Not What They Were Expecting (17 page)

‘So how are you getting on in “the oven”?’

As he rummaged through his coat pocket to get his mobile, James’s temp boss, Robert the financial controller, appeared behind him.

James had been sent to see Robert when he first came in, and a look of disapproval had enveloped his face when he saw the get-up James had turned up to work in. It had dissipated, though, when they got to his office and he glanced over James’s CV. He looked like he’d discovered a kindred spirit – Robert had done some chartered accountancy training himself, but in the end had ‘chosen to take another path’. James took this to mean he’d flunked the exams one time too many and his firm had shown him the door. So he said something he hoped was nice rather than patronising about Robert being more of a do-er than an exam drone. He was very conscious that the guy from the dole, dressed like the sixth member of the Village People, was not in a position to consider the career path he’d travelled to be better than anyone else’s.

Robert was probably less than ten years older than James, but the age gap looked a chasm to James. Everything about Robert looked slumped; his face, his shoulders, his stomach. Earlier, when Robert had stood up to find the temps’ copy of the office manual, James noticed that even his arse was slumped. He hoped it was the deadening job and work environment that had worn him down, and not the two kids in the photos on his desk, next to a picture of his quite attractive wife.

Now, discreetly letting the unchecked phone drop back into his pocket, James looked up at his short-term boss, and adjusted the collar on his increasingly clingy thermals.

‘The job ad did say something about working in a pressure cooker environment. Hadn’t realised it was quite so literal.’

‘Ha! Very good!’

For a couple of seconds Robert looked like he was about to add a witty reply but in the end settled for a sigh and repeating the words ‘pressure cooker’. After a pause, he got back to the subject that had brought him to James’s cubicle in the first place, with an apologetic look on his face.

‘How long do you reckon before you can get the delivery receipt dockets into the system?’ he asked.

‘I should be done in a couple of hours,’ James said, ‘three if you want it well done.’

‘I know it’s a bit dull but the data is the foundation for all our accounts so we would always expect entry to be completed to the best of… Oh wait – in an oven. “Well done.” Yes! Nearly missed that one. It’s “rare” we get a temp in with a bit of humour about them. Lovely.’

Robert’s eyes shifted from side to side as he leaned in to James’s desk and he looked a little embarrassed.

‘A discreet word to the wise. We’re a bit old-fashioned around here, dress down policies haven’t quite reached this far, so for tomorrow…’

‘Appropriately booted and suited, that’s no problem.’

A smile of relief crossed the financial controller’s face as the guidance on appropriate work attire for once wasn’t met with tutting and huffing from a temp. James wondered if it might be worth being a bit cheeky, seeing as they were pals now.

‘And Robert, I was wondering is there anything that can be done with the heating unit in the roof up here? I can manage but I think I could be much more productive in a more temperate climate.’

Robert’s face dropped.

‘We do appreciate it’s less than ideal, but with a full complement in the office it’s the only workstation available, and priority does have to go to longer-serving staff who can get quite territorial about their spaces.’

‘Absolutely understand, just flagging the issue for you. I’d spotted the empty desk in the room next to yours.’

‘The teleconferencing office?’

Panic flashed in Robert’s eyes.

‘Look, I’ll leave it with you. I don’t need to go through an entire cost benefit analysis with someone of your experience.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Robert tapping the desk. ‘Anyway, just shoot me an email when the receipts are in, and I’ll talk you through the despatch dockets.’

Robert bustled away down the aisle with a skippy walk.

‘Way to go sucking up to management, cowboy,’ James thought to himself.

It was force of habit. One of the few things he’d learnt about work is that the work you do doesn’t matter nearly as much as the desk you do it from. Plus a week of sitting here and he’d be so dehydrated he’d have the consistency of wafer. Still, he really needn’t start planning a meteoric rise to the top here. This was only temporary. He was not going to be raising a family on a derisory wage with a deadening job that would make his shoulder blades slump down to the point they were almost touching his belly. He sat up straight in his creaking office chair, and got back to entering numbers from bits of paper onto a computer, so they could be lined up neatly and printed out on a different piece of paper.

