There was a message from Josh, who’d finally got around to sending me the details of that bottle of wine. I baulked at the cost – forty-five bloody quid!
I sent him the money online while scowling, put my phone back on the bedside table and reached for my laptop, awaking it from its perennial snooze mode. I figured I might as well try and make a start on this sodding article – the sooner it was done, the sooner I could get back to my memory foam mattress topper. And, truth be told, I already had some decent fodder for it after last night’s car drama, the world’s weirdest school reunion in the Tesco car park and an unexpectedly festive evening at Jo’s house with the Christmas tree. A plan for that morning’s writing scribbled itself in my brain’s virtual notebook: write about last night in as vague a way as possible so nowhere and no one were identifiableat all. After that, I could legitimately spend a bit of time doing some background research about Christmas movies. Which would no doubt involve watching Christmas movies. Nice. I could also check out some local news sites and social media to see if any seasonal events were happening in the village over the next couple of days. At the very least, this would help me work out where toavoidgoing if I didn’t want the risk of bumping into anyone else.
But, before I’d even opened a new Word document, the Instagram tab caught my eye. I refreshed Billy’s page through muscle memory – if there was one thing this less-than-mediocre Airbnb had got right it was the broadband speed. A couple more photos had been posted in the last twelve hours or so. And I could see from the illuminated perimeter around his profile image that he’d also shared some new stories, but of course I couldn’t access those without creating an account.
I loaded my brother’s page next. His latest post was a paid partnership with a company called @TheVeganSleepCo. He and Saskia had been gifted an ‘organic-certified vegan mattress’ in return for ‘an honest review’ on Instagram. Weirdly, there was no sheet atop the mattress as the two of them lay on it in their matching Mocha Mousse-coloured pyjamas, faces consumed with fake laughter and their honey hair tastefully tousled. I assumed this was so the mattress logo was visible. I tried to permanently delete the mental image of a tripod and camera at the foot of their bed. I was about to close down the tab when I had a thought. I typed Tom’s name into Instagram’s search bar. Just for a brief gander, of course. It was a common name but I eventually found him. Private account. Darn it.
I noticed that he’d linked to what was presumably his business profile from his bio. I clicked the link, which took me to @WeFacilit8. The account’s posts were reliant on memes and humour, all wryly connected to the dull humdrum of facilities management. I was impressed – the business had tens of thousands of followers, with several of the posts having gone viral. There was an entire series of TikToks explaining UK workplace legislation via the storylines, characters and locations ofSchitt’s Creek. As a massive fan of the show – which I’d binge-watched in a single week – I could vouch for the fact that the posts were very, very funny.
Now I could understand why the business would be reluctant to give social media up. I clicked on the company’s website link and navigated to the About Us section. The welcome message from the CEO was written in the same witty yet friendly tone that shone from the company’s Instagram account. I took a mental note to refer back to this page the next time I needed creative inspiration to convince eye-rolling colleagues to attend their compliance workshops. The CEO’s name was at the bottom of the page.
Tom Brinton.
He was the CEO?! What was it he’d said last night? Something about having stuck around at the company? He’d obviously downplayed his success, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. He’d always been modest about his natural aptitude at school, often deflecting any attention away from his intelligence with mischief and backchat.
I devoured the rest of the website over the course of the next half an hour. It had clearly all been written by Tom himself. He appeared to be a natural writerandsalesperson. I mean, I had no reason to procure the services of WeFacilit8 but even I was tempted to contact them to find out how they could support me with my non-existent facilities management needs.
My laptop’s low battery alert startled me out of a photocopier-based daydream. I plugged it into the mains, finally opened up that Word document and flexed my fingers in preparation for a morning of writing.
I woke up two hours later, my body apparently having demanded that I catch up on the sleep it’d missed out on from all the tossing and turning the night before. Oh well. The article would have to wait.
Feeling significantly more refreshed and microscopically less icky about the previous evening, I opened WhatsApp on my phone and tapped out a message to Elle:
Mally:
You’re not going to believe what happened to me last night. Can Icall?
My phone rang almost immediately after I pressed ‘send’.
‘So, guess who I bumped into at Tesco yesterday…’ I said.
‘Was it Tom Brinton, perchance?’
Argh, it wasn’t Elle. It was Ryan blimmin’ Seldon. Presumably with car news.
‘Sorry, thought you were someone else!’
‘Obviously. Okay, so we’ve just checked over your car and, luckily for you, the damage is minimal.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘It’s Lord Brinton, thy saviour, you should be thanking.’
‘Ha, true.’
‘So I’ll try and get it sorted by Saturday.’
‘The twentieth?!’ I squeaked.
That was the last day I had my rental booked for – and I intended to be long gone by then.
‘Yeah, sorry, I’ve got a pretty full schedule this week with lots of “we really need the car for Christmas” jobs. I’m going to have to squeeze it in after hours as it is. I can see if any of my contacts at other garages could do it any sooner if you really need it, but they’ll probably be booked up too.’
‘No, it’s fine. Thanks so much again. Just let me know when it’s done.’
‘Coolio, I’ll give you a call when it’s ready to collect. In the meantime, could you do me a favour and send me a message with your home address? I need to set you up as a new customer on the system.’
‘Sure, no problem. Thanks again, Ryan.’
