The Whiskerly Sisters (7 page)

The dinner itself was the standard melee of hotel food. There was the usual plate of unrecognisable haute cuisine, undercooked vegetables and questionable jus. There was the inevitable over creamy, over citrusy dessert. The barely drinkable coffee was, as ever, served lukewarm. The caterers had to be reminded to offer tea but, with the wine continuing to flow, everyone had begun to relax and enjoy themselves.

And then Fat Taff stood up.

He began by tapping his teaspoon against the rim of his brandy glass and calling the room to attention. He thanked everyone for coming, for their willing contribution to the event and for their avid attention to the speakers. He told a couple of rather risqué jokes to bed-down his increasingly raucous audience. He followed that with a succinct overview of the developmental history of the course and its uniqueness within the public sector. Over the next fifteen minutes, he gave a somewhat rambling account of his own career; an over-exaggerated saga of his time in the marines, switching smoothly to a flamboyant tale of his time as fireman and moving on to his current, lofty position within its training section.

He then turned everyone’s attention towards Tiffany.

“Of course, the person we most have to thank,” he said, his lilting voice a caress, “is Tiffany here. Little Tiff. Lovely little Tiff. Beautiful little Tiff. Looks after us all a treat, she does. Nothing she wouldn’t do for any of us. Bends over backwards for us, don’t you pet? You only have to ask.”

He paused and winked knowingly towards the men gathered around the cabaret style tables, who cheered back their complicity.

“Run the course single handed, she could, couldn’t you my lovely? Doesn’t need us, see. And always there first in the morning to hand out the bacon sandwiches, isn’t it? No problem for her to stay behind to pack away the overhead projector and the pencils either. Do anything for any of us, she would. That’s our Tiff. Lovely little Tiff.

He paused, dramatically, and looked directly at the somewhat alarmed, very upright, blonde centre of attention for the first time.

“Well there’s something you can do for me, sweetheart,” he continued. “Drop down to my room after dinner and give it the tidy up for me, would you? There’s a girl. Left it in a right mess I have. Couldn’t find your way round to giving it the quick hoover as well, could you? You don’t mind do you, darling? And I’ve had a word with Chef. He says it’s okay for you to nip into the kitchen after dinner and help with the washing up. You won’t want to stay in the bar with the rest of us, will you? Not on your level, see. Best you stay behind with your own kind and help clear up, there’s the girl.”

And he paused.

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable, foot shuffling silence. There were a further few seconds of endless all-pervading stillness. No one knew quite what to say, quite where to look or quite what to do, but everyone knew something had just gone quite horribly wrong, but no one quite knew why.

Finally, there was a tiny sound as Tiffany stirred. Deep within her, the volcano had blown! Weeks of enduring subtle put downs, outright disrespect and flagrant sexism from the odious Welshman boiled inside her. Without pausing to consider her actions, she stood up, picked up her wineglass and walked purposefully along the length of the room to face her persecutor. In front of the shell-shocked onlookers, she raised her arm gracefully over the now silent Abergavenian and watched, as if from a distance, as the rich red contents of her glass streamed over Fat Taff’s moist, balding skull. Heedless of the sudden explosion of noise in the room, she waited until the last remnants of her glass began to drip from his double chin and onto the distended bastard’s dress shirt. Then in a clear, measured tone that reached right to the back of the room, she said, “Take that, you intolerable prick.” Turning neatly on her four inch heels, she marched smartly away in the direction of the hall and, from there, fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom where, burning with rage and shame, she packed her bags and left. Gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles went white, she began the long drive home. “How dare he?” she stormed, jerking the gear stick into first. “How dare that overweight bombastic arsehole relegate me to the level of a skivvy? And in public! The fucking bastard.” On and on she fumed, turning the event over and over in her mind, unable to let it go. What had she done to deserve such scorn? What had she done that was so wrong? And the fat turd had had the temerity to think she would date him. As if! She had never felt so humiliated nor so angry in all her life.

First thing the following morning, Tiffany phoned work, telling them she was sick. She couldn’t face anyone so they would just have to get on without her. She felt mortified and couldn’t quite believe what had happened. She struggled to come to terms with what Taff had said and what she had done. She catapulted between outright indignation towards the odious Welshman and simply wishing the floor would swallow her up so that she could die. Why had she so totally embarrassed herself? Why couldn’t she turn the clock back?

At the end of the second day of her absence, her manager phoned her to ask how she was feeling and to enquire when she planned to come back to the office. Tiffany guessed it was because they were so very busy that month. Tough, they would just have to cope. She told him she had a bad cold and thought she would be back the following Monday. He wished her better, told her to take things easy and rang off.

On her first day back, she was surprised to find herself invited to step into the Director’s office before she had even got her coat off. She was dismayed to see that a member of the Human Resources Team was already in the room and, sitting next to him, her Line Manager. Both of them looked grim. Obviously, the news was out. Still, she reassured herself, this was a serious situation and there would obviously need to be some kind of reparation and apology before things could be smoothed over. With a bit of luck, Fat Taff might get his lardy arse fired and she would never have to work with him again.

