door and held it open.
Valerie, for her part, looked genuinely shocked by his failure to be impressed, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she got up to leave. She turned back on the step, pointing her umbrella at him with a bitter sneer across her hard face.
‘I’ll give you six months. Twelve, at most. Business is business, young man, no matter if it’s coffins or cars.’
Gabe closed the door behind her and leaned his back against it. She’d been truly hideous. But was there any truth in Valerie McDonald’s parting shot?
Did
he have enough of a business head to make a success of this? He knew he was bloody good at the nuts and bolts of his work, but he would be the first to admit he was no accountant. He didn’t have time to dwell on it though – a tap on the door behind him heralded the arrival of his second interview of the day.
Please let Genevieve Lawrence be better than Valerie McDonald,
he prayed, even though he didn’t especially believe in God. That was another fact that he preferred to keep to himself. People mostly assumed that undertakers had a direct line to The Almighty.
He turned around and found two huge, watery eyes staring back at him. He opened the door, allowing the woman on the step to float in on a cloud of ethereal underskirts. She promptly sparked up a joss stick on the reception desk to create ‘the right vibe’.
Gabe’s heart sank into his boots as she flicked her long black wig over her bony shoulders and heaved a large framed picture of a red Indian chief out of a Lidl carrier bag that had, up until now, been concealed amongst her skirts.
‘My only request’ – she fixed him with her disconcertingly direct gaze – ‘is that I can hang big Chief Running Water behind my desk. He must be given due prominence at all times, you see.’
Gabe didn’t see, and he had absolutely no desire to.
‘And does Big Chief expect to be on the payroll, too?’
Genevieve’s eyelids fluttered down for a few moments to hide her pained expression. When she opened them again, she licked her finger and thumb and snuffed out the joss stick.
‘Big Chief does not appreciate your poor wit, Mr Ryan, and neither do I. I’m afraid that we must withdraw the offer of our services.’
She slid Big Chief back into the safety of his Lidl carrier bag and flounced out into the rain.
Gabe thumped his head against the doorjamb a few times. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call in Ms Scarlet Ribbons after all. He needed a beer, but he needed a receptionist even more. Please let it be third time lucky.
Melanie Spencer turned up just before four o’clock, reassuringly normal with her sensible clothes and her shiny dark hair wound into an efficient chignon. She said all the right things, had experience with people, and there was a calm efficiency about her that Gabe warmed to straight away. Best of all, she didn’t insist on bringing her spirit guide to work, or display any apparent desire to fleece grieving relatives.
Hallelujah. He offered her the job on the spot.
Chapter Six
Emily looked at her watch. Ten to eight. In a little over four hours, she’d be thirty. There were no balloons or banners, just a small clutch of cards arranged in a sad little line on the fireplace. She got up and scraped her barely touched ready meal into the recycling bin and reached down for the bottle of Shiraz she’d stashed in the wine rack earlier on in the week. It was gone. Crap! Bloody Tom, he’d probably stuck it in his bag for his business trip. Pity he couldn’t have given as much thought to being here for her birthday, rather than at a conference somewhere up in the wilds of Scotland. But then, he was away more than he was at home these days so she shouldn’t really have been surprised. She glanced down at her pyjama bottoms and Uggs, and made a snap decision. They’d have to do for a run around to the corner shop, because there was no way she was leaving her twenties stone-cold sober.
She grabbed
Valerie, for her part, looked genuinely shocked by his failure to be impressed, and it took her a moment to recover herself before she got up to leave. She turned back on the step, pointing her umbrella at him with a bitter sneer across her hard face.
‘I’ll give you six months. Twelve, at most. Business is business, young man, no matter if it’s coffins or cars.’
Gabe closed the door behind her and leaned his back against it. She’d been truly hideous. But was there any truth in Valerie McDonald’s parting shot?
Did
he have enough of a business head to make a success of this? He knew he was bloody good at the nuts and bolts of his work, but he would be the first to admit he was no accountant. He didn’t have time to dwell on it though – a tap on the door behind him heralded the arrival of his second interview of the day.
Please let Genevieve Lawrence be better than Valerie McDonald,
he prayed, even though he didn’t especially believe in God. That was another fact that he preferred to keep to himself. People mostly assumed that undertakers had a direct line to The Almighty.
He turned around and found two huge, watery eyes staring back at him. He opened the door, allowing the woman on the step to float in on a cloud of ethereal underskirts. She promptly sparked up a joss stick on the reception desk to create ‘the right vibe’.
Gabe’s heart sank into his boots as she flicked her long black wig over her bony shoulders and heaved a large framed picture of a red Indian chief out of a Lidl carrier bag that had, up until now, been concealed amongst her skirts.
‘My only request’ – she fixed him with her disconcertingly direct gaze – ‘is that I can hang big Chief Running Water behind my desk. He must be given due prominence at all times, you see.’
Gabe didn’t see, and he had absolutely no desire to.
‘And does Big Chief expect to be on the payroll, too?’
Genevieve’s eyelids fluttered down for a few moments to hide her pained expression. When she opened them again, she licked her finger and thumb and snuffed out the joss stick.
‘Big Chief does not appreciate your poor wit, Mr Ryan, and neither do I. I’m afraid that we must withdraw the offer of our services.’
She slid Big Chief back into the safety of his Lidl carrier bag and flounced out into the rain.
Gabe thumped his head against the doorjamb a few times. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call in Ms Scarlet Ribbons after all. He needed a beer, but he needed a receptionist even more. Please let it be third time lucky.
Melanie Spencer turned up just before four o’clock, reassuringly normal with her sensible clothes and her shiny dark hair wound into an efficient chignon. She said all the right things, had experience with people, and there was a calm efficiency about her that Gabe warmed to straight away. Best of all, she didn’t insist on bringing her spirit guide to work, or display any apparent desire to fleece grieving relatives.
Hallelujah. He offered her the job on the spot.
Chapter Six
Emily looked at her watch. Ten to eight. In a little over four hours, she’d be thirty. There were no balloons or banners, just a small clutch of cards arranged in a sad little line on the fireplace. She got up and scraped her barely touched ready meal into the recycling bin and reached down for the bottle of Shiraz she’d stashed in the wine rack earlier on in the week. It was gone. Crap! Bloody Tom, he’d probably stuck it in his bag for his business trip. Pity he couldn’t have given as much thought to being here for her birthday, rather than at a conference somewhere up in the wilds of Scotland. But then, he was away more than he was at home these days so she shouldn’t really have been surprised. She glanced down at her pyjama bottoms and Uggs, and made a snap decision. They’d have to do for a run around to the corner shop, because there was no way she was leaving her twenties stone-cold sober.
She grabbed
Similar Books
