and distant. I’ve barely seen him since the accident as he’s been working late all the time. I’m assuming that’s because he doesn’t want to look at me and my disgusting face at the moment, which I can understand. And I’m probably being needy, too, but all I really want is cuddles at the moment. It’s strange, but on the plus side I’ve been working late, too, and am currently whipping Posh Boy’s arse until it’s pink and sore. On the sales front, that is. Urgh! Anything else would be gross.
‘What’s up with you?’ asks Wendy. ‘Why are you pulling that face?’
‘What face?’
‘That turned-up-nose face.’
‘Oh, I was just thinking about Posh Boy.’
‘Big crush.’
‘Hardly, I was just thinking that I can’t stand the bloke.’
‘That’s denial. It’s Massive. Huge. Like a big glass of orange crush but with John in it. Have you had a dirty dream about him yet?’
‘Wend!’
‘Oh my God. I was just joking, but you have, haven’t you? Oh, my frickin’ shoes! Tell all now.’
She moves her swivel chair niftily towards me, nudges my client chair out of the way and leans forward onto my desk.
‘Hello,’ – she puts on an upper-class accent – ‘I’d like a penthouse apartment as close to Portobello as possible, money no object. I shit the stuff! Oh, and do you have the particulars on the wanton dream you had about your posh boss?’
‘I bloody hate you!’
‘You love me. So did you really have a fruity dream about him?’
I nod sadly. As if he’s not annoying enough in life, he’s entered my dreams as well.
‘Oh my God!’
‘But I can’t talk about it,’ I hiss. ‘It made me feel proper nauseous when I woke up. And what about poor Danny lying next to me while I had a sordid dream about Posh Bloke!’
‘What do you mean, not fair on Danny, blokes get lob-ons all the time for girls that aren’t their girlfriends. So what happened in the dream?’
‘Just … you know … stuff.’
‘Oh, I know stuff!’
‘Wendy, stop it now, please.’
‘Was it good? Did you wake up all sweaty and turned on?’
‘No, Wend, I woke up feeling ill. But it was weird, I was being chased by something or someone bad, and he was helping me. And we ended up having to sleep in this derelict place on a mattress and then, you know …’
‘Yes, I do bloody know.’
‘That’s all you’re getting.’
‘It’s so sweet.’
‘It’s so not sweet. I feel dirty. I don’t like him. He’s really annoying.’
‘He has a big-time crush on you, too.’
‘He does not.’
‘Grace, shut up. He does. I mean, most blokes get all gooey round you because you’re short and blonde and have big boobs, but his eyes sort of …’
‘Sort of what?’
‘Watch you.’
‘No,’ I say, but I know they do because I feel them.
‘I’m with Danny,’ I say firmly.
‘I know, and he has girls phoning for him all the time, it’s just biology, I guess.’
‘Oh my God!’ I gasp. A Range Rover with an SJS Construction motif on the side has pulled up outside the office. An old man is in the driver’s seat. ‘SJS Construction. SJS Construction. I’m sure that’s what Len said.’
They’re the evil graveyard destroyers. And this chap has parked on the frigging red route! I push my seat away from my desk, smooth down my dress and walk outside. I’m panting slightly. Gracie, don’t get cross. I repeat the word ‘calm’ in myhead as I walk towards the car. I knock on the passenger window and the old man opens it.
‘Yes?’ he barks. I feel about six years old in front of this man. He’s huge. His head is nearly touching the roof. He has a big Michael Portillo nose, lots of silver hair and a wide older-man girth that the seat belt is stretched taut over. He’s obviously got a lot of money, but something about his face and big gnarly hands tell you he worked very hard for it.
‘I wanted to ask you something about the construction plans you have for the graveyard.’
First he
‘What’s up with you?’ asks Wendy. ‘Why are you pulling that face?’
‘What face?’
‘That turned-up-nose face.’
‘Oh, I was just thinking about Posh Boy.’
‘Big crush.’
‘Hardly, I was just thinking that I can’t stand the bloke.’
‘That’s denial. It’s Massive. Huge. Like a big glass of orange crush but with John in it. Have you had a dirty dream about him yet?’
‘Wend!’
‘Oh my God. I was just joking, but you have, haven’t you? Oh, my frickin’ shoes! Tell all now.’
She moves her swivel chair niftily towards me, nudges my client chair out of the way and leans forward onto my desk.
‘Hello,’ – she puts on an upper-class accent – ‘I’d like a penthouse apartment as close to Portobello as possible, money no object. I shit the stuff! Oh, and do you have the particulars on the wanton dream you had about your posh boss?’
‘I bloody hate you!’
‘You love me. So did you really have a fruity dream about him?’
I nod sadly. As if he’s not annoying enough in life, he’s entered my dreams as well.
‘Oh my God!’
‘But I can’t talk about it,’ I hiss. ‘It made me feel proper nauseous when I woke up. And what about poor Danny lying next to me while I had a sordid dream about Posh Bloke!’
‘What do you mean, not fair on Danny, blokes get lob-ons all the time for girls that aren’t their girlfriends. So what happened in the dream?’
‘Just … you know … stuff.’
‘Oh, I know stuff!’
‘Wendy, stop it now, please.’
‘Was it good? Did you wake up all sweaty and turned on?’
‘No, Wend, I woke up feeling ill. But it was weird, I was being chased by something or someone bad, and he was helping me. And we ended up having to sleep in this derelict place on a mattress and then, you know …’
‘Yes, I do bloody know.’
‘That’s all you’re getting.’
‘It’s so sweet.’
‘It’s so not sweet. I feel dirty. I don’t like him. He’s really annoying.’
‘He has a big-time crush on you, too.’
‘He does not.’
‘Grace, shut up. He does. I mean, most blokes get all gooey round you because you’re short and blonde and have big boobs, but his eyes sort of …’
‘Sort of what?’
‘Watch you.’
‘No,’ I say, but I know they do because I feel them.
‘I’m with Danny,’ I say firmly.
‘I know, and he has girls phoning for him all the time, it’s just biology, I guess.’
‘Oh my God!’ I gasp. A Range Rover with an SJS Construction motif on the side has pulled up outside the office. An old man is in the driver’s seat. ‘SJS Construction. SJS Construction. I’m sure that’s what Len said.’
They’re the evil graveyard destroyers. And this chap has parked on the frigging red route! I push my seat away from my desk, smooth down my dress and walk outside. I’m panting slightly. Gracie, don’t get cross. I repeat the word ‘calm’ in myhead as I walk towards the car. I knock on the passenger window and the old man opens it.
‘Yes?’ he barks. I feel about six years old in front of this man. He’s huge. His head is nearly touching the roof. He has a big Michael Portillo nose, lots of silver hair and a wide older-man girth that the seat belt is stretched taut over. He’s obviously got a lot of money, but something about his face and big gnarly hands tell you he worked very hard for it.
‘I wanted to ask you something about the construction plans you have for the graveyard.’
First he
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