Chapter 17
17
At the Home Crew office, the strain of the impending Christmas season was starting to cause tension among the staff.
‘We’ve got another three warehouses on short-term leases for this period,’ Casper told them at the morning briefing. ‘And we’re just finishing off the recruitment drive for December. Our hope is to employ another 200 pickers in the warehouses for Christmas week, but we’ve only got four weeks to go.’
‘What about the turkey issue?’ someone asked. ‘Have we managed to sort the turkey issue?’
‘We’ve put a cap on the number people can order. That’s all we can do.’
‘And the drivers?’
‘We should have a new fleet arriving next week.’
Drew jotted down what he felt he should while trying not to let his mind drift too far away from the job he was actually paid to do. Maybe it was because he was a man, he thought, as someone pointed to a PowerPoint slide. Perhaps that’s why he was struggling to keep the book engaging.
That morning’s commute had been a little more productive; he had managed to get a solid thousand words down involving a farmer and a hay barn, but Sarah was right. It was more of the same with his impeccably dressed heroine rescued by a farmer. Perhaps there were a few more twists and turns – both metaphorically and physically – than in previous chapters, but was that enough? Did he really just want to produce another run of the mill book to be flicked over and then discarded? He was hoping he would manage something more than that. Something with a little panache.
Noticing that a couple of eyes were on him and aware that he had probably missed a question, Drew straightened in his seat. Clearing his throat and nodding, he emitted a glottal hum.
‘I agree. I fully agree,’ he said, praying they hadn’t just asked him for his opinion on child trafficking or deforestation. A few satisfied smiles confirmed that he had responded correctly, although as he sank back into his chair, he caught Polly’s eye, a suppressed smirk twitching on her lips.
For the rest of the briefing, Drew tried to pay more attention, although the moment he returned to his office, his mind was already back on the issues with the book. Time and again, he came back to the same overriding thought; it was because he was a man. It had to be. Weren’t most of these things written by women? At least the big bestsellers were. Maybe his male perspective on the matter was why he was having such difficulty. If he wanted to appeal to a female audience, there was only one thing for it: he needed more female input.
‘No,’ Sarah answered before Drew had even finished asking the question. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘But just hear me out.’
‘You don’t think I’ve got enough to do? I already spend all my spare time editing your pages. When am I supposed to do that if I’m writing my own too? We have a baby due in two months, remember?’
‘You wouldn’t be writing all of it. Just a chapter here and there. You know, to add a bit of a different voice. Just to break things up.’
‘I thought the whole point of writers was that you had your own voice? That you didn’t switch and change.’
‘Says who?’
Squeezing past him to get into the hallway, Sarah bent down and began picking up severed LEGO heads.
‘Please.’ Drew followed her, picking the pieces straight out of her hand and dropping them into the toy box. ‘Just do one, then. One chapter. And then, if you don’t want to write any more, I’ll leave you alone.’
‘Drew, I?—’
‘Please.’ He dropped onto his knees and helped her fish out a plastic brick from beneath the radiator. ‘From what I remember, you’re pretty good at the dirty talk. Just bring a bit of that. And I’m not going to stop pestering you until you do. So, unless you want our baby to arrive to the sound of me begging, I’d just get on with it.’
Her lips tightened and twitched, but there was a glint in her eye. A glint Drew recognised to mean she was almost onside, finally succumbing to his irrefutable charm.
‘If I do this, then I’m just doing one, you understand that? One chapter. I’m not doing any more than that. And I don’t even know if I want it to go in the final book.’
‘That’s your choice.’
‘Our writing styles are probably completely different.’
‘I understand.’
‘And I’ll do it on my own time. You’re not allowed to nag me.’
‘No nagging. No nagging at all.’ He pushed himself up to his feet before reaching down and helping Sarah up.
‘So, you will then? You’ll do it?’
‘That sounds like nagging to me,’ Sarah replied.
To give Drew his due, it was substantially harder to start writing her chapter than Sarah had anticipated. The truth was, she had been toying with the idea herself long before Drew suggested it. Lately, she had taken her role as editor to be rewriter and was removing more and more of Drew’s clichés in favour of her own turns of phrase. All the same, that had been easy in comparison. Just starting the first sentence was proving impossible.
The wind howled , Sarah began before pressing delete multiple times in rapid succession. It sounded like a horror book in the making.
The sun shone brightly through the window. Delete again. The air smelled of cut grass and fresh laundry – she hit delete before she even finished the sentence; who on earth would start with a sentence like that?
Singing away to herself, Eva was threading pasta onto string. The activity had already been going for a record fifteen minutes, and it felt unlikely that she would keep at it for much longer without throwing the whole thing across the room or else getting a piece stuck up her nose, but still, Sarah was determined to make the most of the peace and quiet.
The music in the bar thumped loudly from the speakers as people pressed up against one another on the dancefloor. She re-read the sentence and cocked her head to the side. She didn’t hate it. That was something. And it certainly offered a place to start. A dancefloor, bodies, what more was needed?
On the ground, Eva smashed a piece of pasta into the carpet. Sarah pulled a shard of raw pasta out of her daughter’s hand and got back to typing. After all, if Drew could manage this, how hard could it be?