A solid forty-five minutes of typing and he’d got through near enough all of the work he’d been set aside to do for the day. He’d better slow down, he decided. If the work was finite, he could be sent home before he knew it, and while that idea was appealing, the prospect of the dole trying to send him out to do something even more soul-destroying lurked. He could quietly get on with his job search from here while getting paid for it, if he could persuade old Bob to let him have a computer with internet access. He’d work on that after a coffee, he decided, and headed to the staff kitchen.

It was while he was banging through the cupboards, looking for a clean mug that he heard a voice behind him.

‘Try the dishwasher.’

In the corner of the room, feet up across two low padded chairs, sat a woman with long, wavy black hair. There was something about the hair that didn’t look quite right for an office environment, but that might have been because he was used to working in a field where everything about your appearance was supposed to be tamed. She was in her early twenties if James was any judge, which he usually wasn’t, and was wearing black trousers and a white shirt that looked a little tight, not by design, but because of an accident with a too-hot wash. Wearing it, she looked like a waitress. The kind who wouldn’t care enough to be jolly just because you were out for the evening and in a good mood, and in turn would seem slightly intimidating.

‘Thanks,’ he said, watching to see if she’d say anything else. Then he slowly turned to the workbench to search the dishwasher for the mug that would require the least cleaning before use.

‘Are you supposed to be up here?’ she asked as soon as he was crouched down and his back was turned. He swivelled and rose to his feet.

‘Mix-up at the dole office,’ he said with a smile and a shrug, ‘hence the wardrobe malfunction.’

‘Right,’ she said blankly. You’d definitely be worried she’d do something horrible to your pasta if it looked like you were having too good a time, thought James. Perhaps it was because of the moody green eyes.

‘I’m James by the way,’ he said trying not to seem
too
friendly.

‘Right.’

‘And…?’

‘Gemma.’

‘Hi.’

Gemma looked at him for a while, long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. She had a small pointy chin that seemed to recede a little into her chest as she looked up at him. That was probably another reason why she looked a bit sullen and pouty. He caught a glance of her chest, breasts that were thrust out because of the angle she was sitting. Looked like they were mainly comprised of bra. But it was probably a very pretty bra.

With a smile that only turned up one side of her mouth, but was joined by one thin, overly-plucked eyebrow, she said ‘Hi James’.

He smiled back and went to the sink to rinse out his cup. The water pressure in the taps was much stronger than he expected, and the stacked breakfast bowls in the sink deflected a spray of water across his shirt before he hastily turned it down and gave the mug a clean out with a squirt of Fairy Liquid and his finger. Gemma didn’t say a word. He boiled the kettle, and splashed water over the office instant coffee in silence.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘see you later.’

‘Yep.’

He headed out the kitchen door, feeling vaguely relieved. Then as he moved away he thought he heard the whistling again. Echoing slightly as if coming out of a vinyl-floored enclosed space rather than the office floor. It was a couple of bars of ‘I’m a Lumberjack and I’m OK’ from Monty Python, he was sure. He blushed a little as the memories of his first day at English secondary school flooded back. She was a piece of work, that Gemma.

Back at his desk he tapped his coffee mug with his thumb, and thought he’d better give Becs a call, let her know how his day was going.

Chapter 22

Rebecca was wondering what it meant that James hadn’t responded to the text she sent as soon as she’d got into her office. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to have a phone on the warehouse floor for health and safety reasons, she thought. Maybe it was like a petrol station forecourt, where there’s the danger of electronics sparking an explosion. Or she could be getting the silent treatment after the weekend.

It probably hadn’t been the best time to go to IKEA. Especially as her mood was a bit all over the place after drinks out with Sophie on Saturday night.

The weekend had started out OK. Friday night, James had bought steak as a treat to acknowledge his new temporary job (he wouldn’t let her say celebrate, and she
always
had to say temporary when she mentioned it). He thought it was a good choice of dinner for a manly working man. Then he remembered as soon as he saw her that she couldn’t eat it unless it was well done and, despite her saying not to worry and at least to make sure his was done how he liked it, he had fried the life out of it for both of them.