Nothing could have prepared her for the unbelievable news from the Director that, following a serious incident backed by several witness statements, she was now subject to a grievance procedure and from none other than the odious Welshman, as she had now begun to refer to him. The HR person gravely informed her that there was to be a full enquiry. Stunned and confused, Tiffany looked from one serious face to another. She was the cause of the grievance? What was he talking about? How did that work? Her Line Manager, behaving like a complete stranger, asked her, in a stiff, little voice if she would like a representative in the room. Outraged, she refused the offer. She was then invited by the Director to give her version of the events at the Gala Dinner a few days previously and watched as everything was written down. There followed a barrage of careful, persistent questioning, designed to check the consistency of her account. After quietly listening to her side of the story, the Director gently informed her that he had no choice, but to suspend her on full pay pending investigation. A charge of assault had been levied against her. She was hustled out of the building before she had a chance to greet any of her colleagues. Not that that would have been of any use – everyone had their heads down, no one wanted to look her in the face, let alone talk to her. To Tiffany, it seemed that she had already been judged and found wanting.

As the proceedings got under way, Tiffany rallied and found herself a decent solicitor. As they read through the witness statements together in preparation for her defence, Tiffany was appalled to learn that not one person present at the dinner on the night in question could remember anything untoward in the behaviour of Fat Taff yet everyone present distinctly remembered, with astonishing clarity, the sight of the furious Training Manager striding aggressively almost the full length of the dining room, to deposit the contents of a full glass of Merlot over her unfortunate colleague’s head. And who could forget her now infamous words? In every statement given to the investigators, the words, “Take that, you intolerable prick,” screamed up at her. To all intents and purposes, it was as if Tiffany had suffered from an isolated and very unfortunate incident of Tourette’s. For some unknown reason, she had just got it into her head to get up and christen the innocent fireman with a full glass of wine and no one seemed to have the slightest idea why. So, instead of being seen as the very public victim of verbal abuse, she had been cast in the role of the unprovoked aggressor.

In vain, Tiffany tried to defend her position but she found she had few allies. The drawbridge had been raised, the gates barred and the enemy protected within its citadel whilst the unfortunate Tiffany had been left floundering in the moat.

Outflanked, isolated and with no heart for a prolonged siege, Tiffany decided she had no option, but to sheath her sword, cut her losses and resign her post with immediate effect.

If only she’d kept her damn mouth shut.

U
ntil a few short months ago, Charley had been more than content with her life. She earned enough money to maintain a decent standard of living yet leave her with enough free time to pursue higher interests. A legacy from an aunt had paid for an attractive semi in a quiet cul-de-sac in the best part of town and there was money left over to fund her sports car. She could afford to go to the beauty parlour several times a month and enjoyed the benefits of the best hairdresser in town, smoothing her locks into gleaming chestnut perfection.

She had never married, being easily bored and having no desire for motherhood. She told herself that snot and projectile vomiting were for lesser mortals. She was fortunate enough to enjoy her own company and she had more than enough acquaintances to enjoy the frequent conversation of interesting, accomplished adults, more especially on those occasions in which she was the absolute centre of attention. As a consequence, she cultivated a circle of very select friends and the regular ministrations of an extremely accomplished lover or four. It went without saying that everything Charley did was done with the utmost discretion and in the best possible taste.

Considering herself to be unashamedly bohemian, Charley was a regular patron of the arts, frequently travelling up to the ‘smoke’, as she laughingly referred to London, at weekends to enjoy the theatre or the ballet and to stay with an ‘old friend’ and, if that ‘old friend’, invited her to share his bed, so much the better. It was to be expected that Charley dressed well. She never wore anything other than Janet Reger beneath her sleek, designer exterior. Her frequent trips to London always included a trip to Harrods or Harvey Nicks. And if the ‘old friend’ with whom she had chosen to sleep also offered to buy her a little token of his affection, she always felt able to gracefully accept.

To her utter joy, her life was her own, supremely under control and hers to do with as she pleased, when she pleased and with whom she pleased.

At least it was until three months ago.

Gone were the days when Charley could sit quietly beneath her pergola, reading a good novel whilst sipping quality chardonnay or host the perfect dinner party for close friends or relax in her executive Jacuzzi, listening to classic fm. Dammit, she couldn’t even partake of a soupcon of al fresco, late night intimacy with one of her accomplished lovers without one of those fiends from next door poking their sodding noses in.

If it wasn’t one of that pair of demonised, scruffy infants yelling that they needed to pee pee or had lost their dummy or had fallen over (Charley had convinced herself that the twenty month old twins next door were incontinent, drooling cripples, who needed locking away in an institution to avoid offending decent society), then one of the dogs would begin barking for attention and inevitably the other three would join to form a chorus so that her tranquil afternoon in the garden would turn into a snapping, snarling, baying, yapping, growling, howling nightmare.

And if it wasn’t the dogs, it was the cats. In the rare peace of a Sunday afternoon, when the Designer Gooneys next door had mercifully all gone out, she would lift her eyes serenely from the pages of her magazine to let them gently fall onto the sun-dappled, leaf fringed edge of her shrubbery to the delights of the ginger one haughtily shitting amongst her lupins as if it was doing her a favour. Failing that, she might step semi clad onto the shimmering dew of her lawn in the promising light of a spring morning to begin her day with ritualistic lungsful of fresh air only to feel her bare toes squish sickeningly into the regurgitated, unrecognisable, half eaten entrails of some unfortunate creature left behind after playtime. And, if Charley was spared either of those particular pleasures, then you could bet your sweet life that, just as she settled down to watch her favourite historical drama, it would no doubt be accompanied by the exquisite, ear-grating undertones of a parrot screeching, “Nothing for a pair in this game,” followed by a prolonged cackle or an entire virtuoso of muffled, whirring, banging noises given out by an unidentifiable, teeth clenching, multi-functional drill.