She had just about got into the swing of things when it was time to go and pick George up. Autumn was very much over. With December only five days away, she really should have headed into the loft and fished out all of George’s old winter clothes for Eva to wear. For now, she just double-layered all their jumpers. Clutching a shivering Eva, she waited in the playground for George to appear.
‘We’ll only be two minutes,’ she said to her writhing daughter, having no intention of spending a second longer at the school gates than she needed to. ‘Georgie will be out any second.’
As would be typical on the coldest day of the year so far, George was the last child to emerge from the school. When he did finally make his way into the courtyard, he was standing at the side of Miss Jenkins. Sarah’s stomach dropped. George’s teacher never came outside unless she wanted something. And the way she was grinning and looking directly at Sarah in that annoyingly perky manner of hers meant she was almost certainly about to be accosted.
‘Sarah, do you have a minute?’ For some unfathomable reason, it irked Sarah that teachers now thought it was fine to call parents by their first name. Not that she liked being called Mrs Morgan either. That made her feel like her mother-in-law. Basically, it was a lose-lose situation. ‘I just wanted to check that you’re okay to bring in your prizes for the Winter Fair this week?’
‘Prizes?’ Sarah’s words betrayed her before she could stop them. The teacher was looking at her expectantly. No doubt there had been a notice in one of the dozens of emails and letters that were sent home, most of which went straight into her deleted folder or, if they were of a physical variety, stayed at the bottom of George’s school bag until they had formed a cement-like paste with all the spilled drinks, squashed grapes, and moulding apple slices. ‘Oh, yes, of course, the prizes.’ Sarah nodded and smiled as she tried to hide the fact that she had absolutely no idea what the teacher was on about.
‘It doesn’t have to be much,’ Miss Jenkins continued. ‘Half a dozen small gifts for the tombola would be perfect. Or perhaps one larger gift for the raffle? We’ve had everything from gift vouchers to an iPad this year.’
‘An iPad?’
‘Yes, some of our parents have been exceptionally generous.’ Her eyes skirted past Sarah to the playground, where with a broad smile, she lifted her hand in a wave. Sarah twisted her neck around. Justine. Of course, it would be Justine. That would be right up her street; make sure that everyone else’s child had a screen to glue their face to, just so she could lord it over them when their kid went blind from too much screen time.
‘Of course, we don’t want to put you under any pressure,’ the teacher continued, her attention back on Sarah. ‘Any little thing will do. Obviously, the school has a no-sugar policy, so sweets won’t be allowed, and second-hand goods must have gone through the required safety ch?—’
‘I’ve got it,’ Sarah said, taking George’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all sorted. I’ve got them at home. I just keep forgetting to bring them in.’
‘Brilliant. Tomorrow?’ Miss Jenkins asked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Only the members of the PTA are planning on using this week to do some sorting. You’re not a member, are you?’
‘Tomorrow should be fine,’ Sarah smiled back sweetly. She was 80 per cent sure the PTA comment was meant as a dig, but even if it was, it wasn’t like there was much she could do. ‘I’ve got a little too much on my plate for the PTA at the minute,’ she said, patting her bump.
‘Of course, how silly. Well, have a lovely afternoon. And honestly, don’t stress about the prizes. They don’t have to be anything big. Every little bit helps.’
Three minutes later, and Sarah was sitting in the car wondering what the hell just happened, and why the hell she had not just said the end of the week? Screw it, then, that was just another thing to add to the to-do list. Thank God Amazon did next-day delivery.
That evening, when she had hoped she would be able to continue with editing Drew’s latest work – or perhaps carry on with her own dalliance with writing – Sarah sat at her computer, trawling through the internet for school-worthy tombola prizes. Sodding Justine and her pissing iPad. It was bound to be the latest model too. Probably with the cellophane still on the box. It was probably a gift. Rich people always got expensive gifts, which was ridiculous when you thought about it. They were the ones who could afford to buy stuff in the first place. They didn’t need any gifts.
‘What are you doing?’ Drew asked.
‘George’s Winter Fair. We’ve got to buy some prizes.’
‘Winter as in Christmas? Are they not having a Christmas Fair now?’
‘Oh no, they’re having both. That school’s all about finding as many ways as possible to bleed us dry. What do you think about glow sticks?’
‘Glow sticks? What for?’
‘For the tombola.’
Drew’s scrunched-up face was all the answer she needed. ‘Don’t they contain some weird chemicals? Aren’t they poisonous or something?’
‘Maybe.’ She continued her browsing. ‘What about paints?’
‘What type of paints?’
‘Just paint paints. Children’s paints. In little plastic boxes.’
‘They sound okay.’
Sarah clicked on the links. Thirty-two boxes for ten quid. That would do. Certainly better than half a dozen packets of fruit roll-ups. ‘Holy crap,’ she said as she went through to pay. ‘Seven quid for next-day delivery. That’s almost the same price as the bloody things cost.’
‘Then get them to come snail mail. They don’t have to come tomorrow, do they?’
Do they? Sarah thought to herself. They wouldn’t have had to, had she managed to keep her mouth shut. But now she had told Miss ‘Perky’ Jenkins that she would have them the next day, and no doubt, she’d be pounced on the minute she arrived at school. She could probably manage to think up a viable excuse for the morning drop off, but she’d be hard pushed to manage the afternoon pick-up too without it being blatantly obvious she’d lied. Still, guaranteed two to three days delivery was free. She was sure she could make up enough excuses to see her through until then.