rubbing at the booklet with my cardigan sleeve.
‘If you don’t get a sale in the next two hours, you’re out on your ear, girl. Stop arsing around!’
He slaps me on the back a bit too hard and struts off.
‘I’ll get it?’ I shout after him. It is meant to be a statement but it comes out as a question. My head begins to pound and my eyes start to water. Quickly, I throw back two paracetamol, swish them down with the last dregs of cold tea, breathe in deeply, count to five, and dial the next number…
Liam, 2.25 pm
Bob the Builder has just finished. It’s almost two-thirty. She’ll be home from work shortly. Best get a move on.
I force my legs to stand.
The rain has stopped; the rhythmic dripping of the drains is all that can be heard outside, along with the occasional bark from next-door’s dog. It’s possibly because of the eerie silence that I jump when my mobile phone rings.
‘Shit,’ I mutter to myself. ‘Who on earth can that be?’ I start to panic. But I must answer it. I reach over and grab it off the coffee table and press the green button. ‘Hello?’ I speak more abruptly than intended. I’m standing in the middle of the room but it doesn’t feel right to sit. There’s a screeching noise on the other end, a really bad connection. ‘Hello?’ I try again, purposefully sounding lighter this time.
‘Oh, hello. Is that Mr Roberts?’
The girl sounds serious. My heart lurches and I feel a twisting in my gut. I change the phone onto my good ear. ‘Yes, this is he.’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Roberts. I’m calling from Getaway Holidays in Tenerife. You left us your details on a competition website around four years ago and…’
Right, just a sales call. Thank the Lord for that. I realise I’m holding my breath, so I breathe, and as I do I feel my stomach muscles relaxing, my windpipe expanding. I’ve got to keep these nerves under control. It occurs to me then that the girl has paused, expectant perhaps of a response. I flop down in the easy chair, grateful for the small reprieve. ‘Carry on,’ I instruct, as I light another cigarette, the previous one now nothing but ash.
‘Well, it’s about the holiday you’ve won. Well, when I say won, I mean sort of won. It’s like a “pay for one night get six free” kind of thing and, well…’
‘What’s your name, love?’ I’m not sure why I ask.
‘It’s Lana,’ she whispers softly. I can almost hear her smile.
‘Lana’s a nice…’
‘So, as I was saying,’ she interrupts, a steely determination suddenly taking hold of her, ‘have you ever been to Tenerife before, Mr, erm, Mr…?’
‘Roberts,’ I rescue her. She laughs nervously and I hear the turning of a page. Am I the furthest she’s ever got to a sale?
‘So, have you, Mr Roberts…? Have you been to the beautiful tropical island of Tenerife?’
I start to feel guilty. I know what she wants and I’m wasting her time, desperate as I am to stall the inevitable.
‘Look, love, I’m sorry,’ I offer reluctantly. ‘I’m not in the position to take a holiday, all right?’ I flick my cigarette ash as I speak; it misses the ashtray and lands on my jeans. I rub it in carelessly.
‘Oh, well, isn’t that a surprise!’
‘Pardon?’ I wonder if she’s been switched. Is this their sales tactic? Good cop, bad cop?
‘Let me see,’ she continues, her voice shaking with every syllable. ‘You’re all booked up, you have no time, and you aren’t in the market for a holiday right now?’ I can almost see her making air quotes above her head.
‘Sorry, love, it’s just really not convenient.’ I sound bored but really I’m just sad. A holiday would be nice.
‘Why? Why not?’ Her voice balances on the edge of tears; tears of frustration, no doubt. I stay silent, suddenly unsure of what to say. ‘Go on, then?’ she persists. ‘Why can’t you come on this holiday you registered for?’ A holiday you left your number for?’ She really emphasises the ‘you’.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just…’ I draw on my cigarette, desperately trying to think of a plausible excuse.
‘What? Go on! I’m all ears! Tell me your excuse so I can file it down in my book along with all the other shit excuses?’ There’s a moment’s pause. ‘Sorry.’ She laughs sadly, as if she may suddenly be embarrassed by her outburst.
I don’t know why I say it, because, as the words slip off my tongue, I know it’s a really bad idea – though maybe I want to shock her, maybe I feel really bad for her and I want to make her see I’m not just like every other time waster, or maybe I just really want to tell someone – but, whatever the reason, when I say the words, it feels good, it feels cathartic to say it out loud, even if only to a total stranger. ‘I can’t come, darling,’ I say quite calmly, ‘because, in a minute…’
‘Yeah?’ she mutters, the fight now gone.
‘In a minute, I’m going to kill myself.’
I’m not sure who hangs up first – perhaps it’s me, or maybe it’s her – but, suddenly, the line is completely dead.
PRESENT DAY
Lana, 2.30 pm
‘Oh, God, shite… Mel?’ I swivel round on my chair and fly over to where she’s sitting a few metres away. ‘Mel?’ I try again, almost shouting this time. My hands are shaking, heart pounding in my chest.
She puts her right hand up near my face, index finger in the air. ‘Oh, of course, Mr Matlock,’ she purrs, her attention back on the phone. ‘It would be an absolute dream to be acquainted with you when you arrive.’ She meets my eye and smirks. ‘Now, sir… or do you mind if I call you Stanley?’ Giggling, presumably at his response, she flicks her strawberry-blonde hair to one side. ‘Oh, you naughty boy; don’t let Edith here you saying that. Hey, just one second, Mr Matlock.’ As she flicks up her mouthpiece, I take it as my cue to speak but, as the words jump off my lips, she raises that bloody finger again. ‘Just two ticks, chick – I’ve got him here.’ She then reaches in her bag and produces a miniature bottle of vodka.
‘What are you doing? I really need to speak to you.’ I realise I sound pretty desperate but she obviously doesn’t notice.
‘You want one?’ she offers, while unscrewing the top.
‘No, I…’
‘Okay, suit yourself.’ Leisurely, she pours herself a generous measure in a plastic Coca-Cola cup and swills it around with a pen, conceals the empty bottle back in her handbag, then adjusts her headset accordingly.
‘Mel, I really…’ I try again, but she’s already back on the phone.
‘Okay, Stan, I’m back. Did you miss me?’ She laughs, while taking a sip of the harsh, neat vodka. ‘Well, we just have the small matter of payment, then you must tell me all about those lovely Speedos.’ She makes a ‘mmm’ sound before continuing: ‘So how would you like to pay, my dear, apart from in kind?’
Oh, for heaven’s sake, I haven’t got time to listen to Mel and her alternate sales tactics. Instead, I rush over to Damien, who’s sat at his desk playing on Candy Crush and chomping on some BBQ-flavour Pringles.
‘Damien, guess what? Guess what’s just happened?’ The words trip out of my mouth on top of one another.
‘You haven’t gone and got yourself