Before Your Very Eyes. Alex George

she said. ‘Forget it. You’ve probably got some uptight English girlfriend, right? Sorry I asked.’ She turned to leave.

      Simon was jolted out of his silent reverie. ‘No, no, actually I don’t. Have a girlfriend, that is.’

      Alex Petrie turned back towards Simon. ‘I only asked you to show me around, for Christ’s sake. It’s not as if I asked you to have sex with me.’

      ‘Sorry?’ said Simon.

      She leaned over the counter and hissed in Simon’s ear. ‘You probably imagine all American women think Englishmen are cute, don’t you?’

      ‘No, absolutely not, look, um,’ said Simon. ‘You’re wrong. That’s not what I think at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sorry about not saying anything straight away, but it was just that I was slightly –’

      ‘What is it with you English people?’ demanded Alex Petrie angrily. ‘You’re all so stuck up.’

      Simon made a last effort as she turned to leave. ‘Look, I’d love to show –’

      ‘Forget it.’ With a dismissive wave of her hand she pushed open the shop door and stormed out on to the street.

      Simon and Dean looked at each other for a moment.

      ‘Blimey,’ said Dean.

      ‘Shut up,’ said Simon.

      

      The rest of the day passed quickly. There was a constant stream of customers and so Simon did not have time to consider the episode with Alex Petrie in much detail, which was probably no bad thing.

      At half past five Simon locked the front door and twisted the small cardboard sign to read ‘Closed’. As he hobbled back to the counter, Dean began to cash up.

      ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ said Simon. His foot had begun to itch horribly again beneath the bandage. Dean did not reply. His head was bent over the cash register. Simon sighed. He knew better than to try and engage Dean in conversation while he was trying to add up.

      Brian came out from behind the velvet curtain. ‘All right, boys?’ he asked. ‘Good day?’

      Still Dean said nothing. He leaned fractionally closer to the pad of paper he was scribbling numbers on. ‘Pretty busy,’ reported Simon.

      Brian grunted in satisfaction. ‘Excellent.’

      Simon glanced over towards Dean, who was now bending so low over the counter that it looked as if his pencil was stuck half-way up his nose.

      ‘Anyway,’ said Brian. ‘I’ve got some good news for you. You’re going to be getting some help for a while. It’s my turn to look after Vick again while her mother goes on holiday with her bastard boyfriend. So she’ll be here for the next few weeks to help you out.’

      Dean’s body jolted as the lead in his pencil snapped. Simon stared at the floor. Vick was Brian’s teenage daughter. Her presence was capable of extinguishing good cheer like a fire blanket over a small flame. Brian always made her work whenever her mother went off on holiday, and this did not put her in the best of moods. This of course was precisely the point. After a few weeks of working in the shop, Vick was in such an atrocious mood (even by her standards) that she would make life insufferable for her mother when she came back from her holiday. (Brian’s divorce, some years earlier, had been an acrimonious affair. His ex-wife had invested heavily in the nastiest legal advice she could afford, and Brian had been left with only the shop – which his ex-wife had not wanted – and very little else. They had also fought bitterly about who was to have custody of their daughter, but that battle, at least, Brian had won: Vick lived with her mother.)