Carol is totally doing my head in.
Almost everyone who calls the office these days wants to speak to me about the Fayre. With just a little over a week to go, the exhibitors are starting to realise they have to get their act in gear soon if they want to take part.
Our tally of stalls is now up to twelve.
Carol can’t stand the fact that I’m in charge. She’s forever buzzing about at my shoulder, like a freakishly large wasp, trying to earwig on my phone calls and peer at my computer screen. If it weren’t for the fact that Charlie has made it clear he wants me to do the organising, I’m certain she’d bowl right in and take over.
She never mentioned the bad smell incident, although she must have suspected it was down to me. But relations between us have definitely taken a nosedive since then.
It’s bad of me, I know, but there’s a tiny part of me that’s really rather enjoying having so much to do and lording it over her for once. Not that I’ve got much spare time on my hands these days to reflect on it.
The venue is an old Masonic hall nearby which, funnily enough, is where Mum will be treading the boards in A Christmas Carol if Bunty (or ‘That Awful Woman’ as I have renamed her) has her way.
A local farm is donating a Christmas tree. And in the absence of a suitable male, Shona has volunteered to be our Santa. She’s also going to be recording the event to get in a bit of video practice.
Shona, Ella and Steph are being a huge help.
I asked Steph and her fellow cleaners to mention the Fayre to our clients when they were out on jobs, in particular, the fact that we need donations for the bric-a-brac stall.
Their response has been amazing.
On Saturday, Steph collects me in a company van and we drive around the area, collecting all the promised goods. And it’s clear from how packed the van is on our return that many a drawer and cupboard have been turned out in aid of Tim’s operation. We stack all the boxes of stuff in the corner of the office, then sit in our coats drinking tea and congratulating ourselves on a good day’s work.
‘Look at these.’ I delve into a box and pull out a pair of hand-knitted red socks large enough to keep an elephant’s front feet snug all winter.
Steph looks at me doubtfully. ‘Do we know anyone with feet that big?’
I grin. ‘No, but they’d be great as Christmas stockings.’
Aside from the ornaments, paperbacks and a large assortment of unwanted beauty products and bath oils, we’ve also brought back an antique tea set, a lovely old station clock and some gorgeous pieces of costume jewellery.
Even crusty Mrs Savage, our oldest client, who sits in a chair with her legs apart and points at people with a stick when she’s talking to them, has come up trumps. She has dusted off her size nines and knitted a cheerful, stripy tea cosy, as well as the astonishing woolly socks.
With only a week to go, I hardly have time to breathe as I am occupied from dawn till dusk. And by Monday afternoon, the tally of companies taking part has risen to seventeen. Poor Fez is having to work practically round the clock, sawing and hammering, but he insists it’s great practice.
On Tuesday morning, Shona and I create a ‘Santa’s Grotto’ – somewhere for Santa Shona to sit while she hands out gifts to the kids. We’re using an old-fashioned screen, three sections on hinges, donated by one of our clients. After gathering a pile of fresh greenery in the local woods, we tack it to a huge rust-coloured blanket, together with lots of artfully-placed tinsel and other festive decorations, then carefully drape the decorated blanket over the screen and stand back to admire our grotto. Steph is going to lend us her ‘Santa this Way’ sign and a freestanding Rudolph.
‘Some might say it’s more grotty than grotto,’ remarks Shona, with her head on one side.
‘Rubbish,’ I shake my head. ‘Gaudy and glitzy isn’t only acceptable at Christmas, it’s compulsory.’
‘Hope it survives till Saturday.’
‘Stop being negative,’ I beam. ‘It’s going to be great.’
I really do believe that. It’s taken a huge amount of work and I’ve never been so exhausted in my life, but everything’s finally coming together. We’re actually having to turn exhibitors away now because there’s no space left in the hall.
Fingers crossed, it’s going to be perfect day.
Late on Monday afternoon, a giant box arrives at the office with ‘Finnola’s Fancy Dress’ stamped on the lid. The courier wants a signature so I automatically direct him into The Boss’s office.
‘Are you Miss Blatchett?’ I hear him say, handing the form to Carol. She purses her lips and points in my direction, and he cheerfully whips the form out of her hand and strides over to me, all manly biker leathers and body spray.
When the courier’s gone, she comes through and slashes the box open with scissors, bringing them down like you would a dagger, which I find a little worrying.
We all gather round to look at the costumes.
All ‘Santa’s Little Helpers’ – which includes us four – are going to be in fancy dress and naturally, we want to get first pick, before Steph and the other cleaning staff get a look in.
Ella plumps for a sexy Red Riding Hood ensemble with a ‘country maiden’ corset and a slinky red hooded cape.
Shona actually wants to be a Christmas tree.
Charlie walks in just as Carol is considering a Snow White costume with a red skirt and a black, scoop-necked lace-up bodice. White as the driven snow it definitely ain’t.
