This Time Next Year(41)

‘Nice,’ said the first voice, ‘I’ll work from the office more often.’

‘Free pies – probably some perk of the job for shagging that food bird,’ said a third voice. ‘He’s been eating like a king since dating her.’

‘Who?’

‘Lucy Donohue, that food writer, and you know she’s … ’ the man made a groaning noise and his companions laughed.

Minnie froze. She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to with a partition that thin. She felt a hard knot form in her stomach as she processed what she’d just heard. This was Quinn’s office, Quinn’s company; he was the one responsible for the huge order that had bailed them out. Alan looked at her with bulging eyes – he’d joined the dots too.

Minnie started unloading the pallet faster. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to listen to this conversation; she just wanted to get the pies unloaded and get out. Why would Quinn do this? Their day together had ended so strangely and he hadn’t been in touch since. Why would he be doing her a favour? This didn’t sit well with Minnie; she didn’t want to be a charity case and she didn’t want to be making pies for arseholes like the men in that room. She was supposed to be making her pies for people who needed them.

She and Alan laid out the last of the food and Minnie scurried back to the front desk to tell the receptionist they were done. Behind them, office workers were gravitating towards the boardroom, drawn from their desks by the aroma of warm pastry.

‘Mr Hamilton would like to see you before you go,’ said the receptionist, cocking her head to one side and showing Minnie her enormous teeth. She really did look uncannily like Julia Roberts. ‘Can I take you up to his office? He’s stuck on a call.’

‘We’re in a bit of a rush,’ said Minnie weakly.

‘You don’t need me, I’ll wait here,’ said Alan, taking a seat in the reception area and picking up a yachting magazine. ‘Ooh, boaty boats.’

The receptionist led Minnie through the open-plan workspace to a glass-panelled office at the far end. Minnie couldn’t believe Quinn ran such a large company; there had to be thirty people working here. Through the glass she could see Quinn, who was wearing a well-tailored blue suit with a white shirt. He was talking on the phone, but when he saw her hovering with the receptionist he smiled and beckoned her to come in.

The receptionist opened the door for her. Minnie picked at her thumbnail. Why did she feel like a schoolgirl being called in to see the headmaster? Quinn mouthed ‘sorry’, and patted the top of a large brown leather armchair. Minnie gave him an awkward smile and sat down on the sofa opposite. His office was huge. He had a giant glass desk with a large black swivel chair, a meeting room table with four chairs around it, a sofa, armchair and a walnut coffee table. His office was bigger than her entire flat. Oh god, maybe this was some kind of Fifty Shades of Grey scenario and the pies had just been a ruse to get her up here and show off his big fancy office and secret sex dungeon.

Minnie looked around the room, wondering where the entrance to a secret sex dungeon might be. There was a bookcase at the far end of the room – maybe you pulled out a book and the whole wall swivelled around. Maybe the sofa had a lever and dropped you down into a hidden vault below. Perhaps that would be more James Bond than Christian Grey. Minnie found her mind wandering – contemplating whether there were architects who specialised in designing secret office sex dungeons.

‘Yes, I know,’ Quinn said into the phone, ‘but that’s what my recommendations are. If you don’t want to implement them, that’s your business. You paid me to find the holes in your growth strategy – those are the holes.’

There was a pause while the person on the other end spoke. Quinn rolled his eyes at Minnie, conveying that he was trying to get off the call.

‘Listen, Donald, can we pick this up in person tomorrow? I’ve just had someone walk into my office and I … yes, someone more important than you … Did you get those pies I sent over today? Well, it’s the chef who made them.’

Quinn sat down in the armchair opposite Minnie. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in the chair. Minnie couldn’t help looking at Quinn’s legs, they were so muscular and firm, his trousers cut perfectly around his sculpted thighs.

‘Yes I know they are good … Well, yes she is, but that’s irrelevant … I will give you her details, I have to go.’ Quinn smiled at her as he hung up, the dimple on his left cheek creasing into life, ‘Sorry about that.’

Minnie clutched her hands together.

‘You didn’t need to order all those pies,’ she said, shifting her gaze to the floor. ‘When I mentioned about my business issues, I didn’t mean for you to … If anything, I owe you money for the lamp.’

‘Please don’t worry about the lamp, Minnie. I should have explained about my mother,’ Quinn exhaled slowly, pausing to find the right words. ‘She has health issues. She finds some things difficult to deal with.’

Minnie looked up at him. His playful tone was gone; the sparkling blue of his eyes clouded over by a film of grey.

‘You don’t need to explain, and you didn’t need to bail me out either,’ she said.

The dynamic between them felt so different. Doing deliveries together they’d been equals, they’d joked around. Now he was a client and a very generous one at that. Sitting opposite him in this apartment-sized office, she didn’t feel like an equal any more, she felt like the hired help.