. I promise to ring him later that night, and turn my attention back to the crime scene. Maisie has thrown in the towel and has stopped worrying at Terry’s wrist with her gums. Two of the local constabulary have arrived, and they proceed to question me over what’s happened. I can’t help but feel bad as I squeal on Maisie. My ire at her thievery has waned, and now I just feel like I’m consigning a pensioner to a night in a cell.

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” she tells me as they gently cuff her. “The prick in the grocery store tackled me and threw my hip out. You were a lamb in comparison.”

Inexplicably, this
does
make me feel a bit better.

I get home that evening a good hour late thanks to Maisie. The first thing I do after kissing Poppy hello and berating Jamie for not clearing out the dishwasher is phone Brett back.

A brief call later I have a job interview arranged to be conducted with Alan Brookes, the owner of the Worongabba Chocolate Company, over Skype the following Thursday.

That’s
today
. In about an hour…

I’m so nervous I’m afraid I’m going to throw up all over the keyboard, which I suppose would be a near repeat of my last important job interview with a chocolate company. I’m very sure I’m not pregnant this time, though. You have to have sex to get pregnant, and Jamie isn’t getting anywhere near my lady garden for a good few weeks yet, thanks to getting himself fired.

This whole situation is very bizarre. I applied for that job via an industry website on a whim four months ago. I never thought anything would come of it. Here I am, though, about to be interviewed for a job on the other side of the planet. It’s exciting, terrifying, and destabilising all in equal measure.