desk with her hand and grabbing a fresh pack of Silk Cut out of her drawer. ‘I want to hear, “sorry I’ve been such an ungrateful shithead all week, Veronica. You’re amazing, Veronica. When does my flight to Milan leave, Veronica?”’
‘I’ve had a lot of thinking to do,’ I protested as she savaged the plastic film around the cigarettes.
‘Wandering around in the rain? Staring out over the river and wondering “What if?”’ she asked. ‘Fuck that. You’re leaving on Sunday.’
‘It hasn’t rained this week …’ I muttered, confused. Then realized what she had said. ‘
What?
’
‘Sunday, you leave on Sunday.’ Veronica took care to enunciate each word very carefully, as though I were simple or slow. I was fairly certain she believed I was both. ‘You start work on Monday, so it seemed like a good idea to get you on a flight on Sunday. You
comprende
?’
‘I can’t leave on Sunday,’ I said, holding my bag closer into my body. ‘That’s in two days. I’m not ready.’
‘So what are you doing sat there like a bastard lemon then?’ she asked. ‘Go home, wash your fucking hair, pack a fucking bag, find your fucking passport. You’re going.’
‘Veronica …’ I started, reaching a hand up to touch my hair. ‘I can’t just up and leave on Sunday for three months.’
‘Why? You haven’t got a job, have you? You haven’t got anywhere to live …’ She paused to light up again, either oblivious or unconcerned by the laws about smoking in the workplace. I assumed the latter. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re lucky you’re not having this conversation with me in a fetching orange onesie. Thank God they didn’t send you down, girl. Some butch bitch’d be wearing you like a glove puppet inside half an hour.’
‘Who told you …? You know what, never mind.’ I blinked, trying to erase the terrifying image she had just planted indelibly in my mind. ‘It’s still a lot. To go off to Italy for three months in two days. I can’t even speak Italian.’
‘They all speak English,’ she said, dismissing my fears with a sweep of her ignited arm.
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Well, no, but if they don’t speak it, I doubt very much that they’ve got anything fucking interesting to say anyway.’ She pointed at me, making stabbing motions with her lit cigarette on every word. ‘You. Are. Going. To. Milan. On. Sunday.’
‘I can’t go for three months,’ I replied, my head full of Charlie’s morning erection and Perito’s spicy chicken. Not together though, eww. ‘I can’t.’
With a loud, fragrant sigh, Veronica leaned back in her chair and fixed me with a narrow-eyed stare as her assistant shuffled through the door and placed two cups of tea on the desk with a barely smothered cough.
‘You know you’re not supposed to smoke in the workplace, don’t you?’ I asked, chugging my tea so there would be one less hot thing for her to throw at me.
‘I eat here, I sleep here, I shit, shower and shag here.’ Veronica ground the half-smoked cig into her ashtray, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the desk with her blood-red talons. ‘Can’t imagine anyone’s going to tell me to put my fag out. Unless it’s bothering you?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I find it quite comforting.’
‘Your parents smoke?’
‘No,’ I replied, feeling the fear of God in my gut. ‘Just, you don’t see it enough these days, do you?’
She sat back again, reaching behind her and shoving the window open. It wasn’t until I heard the amplified buzz of traffic outside that I realized I’d been holding my breath. Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger.
‘So you don’t want to go to Italy for three months?’ she asked, clicking her mouse a couple of times and looking over at the screen of her Mac.
Thank God, we were back to business.
‘Three months is so long. A lot can happen in three months,’ I said.
‘Oh, are you expecting some other fashion icon to appear from the heavens
‘I’ve had a lot of thinking to do,’ I protested as she savaged the plastic film around the cigarettes.
‘Wandering around in the rain? Staring out over the river and wondering “What if?”’ she asked. ‘Fuck that. You’re leaving on Sunday.’
‘It hasn’t rained this week …’ I muttered, confused. Then realized what she had said. ‘
What?
’
‘Sunday, you leave on Sunday.’ Veronica took care to enunciate each word very carefully, as though I were simple or slow. I was fairly certain she believed I was both. ‘You start work on Monday, so it seemed like a good idea to get you on a flight on Sunday. You
comprende
?’
‘I can’t leave on Sunday,’ I said, holding my bag closer into my body. ‘That’s in two days. I’m not ready.’
‘So what are you doing sat there like a bastard lemon then?’ she asked. ‘Go home, wash your fucking hair, pack a fucking bag, find your fucking passport. You’re going.’
‘Veronica …’ I started, reaching a hand up to touch my hair. ‘I can’t just up and leave on Sunday for three months.’
‘Why? You haven’t got a job, have you? You haven’t got anywhere to live …’ She paused to light up again, either oblivious or unconcerned by the laws about smoking in the workplace. I assumed the latter. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re lucky you’re not having this conversation with me in a fetching orange onesie. Thank God they didn’t send you down, girl. Some butch bitch’d be wearing you like a glove puppet inside half an hour.’
‘Who told you …? You know what, never mind.’ I blinked, trying to erase the terrifying image she had just planted indelibly in my mind. ‘It’s still a lot. To go off to Italy for three months in two days. I can’t even speak Italian.’
‘They all speak English,’ she said, dismissing my fears with a sweep of her ignited arm.
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Well, no, but if they don’t speak it, I doubt very much that they’ve got anything fucking interesting to say anyway.’ She pointed at me, making stabbing motions with her lit cigarette on every word. ‘You. Are. Going. To. Milan. On. Sunday.’
‘I can’t go for three months,’ I replied, my head full of Charlie’s morning erection and Perito’s spicy chicken. Not together though, eww. ‘I can’t.’
With a loud, fragrant sigh, Veronica leaned back in her chair and fixed me with a narrow-eyed stare as her assistant shuffled through the door and placed two cups of tea on the desk with a barely smothered cough.
‘You know you’re not supposed to smoke in the workplace, don’t you?’ I asked, chugging my tea so there would be one less hot thing for her to throw at me.
‘I eat here, I sleep here, I shit, shower and shag here.’ Veronica ground the half-smoked cig into her ashtray, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the desk with her blood-red talons. ‘Can’t imagine anyone’s going to tell me to put my fag out. Unless it’s bothering you?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I find it quite comforting.’
‘Your parents smoke?’
‘No,’ I replied, feeling the fear of God in my gut. ‘Just, you don’t see it enough these days, do you?’
She sat back again, reaching behind her and shoving the window open. It wasn’t until I heard the amplified buzz of traffic outside that I realized I’d been holding my breath. Sweet Baby Jesus in the manger.
‘So you don’t want to go to Italy for three months?’ she asked, clicking her mouse a couple of times and looking over at the screen of her Mac.
Thank God, we were back to business.
‘Three months is so long. A lot can happen in three months,’ I said.
‘Oh, are you expecting some other fashion icon to appear from the heavens
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