She flicks her eyes at Charlie. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice,’ he says, obligingly. ‘Let Bobbie try it on.’
Carol’s smile freezes but she hands it over.
I peer at Charlie as he rummages through the pile of brightly coloured fabric. What’s he trying to say, exactly? That I suit the slutty farm girl look?
‘This is more you,’ he says to Carol, holding out a slinky, black dress that sweeps the floor and is slashed to the thigh. It has a black and white chequerboard bodice and comes with a hairpiece that is sleek and black on one side and sparkly winter white on the other.
He’s right. Carol will look fabulous in it.
She frowns. ‘Isn’t that Cruella De Vil?’
‘Is it?’ Charlie’s oblivious to the drama he’s causing.
‘Yes!’ says Carol crossly. ‘Look!’ She tweaks the dalmatian puppy that’s supposed to peek cutely over the wearer’s shoulder.
‘Sexy, though,’ murmurs Charlie.
‘You think so?’
He gives her a racy grin and she grabs the dress and holds it up against herself, peering at her reflection in the darkened window.
I stare out at the mid-November gloom beyond the glass. All this Christmas Fayre palaver will be ultimately for nothing because once Charlie sees the accounts, there’s no way he’ll want to invest.
And that will be that.
End of the road for Spit and Polish.
I catch Charlie’s eye. He grins at me, then at Cruella De Vil, and mimics wiping sweat from his brow.
I smile back.
Not so oblivious after all, then.
Perhaps he’s beginning to see through the pretence, to the real Carol. The Carol who regards green issues in the workplace as costly codswallop and would never in a million years think an employee bonus scheme was a good idea.
Later, on his way out of the office at five, he stops at my desk and asks if I’ve got time for a quick chat.
‘What, now?’ I look at him in surprise.
‘When you’re finished. Let’s grab a drink at that pub. The Grapevine?’
‘Okay.’
I gather my things together. Maybe he has more ideas for the Fayre he wants to discuss.
I dash to the Ladies on the pretext of clearing away the coffee mugs. I washed my hair this morning and left it down, and miraculously, it’s behaving itself for once, although it’s in dire need of a good cut. Also, I’ve been experimenting a little with colour, so I don’t feel quite so drab today.
When I get back to the office, Carol’s sitting on my desk, chatting to Charlie.
‘Aha!’ She turns to me. ‘We need to go through the rotas for Christmas and New Year.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
She shakes her head. ‘It’s only right we let the staff know as soon as possible so they can make plans.’ She turns to Charlie. ‘Sorry.’
‘No problem.’ He looks at me. ‘Some other time.’
Then he’s gone.
Carol gives me a sly look that says, ‘Carol one, Bobbie nil.’
God, I hate her.
Let the staff know as soon as possible so they can make plans! As if …
I settle down at my screen. ‘Right. The rotas.’
I’m determined not to show I’m disappointed.
I will not give her the satisfaction.
Next day, after a lunch hour spent battling the Christmas shoppers on the High Street on a fruitless search for marzipan (Mum’s moved on from cross-eyed elves to Christmas cakes), I arrive back to find the office in cheerful chaos.
The rest of Santa’s Little Helpers have arrived and are fighting over the remaining costumes.
I’m hanging up my coat just as Steph says, ‘Snow White? What do you think?’
Ella turns to me with a frown. ‘I thought you were going to be Snow White.’
I’m confused. How did my costume end up back in the box?
Oh well, it’s no big deal. I’ll wear something else.
Except when I look in the box, there’s nothing left.
Then I catch sight of Carol at her desk, eyeing the proceedings through her open door. She gives me a half-smile then emerges from her office holding out something that looks horribly like a Christmas pudding.
My heart sinks. It has acres upon acres of puffed-up padding round the stomach area and skinny, stripy legs that dangle down. Completing this ‘hilarious’ little ensemble is an SAS-style hat in brandy butter yellow, with holly and berries perched on top.
I shake my head. ‘I’m not wearing that. I draw the line at wearing a balaclava. Even for a good cause.’
‘Bah, humbug! Where’s your Christmas spirit?’ She smirks at me then drops the outfit on my desk and clips back to her office, humming ‘Jingle Bells’.
A few minutes later, she emerges.
‘I’m going out. Bobbie, hold the fort while I’m gone. And check the proofs from the printer, will you? They’re on my desk.’
‘What a cow,’ says Ella when she’s safely out of the building. ‘Making you wear that.’ To Ella, dressing in anything less than perfect would be a fate worse than death. But I’m touched by her support.
‘Tell you what,’ she says, ‘You take my costume and I’ll go as a silver angel.’
‘A silver angel?’
‘Yes, I had a fancy dress party for my eighteenth. I’ve got the silver wings and everything.’
‘That’s so kind of you.’ I feel suddenly choked.
‘No probs.’ Ella shrugs. ‘We’ve got to stick together.’