The Wedding Date (10 page)

Chapter 11

The Brinkleys

Text Message:

Delilah:
Can you get sent down for battering your boss to death with his own mouse mat?

Lauren:
That would be quite a beating, but yes. Murder is murder, however comical

I can clearly remember the day I walked into the Brinkley’s office, my A Level qualifications still hot off the press and proudly displayed on my freshly penned CV. I’d applied for dozens upon dozens of jobs as Mum was being a particular pain in the bum as my sister Clara, who had only been home for a matter of weeks after finishing her degree, was planning to spend a year travelling before she started working towards her accountancy exams. Mum was desperate to keep her not only in the UK but under her roof for as long as possible and was trying every annoying tactic in the book; pleading, bribery, emotional blackmail and sobbing for hours at a time. I needed a job – and fast – so that I could move out of the Mad House and regain some sort of sanity. Brinkley’s, being my very first interview, was my shot at independence.

I strode towards the Portakabin, my confident footwork belying the fact that my legs felt like they were made of watery jelly. My CV was tucked safely in the briefcase I’d borrowed from Clara (without her knowledge. The stingy cow wouldn’t have let me borrow it if I’d asked) and I thought I was the absolute bee’s knees, the very essence of sophistication and professionalism.

I paused at the door. Did I knock and enter or knock and wait? Would it be rude if I strode in there like I owned the joint or would it give the impression that I was a wet lettuce if I hovered outside?

‘Here for the interview?’

I jumped a mile at the voice behind me and dropped Clara’s briefcase. The woman behind me tutted and marched past me, sidestepping the briefcase.

‘Come on then.’ She opened the door and led me into the Portakabin. It was quite small inside, with just two desks and a small kitchenette. To the left of me was a separate office, sectioned off from the rest of the room with walls that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. I could hear a voice shouting from within and my knees began to quiver.

‘Sit down. He won’t be a minute.’ The woman pulled a chair out from one of the desks for me before plonking herself at the other. ‘So what’s your name?’

‘Delilah,’ I rasped. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Delilah James.’

‘I’m Denise.’ She lifted her chin as though the name should have vast importance to me. It didn’t. I was here to see a Neville Brinkley. ‘Have you worked in an office before?’

I shook my head. I’d never worked anywhere before.

‘First job?’

I nodded, flinching as the sound of shouting pulsed over the partition.

‘Hmm.’ Denise didn’t look particularly impressed with this admission. ‘The last girl didn’t stay with us long. I hope you’re not flighty.’ Denise didn’t wait for an answer, but it wasn’t as if I was going to pipe up that yes, I was very flighty indeed. Says so on my CV in fact. Heaving herself out of her chair, Denise made her way towards the kitchenette so I took the opportunity to have a gander at the office. The job description had sounded quite exciting in the newspaper ad, with it being in a biscuit factory and everything, but now I was here it all seemed a bit bland.

The phone on Denise’s desk suddenly sprang into life, giving me my second fright of the day.

‘Get that, will you?’ Denise asked as she plopped a teabag into a cup. ‘We’ll call it a practice run.’

I’d answered the phone a million times before, but never in a professional capacity so my stomach was a hive of nerves as I scurried towards the desk and picked up the receiver. I used my very best telephone voice and ended up sounding like a complete berk.

‘It’s Bower Green,’ I told Denise, recognising the name of the posh school Francesca had gone to.

‘The girls’ or boys’?’ Denise put the kettle down and thundered back to her desk, snatching the phone from my hand. ‘Like I need to ask. Hello? Denise Brinkley speaking.’

I wandered back to my chair as Denise chatted on the phone. She was polite until the point she slammed the receiver down. ‘Bloody school! I pay them a fortune and for what? So the stuck-up bugger of a head can talk all snooty to me?’ She grabbed her handbag from under the desk and started to throw items into it, not noticing that in her angered state she’d added a hole-punch. ‘It’s a bloody joke. I pay his bloody wages, the snobby little –’ She stopped and smiled at me. It was so sickly sweet against her blazing eyes that I was terrified. Even more so than I had been as I’d arrived for the interview. ‘Listen to me going on, ha ha. Please excuse me for a moment.’

Neville was still yelling at the poor soul on the receiving end of his call but Denise rapped on the door anyway.

‘What is it?’ Neville barked.