Even so it had actually been nice to have a bit of red meat for the first time in ages, and she’d been delighted that Bompalomp hadn’t sabotaged her taste for red wine the way he had beer and sauv blanc. The smoke escaping from the feeble extractor in the kitchen added a bistro feel to the dining table and it would have all felt quite romantic, except James was bothered because things weren’t quite right, and not what he was planning. He kept mumbling to himself like a contestant at the end of
Mastermind
going over their passes. ‘Pregnant women can’t eat meat that’s not thoroughly cooked, I
knew
that…’

Despite this, she was in the mood by bedtime – helped by the punch one glass of shiraz can have when you’ve not had booze in a couple of weeks, and the surprising fact that slathering well done beef in mustard made her indigestion milder than usual. James had got ready for bed first and switched off his bedside light, still a bit grumpy with himself for losing a point on his best expectant dad exams. She’d slipped in beside him, naked. She thought that was a pretty handy shorthand for her plans. If she’d thought that was going to lead to a lusty cheer and instant ravishing she was mistaken though. It got a slightly surprised and not unpleased grunt as he edged closer to her, and ran a hand across her belly. He’d muttered something like ‘not getting cold, Bomp?’

She’d had to take matters into her own hand to get things focused on the rest of her.

And it had been nice. And, as usual, he was conscientious. But it wasn’t quite like the old days of five months ago, she’d thought to herself ruefully. Maybe it was the steak, she thought. Or maybe it’s the temporary job. Or maybe it’s my body. She decided not to worry about it. She’d slipped out of his arms to get up to get an old T-shirt, and crawled back into bed, cuddling her slumbering husband until she drifted off to sleep.

Their Saturdays had been a bit odd since James lost his proper job. Before, they wouldn’t normally do much in the day, but there were always one or two jobs to do, cleaning or shopping or something. But James was managing them all in the week. She often thought, but never said, how nice it was to have a wife at home. They’d been pottering about working out what they had the energy for when James had got the call from Kam about going to the pictures, a Disney Pixar picture at the big Imax in town. Those two had always gone to the movies together, often to see cartoons despite the fact they were grown men. With Kam having kids now they didn’t get the chance to go in the evening as much, and when they did Kam usually wanted to see something violent and disturbing he couldn’t see at home, but today his children and friends would collide at a matinee. Kam hated taking his kids to the cinema by himself on a Saturday afternoon because he always thought people were looking at him and thinking divorced dad with access. With James tagging along it looked more like gay dads which was much preferable. James as ever was keen to get the parenting practice, Rebecca keen to not move from watching
Extreme Makeover Home Edition
on the telly all day.

By the time James had got back after the movie, pizza and trawl around boysy geeky shops, Rebecca was set for her night out with Sophie. The interrogation of her wardrobe to find something that would stand up to being seen next to her skinny fashionable friend was in some ways easier than usual, because nothing much fit properly any more, and she was still resisting buying clothes in a size she was determined she’d never be again once Bompalomp was born. Using some tips she’d picked up from a fashion show she’d flicked to earlier in the afternoon, she’d found the right combination of patterns, colours and textures to suit her figure. She’d been a little worried that the Gok Wan programme had been a repeat from a couple of years ago, but her skirt and top were pretty new so she didn’t think she looked too 2010. James had said something nice unprompted too, which she thought was a good sign.

It was strange being out with Sophie and remaining entirely sober, despite her friend’s best efforts to get her to sneak a vodka into her tomato juice. Sophie couldn’t entirely see the logic behind Rebecca being so adamant she wouldn’t drink in public, despite her willingness to have the odd glass of wine at home.

‘You think the waiter’s going to give a shit what you have?’ she asked. ‘The more money you spend the bigger tip he gets, he’d be delighted.’

‘It just…it just doesn’t look good.’