Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!

There is a brief pause. Then he says, ‘My pleasure. I enjoyed doing business with you, Ms Blatchett.’

‘Me too. Well, bye, then.’

I hang up and sit back in my seat.

I sit there for a while, doodling and trying to think what to do next.

There’s an odd sensation in my stomach. It feels sort of empty. But it can’t be hunger because I just had breakfast.

And then it hits me.

Now that we’ve sorted out the deal, there’s no reason for Ronald McDonald to carry on emailing me or phoning. No reason at all. In fact, I’ll probably never hear from him again.

It’s an odd thought and it makes me feel quite faint for a second. A bit like when you try to imagine infinity.

Unless it’s PMT. Yes, it must be. That’s why I’m feeling so weirdly emotional.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Shona, her ‘turbulent emotions’ antennae positively squeaking.

‘Yeah, great.’ I force a grin. ‘The Boss is going to love this! Hotel with pool, sauna and dinner thrown in, all for absolute peanuts.’ I stand up and wave the piece of paper then go in to deliver the news.

‘This is great.’ She skims the details then asks if I can run her to the airport for her flight and collect her on the Sunday afternoon.

My heart sinks.

She’s got this huge monster of a vintage Mercedes – one of Daddy’s cast-offs – and I absolutely hate driving it. Plus, if I have to keep it over the weekend, it’s going to look ludicrously out of place in my part of town between the white vans and the customised atrocities.

‘And could you file those, please?’ She drops a muddle of papers in front of me.

‘Sure. No problem,’ I say, shuffling them into some sort of order and heading back to my desk.

It’s only once I’m back behind my computer that I realise I’ve picked up one of her documents by mistake. I get up to take it back in to her when my eye catches the header on the front.

Monthly Financial Accounts.

I can hear her on the phone so I take the document back to my desk, keen to sneak a look at these mythical figures.

Three minutes later, I am sitting there, staring at a page in a state of total confusion.

To say the figures are not what I expected would be a massive understatement.

My heart beating fast, I flick back through the months, wondering if I’m reading the tables correctly because they’re really not making much sense to me.

Then I start from the beginning and work forward.

Gradually, the horror of what I’m reading begins to dawn on me.

Far from being a thriving business, we are apparently in deep trouble.

Spit and Polish has been losing money almost from day one. According to the records, each month the running total dips a little further and we are apparently haemorrhaging cash faster than the TOWIE girls hitting Selfridges.

Dazed, I sit back in my chair, struggling to take it all in.

I am no financial genius, but even I can see that if this dire situation continues, we will likely be bankrupt by Christmas.

No wonder Carol is desperate to sell.

The business is going down the toilet faster than a deceased goldfish.

Losing my job will be a catastrophe – for all of us. Not just me and Shona and Ella and all the cleaning girls, but for Mum and Tim, too.

The Boss will be fine. She might not like her family much but at least they can be relied on to cushion the financial blow.

But what happens to the little people like Shona and me? People who don’t have a rich daddy to dole out emergency cash or be a guarantor against a bank loan. People who don’t own a luxury apartment that can be sold or remortgaged to finance a new venture or to get the life-changing operation right now, instead of having to wait years.

I sneak the document back on Carol’s desk while she’s out. I won’t mention it to Shona until I’ve had a chance to think about it.

After work, I call by the supermarket and make straight for the booze aisle. Out of habit, my eyes dive to the bargains on the lower shelves. But then the big lump of fear and resentment wedged in my chest makes me think, Dammit, I deserve the good wine! So I pick a bottle from the top shelf, take it through the checkout and try not to wince when the girl requests a sum that would pay for my food for a week.

Back home, I sink down on the sofa and pick up one of my amber velvet cushions, running my finger over the rose in the centre fashioned from delicate, ruby red glass beads. It took me hours to sew them on by hand. I glance around at the art on the walls, the red faux silk curtains, the art deco table lamp I picked up in a charity shop for a few pounds. The lamp sits on a solid oak travel trunk, which I bought on impulse from a second hand shop. I took it home in a taxi then heaved it up the two flights of stairs all by myself.

If I lose my job, I can wave goodbye to this flat. And to the notion of ever being able to pay for Tim to go private.

I pour some wine and drink it far too fast, thinking of The Boss and how ratty she’s been lately. It’s no wonder. But why didn’t she tell us what was happening? Maybe we could have helped. Tried to work out why the business was going downhill so spectacularly.

I’d bet the money in the Tim Fund she hasn’t told her father about this.

Once upon a time she would have come to me for help and advice.

But not any more.

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_520dca61-0316-5436-8712-ab8fd8f79421)

It’s Monday morning and I’m fighting with the gears in Carol’s nasty Merc, which I privately refer to as ‘The Beast’.

God knows what sort of a mood she’ll be in when I meet her off the flight, after her dreaded weekend en famille.

I’ve been picturing them all at dinner; Carol’s brother Max nipping out between courses to return urgent phone calls and talking law all evening, and sister Adrienne, cosmetic dentist to the stars, newly flown in from New York, complaining that business class just wasn’t what it used to be and bragging about the latest celebrity clients she’s added to her list.

And Carol.

Putting on a show and trying to say great things about a business that will probably be defunct by Christmas.

I felt for her. I really did, and that’s why I was surprised when she texted me yesterday morning to say she wasn’t returning on the Sunday lunchtime flight as planned but had decided to stay another night.

I arrive at the airport with time to spare only to find the plane has touched down ahead of schedule. Not sure what to do, I stand somewhere between the Arrivals gate and the main exit, hoping Carol will spot me.

An airport is my all-time favourite place for people-watching so I settle myself against a post to watch the world go by.