‘I need to go and have a word with Katey-Lou’s teacher. Again.’ Denise turned to me with that sickly sweet smile again but I dropped my gaze and pretended I was utterly fascinated with the clasp on Clara’s briefcase. ‘Delilah James is here.’

‘Who?’

‘Delilah James,’ Denise repeated. ‘She’s here for the office junior job.’

‘I’m on a call.’ There was a small window in the partition wall and I could make out a rotund man sitting behind a desk through the half-open blinds. He waggled the phone receiver in the air.

‘What do you want me to do with her then?’ Denise hissed.

‘She’ll have to wait, won’t she?’ Neville barked.

Denise turned to me with a heavy sigh. ‘He won’t be long. Why don’t you demonstrate your tea-making skills and finish that?’ She waved a hand at the kettle as she strode towards the door. ‘Neville likes his tea strong and unsweetened. Do make yourself one too.’

Denise marched out of the office but luckily I didn’t have to wait too much longer before the door to the internal office swung open and I was beckoned by the big boss man himself. Neville was tall and stout with an authoritative air about him that made Clara’s briefcase rattle like a maraca as I made my way towards him.

‘Shut the door.’ Neville strode to the far side of his desk and plonked himself down. ‘Take a seat.’

I did as I was told, placing the briefcase on the floor and nudging it under the desk with my foot. Neville rifled through some papers before he found the one he was looking for.

‘Delilah James?’ He squinted at the copy of my CV I’d emailed over when applying for the position.

‘Yes.’ My voice was a pathetic squeak. I’d have rejected me immediately but Neville shifted in his seat before treating me to a history of his company, from its domestic kitchen conception and market stall trading to its current day position in the biscuit world.

‘We’re a luxury brand,’ he told me, his chin lifting and his nostrils flaring as he shared this information with pride. ‘We’ve got some fantastic contacts but we’re hoping to expand. This time next year we should be a household name.’

I’ve been working at Brinkley’s for six years and we’re still no McVitie’s.

‘Tell me about yourself, Delilah.’ Neville sank back in his chair and placed my CV down on his desk. ‘What would you bring to my business?’

I must have answered but I can’t recall what my words were. Perhaps I’ve blocked them out because it’s easier that way. But whatever I said, it did the trick and I found myself being offered the position of office junior.

‘See you on Monday then,’ Neville said as I headed for the door, Clara’s briefcase still jangling in my hand despite my success.

Just what had I got myself into?

A nightmare. That is what I got myself into. Neville is completely motivated by profits – often to the detriment of his staff – while Denise is only happy when she’s grumbling or stuffing her face with biscuits. And even then she’s never that happy. Then there are the younger Brinkleys, who never actually do any work as far as I can see. I’d have gone quite mad if it wasn’t for Adam and his shield against the totalitarianism of The Brinkleys.

‘Staff meeting!’ Neville doesn’t even bother to rise from his seat as he hollers to the rest of us. We dutifully troop into Neville’s office, packing ourselves in until breathing becomes a luxury. Luckily Jasper has remained at his desk, unaware that a meeting has been called due to the ever-present headphones plonked over his ears. Nobody rouses him. There’s little point.

‘Durban Food Festival.’ Neville turns his computer screen so we can see the website detailing the festival none of us has ever heard of until this point. ‘It’s taking place in four months and I want us to be there.’

‘Is that a castle?’ Katey-Louise is peering at the computer screen and clearly taking in the important details. ‘A real, actual castle?’

‘Yes.’ Neville rights the screen, shifting the tantalising images from Katey-Louise’s view. ‘It takes place at Durban Castle and I want us – and our new line – there. It’s great publicity and it’ll give us the chance to try out our new shortbread and garner feedback before we launch.’ Neville grabs a pile of printouts and hands them out to each of us. ‘I want everyone on board, especially you, Delilah. I want you to take charge on this.’

‘Her?’ Katey-Louise jabs a finger towards me. We’re packed in so close, it makes contact. Ouch. ‘Why not me?’

Katey-Louise isn’t one for volunteering for extra work, but this is special extra work because it involves a castle. I’d bet the contents of my bank account (which isn’t all that much, to be frank) that she’s picturing herself wafting about Durban Castle in a floaty dress and a tiara.

