2. Charlie
2
CHARLIE
‘I’m going to have to let you go, Charlie.’
From behind her immaculately tidy desk, Sepideh sighs and gives me a this-is-hurting-me-more-than-it’s-hurting-you look. Which is clearly bollocks, because if she’s being serious right now then it’s about to hurt me a lot.
I clear my throat. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘That’s all right,’ she mutters. ‘Well, actually, no, it’s not – it’s a major hassle. I’ve got to find someone to replace you. But I appreciate the apology anyway.’
I fidget on the spot in front of her. She hasn’t even asked me to sit down; clearly, she’s intending this to be a quick turnaround. Rip off the plaster and go. I had no idea why she texted me to come straight to her office after my shift ended, but I was definitely not expecting this.
‘No, I meant “I’m sorry” as in – I don’t understand?’ I venture. Is she joking? I can’t lose this job. Standing outside an art gallery on the South Bank all day, handing out flyers and trying to sweet-talk people into coming inside – it’s the easiest job I’ve ever had. Not to mention an excellent way to meet girls.
Sepideh puffs her cheeks out in what I assume to be exasperation. ‘You really have no idea what this is about, Charlie?’
‘No!’ I yelp truthfully.
She purses her lips and then reaches for her phone. After jabbing at it for a couple of seconds, she hands it across the desk to me. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
My heart sinks as soon as I see the photo on the screen. ‘Yes . . .’
‘Who is he?’
I hand the phone back. ‘I tried to give him a flyer about an hour ago. But look –’
She cuts me off. ‘And what did you say? When you flyered him?’
‘Same thing I say to everyone! “Hello, sir, how about visiting the Barkley Art Gallery today? If you take this flyer in with you, you’ll get ten per cent off your entrance fee!”’
She narrows her eyes. ‘And what did he say?’
‘He stared at the flyer like I was trying to slip him a dead rat and said he “definitely wouldn’t be needing it”.’
She nods. ‘And then . . .?’
I run a hand through my hair. I know where she’s going with this. I could tell that bloke was a dick the minute I laid eyes on him. He had the air of a slightly more evil Mr Burns from The Simpsons. Clearly, he wasn’t a fan of the stupid joke I made, but I would never in a million years have thought he’d track down my actual boss to complain about it. Who does that?
Sepideh is still watching me with cat-like intensity, so I decide to come out and tell the truth. She obviously already knows what happened: the best thing is just to own up and apologise. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Sepideh. It was just a joke!’ I say. ‘There was definitely no chance of the guy coming in here. You should have seen the snooty way he looked at me when I offered him the flyer – he obviously wasn’t interested. So as he walked off I said something like, “Ah, no worries, too nice a day to be in an art gallery anyway,” or something like that.’
Behind her desk, Sepideh bristles. ‘I think you’ll find what you actually said was, “You’re not missing much, mate – just a load of pretentious old wank in there anyway.”’
Jesus. The guy actually quoted me word for word.
Sepideh’s face is still like stone, so I decide to turn on the charm. I tousle my hair, slap on a roguish grin and jam my hands into my pockets – the tried-and-tested ‘errant schoolboy’ routine that’s been getting me out of sticky situations since long after I actually left school.
‘Ah, Sepideh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, giving my hair another ruffle for good measure. ‘But, please – I love this job. And I’m good at it! You know I am. You can’t let me go just because I made a crap joke to some random dude.’
‘“Some random dude”,’ Sepideh repeats slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. She takes off her black-framed glasses, polishes them on the sleeve of her jumper and replaces them. ‘Charlie, why is this place called the Barkley Art Gallery?’
Is this a trick question? I shrug. ‘Because it’s owned by Sir Michael Barkley.’
‘Correct,’ she says. ‘The billionaire entrepreneur and media mogul Sir Michael Barkley. Do you know what Sir Michael Barkley looks like, Charlie?’
‘No.’ I have literally no clue where she is going with this.
She holds up her phone again. The photo of Slightly More Evil Mr Burns is still on the screen. ‘That’s what Sir Michael Barkley looks like. Because that’s Sir Michael Barkley.’
Ah.
I wince. ‘Oh. Right. Shit.’
‘That’s about the long and short of it, yes,’ she says. ‘You’ve just told the man responsible for paying your salary that he’s spent millions of pounds on –’ she bends her fingers into speech marks – ‘“a load of old wank”.’
I feel a bark of laughter rising and manage to wrangle it into a cough.
But Sepideh still isn’t smiling. This is worrying. Sepideh is a ‘cool boss’ – she’s only a few years older than me. I’ve even overheard her taking the piss out of some of the more pretentious artwork in here with the guy who runs the gift shop.
Time to turn the charm up to eleven.
‘I’m a total idiot,’ I say, holding my hands up. ‘I was trying to be funny, and obviously it backfired. But it won’t happen again, I swear.’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I am,’ she says quietly, and in that moment I know I’m sunk. ‘You are good at this job,’ she adds. ‘You’ve charmed God knows how many people through these doors over the past few months. But Sir Michael came to me directly with this. It’s out of my hands.’
I just blink and nod.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?