‘Then who do I get to tell?’ she says, slightly annoyed.
‘The postman will be here in the hour.’
‘I hate you both,’ she says, not really meaning it at all. ‘You’re dead to me. I’m not coming to the wedding.’ Of course she will.
She clatters around in a drawer looking for a teaspoon and waves it around at me like an angry witch.
‘Did you and Dad have a nice evening, though?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it was lovely. We got a curry from the new place on the high street. Lovely big prawns in their dhansak. And it was so gorgeous to see all the kids dressed up. That mum across the way who’s just had the baby, she came round with her lad. He was dressed as a pumpkin.’
Her face glows as she recounts their evening. Mum adores the littlest ones on our street and would have made a fuss. Dad would have had his teeth in and adopted his bad Euro accent again.
Many people around here don’t know what we do. I guess you don’t delve that far into people’s lives as neighbours these days. You just wave at each other when you put the bins out, exchange pleasantries and take in their undeliverable parcels.
‘I see you didn’t give out your condoms,’ I note.
‘I went on your advice. Instead, your dad hid by the garden gate with a mask and a chainsaw and scared the shit out of the older thug kids looking for trouble.’
For a moment, she made her evening sound so wholesome. I hope the chainsaw wasn’t on and pray those kids didn’t tell their parents. Or the police.
‘And what about you? Did you have a good time in your welder’s costume?’ she says, adding milk to my coffee.
‘You are so funny. I did. It was a good party.’
It’s her turn to pause now, scanning my face. ‘But you don’t like parties?’
‘I like parties where my little brother gets engaged, that’s the difference.’
Remember, she can’t keep secrets.
‘Are you off back to bed then?’ she asks me as I yawn, stretching my arms out widely.
‘No, I’ve got to be in the office for a call. Double coffees for me.’
‘Can’t someone else take it?’ she asks.
‘No one else can speak Mandarin.’
She cradles my head and gives me a kiss on the forehead. ‘You’re such a diamond. Thank you for being there for your brother, I’m glad one of us was. Let me whip up some eggs while you’re in the shower, JoJo. I think I’ve got bacon too. Were there at least party bags?’
I reach in my rucksack and pull out a severed hand. ‘No, but my Uber man let me have this.’
She picks it up and slaps me round the face with it.
‘Oh, Josie… Tell me everything! Were you there? Was it lovely?’ Michelle squeals at me, showing me engagement photos that have crept onto Instagram.
Naturally, news of Sonny’s engagement has captured the imaginations of not only this workplace but those who like to frequent the gossip columns. It hit social media first, but now news of their impending nuptials is trending and all over the glossy magazines and tabloids. What will she wear? Where will they wed? Who is the planner? I tell you who will most likely be the planner. It’ll be me, because they also thought their mate, Ian, on their soap could marry them because he once played a priest onDoctor Who.
I take off my suit jacket that I wore on my call to China to look more official, revealing my white T-shirt and ripped jeans. I glance in a mirror on my desk, at my tired green eyes and pale freckled skin that make me look like I need a ton more sleep and caffeine – I hope I didn’t scare the manufacturing team.
‘I bet it was lovely. They look gorgeous together! Do you think they’ll do it in the summer? I bet it’ll be in the summer,’ Michelle continues, taking my jacket and hanging it off the back of the office door.
Michelle is my personal assistant at The Love Shack, and most mornings, she becomes the pick-me-up that we all need. She’s here because my dad gave her a job. She was also involved in my parents’ previous line of work but gave it up to marry a plumber called Jeff and have four kids whose names are all London landmarks where I hope none of them were conceived as one of them is called Wembley. She now works school-run hours and keeps my biscuit supply and receipts in check.
I sip at my third coffee of the day as I overlook the comings and goings of the warehouse: the forklifts, the familiar beeping of reversing trucks, the condoms packed to the rafters. It’s like a very sexy version of Costco.
‘It was gorgeous and he’s over the moon,’ I reply, turning back to her. ‘It was really lovely to see him looking so happy.’