‘There’s a lot of organisation involved, sweetheart,’ Neville tells his daughter.

‘I’m a very organised person,’ Katey-Louise counters. ‘Just look at how well my vlog’s doing. Do you realise how much time and effort I put into keeping it up and running?’

Katey-Louise runs her own hair and beauty vlog. I know exactly how much time and effort it takes because I’ve seen her uploading her videos to YouTube during work hours.

‘This is a little bit different to posting your videos, sweetheart.’ Neville gives Katey-Louise an apologetic shrug but she isn’t willing to give up her dreams of lording it around a castle that easy.

‘You don’t have any faith in me, do you?’ Katey-Louise’s lip trembles as her eyes fill up with tears. She blinks rapidly until a couple fall onto her cheeks.

‘Oh, sweetheart. I do have faith in you.’ Neville taps his fingers on his desk. He’s weighing up the chances of Katey-Louise pulling off this project against the earache he’ll receive if he doesn’t give her a chance. ‘Fine. You’re in charge.’

‘Yes!’ Katey-Louise grins at me and gives her hair a flick. If she thinks she’s got one up on me, she’s very much mistaken. She’s just taken weeks of work and stress off my shoulders.

‘Want to sneak off for lunch?’ Adam whispers as we file out of Neville’s office.

I look at Katey-Louise, who’s already researching princess-themed hairstyles for the festival, and nod. ‘Yes please. Let’s get out of here.’

Adam Sinclair started working at Brinkley’s six months ago, and while I was still in the full throes of grief after my breakup with Ben, even I could appreciate just how gorgeous he was. Adam’s build is pretty intimidating, being both tall and broad, but his smile is kind and genuine and he has a lovely groove in each cheek, which grows as his smile widens. His skin has a lovely golden tan, contrasted by dark brows and neat, cropped hair.

He is, quite simply, delicious.

Not that I would ever try to move our relationship to anything other than the friendly-work-colleagues thing we’ve got going on, for several reasons:

a) mixing my work and personal life is far too messy;

b) Adam has never made a move; and

c) Ben.

It is perhaps because of these reasons that I feel so at ease with Adam. We can have a bit of a flirt, but it’s safe because nothing is ever going to happen between us. He’s a great guy and provides a buffer against the Brinkleys but I can’t imagine being with anyone – on a serious, non-Wedding-Date-Project way – other than Ben.

‘So how do you think Katey-Louise is going to get on with the festival?’ Adam asks as we sit down with our lunch. We often sneak across to The Bonnie Dundee, a grubby, largely forgotten about pub on the outskirts of the business park. The décor is questionable and describing the items on our plates as ‘food’ is pushing it, but it’s our little oasis away from the Brinkley Clan.

‘Well, her hair is going to look fabulous.’ Katey-Louise was preening in front of the mirror she keeps in her desk drawer when we left the office, twisting her hair up into elaborate styles while duck-facing at her reflection. ‘She’s planning on making a new feature for her vlog, apparently.’

‘I heard.’ Adam chuckles as he quotes Katey-Louise. ‘Ten Styles To Bag Yourself An Actual Prince.’

‘I bet I end up doing all the work.’ I stab my fork into what was labelled on the specials board as spaghetti Bolognese, but it’s so rubbery it almost bounces back out again.

‘Give me a shout if you need any help,’ Adam says. ‘And speaking of help, how would you like to get out of the office for the day?’

I would like that very much. ‘How?’

Adam taps the side of his nose. ‘I’m working on a new social media campaign. If Neville gives it the go-ahead, I’ll let you know.’

Adam has only been with Brinkley’s a short while but he’s already made great progress in thrusting us into the here and now of the social media world. Within hours of starting at the company, he’d not only updated the Facebook page so that it was both professional and visually appealing, he’d set up Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest accounts to help spread the word about our biscuits. Neville hadn’t been too impressed with the amount of time Adam had spent taking photos of a mini selection of our biscuits arranged on a saucer with my ‘I Love Tea & Biscuits’ mug that day, but Adam had insisted on getting the photo just right before he uploaded it across our social media platforms. Afterwards, Neville had made sure he put the biscuits back in his special tin, the great big biscuit Scrooge.

As jobs go, it isn’t the worst, is it? Imagine being paid to openly faff about on social media while the rest of us have to do it in secret.