‘So, anyway,’ I change the subject, watching her puff contently, ‘what have you done to Andrea this time?’ I am trying not to sound judgemental, but really, poor Andrea.
‘Oh, that idiot,’ she says happily, through a haze of smoke. ‘I am so sick of her asking me to bloody sponsor her for everything! This morning she announced that she’s planning on doing Dry September. Am I really going to sponsor her to not fucking drink for four weeks? Piss off am I!’ She throws her hands up in the air, exasperated, and ash flicks into her lap, settling in a neat pile and smouldering through her canteen smock. I notice there are several small burn holes, and wonder if it’s from the ovens or from a person regularly smoking indoors during work hours.
Let’s not think about it.
‘Firstly, Dry September is not a thing,’ she shouts, leaning across the table towards me. ‘Dry January isn’t evenreallya thing, never mind Dry September. Unless you’re talking about that one boring man-less month I had in 1973!’ Franny cackles again. ‘And secondly, why should I give that moron my well-earned pension money tonotdo something? How is that difficult? You’re justnotdoing it. It’s easy. Unless she’s a raging alcoholic, in which case she should stop anyway.’ She pauses and looks thoughtful. ‘That’s a good idea, actually – I’m going to tell everyone Andrea’s an alcoholic.’
I nod enthusiastically, mentally apologising to Andrea, who is a perfectly nice divorcee who always gives me extra chips when I am having a hard day.
‘Anyway,’ Franny goes on breezily, ‘when she sent around this latest email talking some nonsense about raising money for Green Peace or some other shit, I decided to start my own JustGiving page. I’m asking people to sponsor me in telling Andrea she’s a dickhead. I’ve already raised more money than her and I’ve only been going for half a day!’ She throws back her head, wheezing at her own joke.
I wince. ‘It’s a little bit ruthless, Franny,’ I try.
She looks outraged. ‘It’s not ruthless! If anything, it is ruth. I’m the most ruth person you could ever hope to meet. Call me Granny Ruth.’
I’m torn. I know I should tell Franny off. It’s all very unkind, and she doesn’t even do anything around here. But I am also sick to death of Andrea’s constant emails about sponsoring her – I’ve had about eight in the last few months.
A stern voice from behind me interrupts us. ‘What’s going on here, then?’
I squeal, instinctively diving under the table. Once there, I realise it was possibly the wrong move. I’m afraid there is a chance it could come across as thetiniestbit childish and cowardly, and since I now recognise the stern voice as that of my runner, Sam, I have to say, I sincerely regret doing it.
I clear my throat, and from under the table, I say loudly and casually, ‘Oh, I found that earring you were looking for, Franny.’
I climb out, staring at the ceiling and hoping that might’ve worked. When I chance a quick look at Sam, she is looking at me very innocently.
‘Well done on finding that earring, Lilah,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘Franny is really lucky you were willing to get down there under the table so very quickly to look for it – and just as I came in and caught you guys smoking indoors.’
Franny cackles and slaps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, forcing her into the chair between us. ‘Have a seat, kid,’ she says, and then adds conspiratorially, ‘Do you want a cigarette?’
Before I have a chance to panic, Sam shakes her head. ‘No thanks, Granny Franny, I don’t smoke.’
Ah, phew.
Franny looks a little sulky that no one will smoke with her, but cheers up when Sam pulls a tub of M&S mini chocolate rolls out of her bag to offer around.
‘You really shouldn’t smoke, Granny Franny,’ Sam says, shovelling chocolate into her mouth. ‘Don’t you want to live to be a ripe old age?’ She snorts and Franny doubles over, hooting.
‘You’re great, you are,’ she tells Sam, and I feel proud of them both, just as Franny adds, ‘Do you want to sponsor me to annoy Andrea?’
‘The other lady who works here?’ Sam says, gesturing towards the kitchen, as if Andrea were still in there. ‘I already did. Five quid. Everyone was talking about it at lunch today and I heartily agree with your proposal. Seriously, if I get another one of her forms shoved under my nose when I’m trying to get my lunchtime plate of chips, I will lose my shit.’
‘You two...’ I halfheartedly attempt the moral high ground, but they both look at me with judgemental eyes that say: ‘You hid under the table five minutes ago.’
My phone rings and I’m tempted to dive under there again when I see the number.
Franny leans across, clocking the caller ID. ‘The scumbag!’ she pronounces and I grimace.
It’s the council man who spoke to Ethel. He’s ringing me back at long, long last. I’ve left this guy four voicemails in the last couple of weeks and I can’t believe it’s taken him this long to get back to me. It’s outrageous. I kept trying to talk to other people in his office about what’s happening with the FU building, but they all said it was Mr Canid I needed and he would ring me back at his ‘earliest convenience’.
And here he is.
‘Hello?’ I say, in my most grown-up phone voice.
‘Mrs Fox?’ says the man at the other end, who I have already decided is the worst person who ever lived.
‘Speaking,’ I say superciliously. ‘But it’sMs, actually.’
‘This is Mr Canid from Manchester council,’ he says. ‘I believe you’ve been trying to get hold of me.’
