Freckles(47)

It’s like he read my mind earlier. How could he have known. He doesn’t, it was just luck of course, coincidence, but it’s enough for me. I take the envelopes and post them, one by one, a smile growing on my face as each one disappears. Three people, sending my wishes out to the universe. Just posting letters really, but all the same.

Now what, I ask, feeling elated, my heart pounding with excitement and not just from the run.

Now, you wait, he says. For a response.

Oh. I feel myself deflate.

No. Now you don’t wait, he says, changing his mind. That was only three people, wasn’t it. What about the one you ripped up.

I’m still working on it. It’s kind of a long game.

Are you going to tell me who it is.

Maybe. Sometime.

He looks at me intensely, then at his watch. Are you still on your break, he asks.

I check the time. Fifteen minutes left.

Do you want to come on a tour of the office, he asks to my surprise.





Nineteen


This is Andy, Tristan says as we poke our heads into the first office on the right. I’m inside at last. I take a good look around, finally able to penetrate the Cockadoodledoo building of mystery. High ceilings, a white marble fireplace. I wonder if they can light it or if it will burn out a family of wood pigeons. Expensive-looking candles line the mantelpiece, pure white wax in glass. Panelled walls. Two workstations with white desks and enormous white Macs. Dark wooden floors, polished. A white fluffy rug. I look at everything in the room before I turn to Andy.

Andy looks at me warily.

Ah, I say, Andy’s your parking angel.

My what, Tristan asks, grinning.

Some companies employ them. A team, or in your case a person, to move cars every few hours, or top up the meters.

Tristan laughs. What a sweet parking angel I have.

Andy doesn’t like this job description. Sits back in his leather chair, swinging left to right, legs splayed to communicate that his penis and balls are too enormous to be able to push his thighs any closer together.

I’m EVP of production and development at Cockadoodledoo Inc, he says lazily.

OMG, I say flatly. I’m not impressed. Which bothers him. His title is designed to impress.

Where’s Ben, Tristan asks.

He stepped out for a minute, Andy says, scrolling through something on his computer. I step back to look at his screen. Sports cars.

He has the phone call with Nintendo this afternoon though, Tristan says.

I think they postponed it until tomorrow, Andy says, still not looking up.

No, I spoke with them this morning, Tristan says. They were ready. It’s taken me literally months to set that conversation up.

Andy shrugs, which annoys me, I can’t imagine what it does to Tristan.

Sounds like Ben cancelled the meeting, I say, and Andy glares at me as if I’ve ratted out his friend, because his obnoxious responses were doing such a good act at hiding the truth. What’s in there, I ask, looking at the panelled double doors. White, of course. With this headache, the brightness should hurt but it’s calming. Maybe it’s off-white. Grey. I don’t know.

I’ll take you in there, Tristan replies to me. Maybe tell Ben to come up to me when he’s back and has a chance, yeah, Tristan says, his voice is soft, too friendly, too quiet, giving Ben a million reasons to not bother.

Sure, Andy says, his full attention on his computer screen.

Tristan glares at his back before leading me out of the room and into the room next door. The phone at Jazz’s station in the hall is ringing. She’s not there. Tristan ignores it and twists the doorknob. It’s locked. He tries to shoulder it and knocks but nothing happens. We can hear people inside. The phone at reception is still ringing. He answers the phone.

Cockadoodledoo Inc.

As he says this there’s a roar from the locked room. He pushes his finger into his ear to hear what’s being said down the line. She’s not here right now, eh yeah, sure let me write it down. He searches the desk for a pen and paper. Finds a large manila envelope that I recognise. There’s another roar from the locked room. What, he asks, face all screwed up in frustration, blocking his free ear again. A nail appointment, yeah fine. He scribbles it down, then hangs up, his face a picture of irritation. Still holding the envelope, he storms over to the locked door, tries to open it again and then bangs on it with his fist when it’s not answered immediately.

Finally it opens. A pug comes rushing out and down the hall to the back of the building. I follow Tristan inside, removing my hat and my jacket and high-vis vest. The room is enormous, goes back deep, an extension, a kitchen leads off it, into the garden. An immaculately kept courtyard. This is another picture straight from a landscaped garden, colourful bean bags placed all around the paving. Mirrors and picture frames hanging on the concrete walls, an Instagram dream. But it’s the room we stand in that’s most fascinating. The walls are lined with old-school arcade machines. I count eight people crowded round one machine in particular.

Pac-Man.

Go on, Niallo.

As if he’s competing for gold in the Olympics.

Jazz is there. Long glow-in-the-dark yellow nails, bicycle shorts and an oversized hooded top. Black boots. Like a Boohoo ad.

What’s going on, Tristan asks, but I’m the only one who hears him because they let out a roar again and Niallo steps back from the arcade, his head in his hands. It’s Pac-Man. You’d think it was something like Street Fighter but no, all this testosterone and drama for Pac-Man.