Despite what I had promised Dad, I wasn’t planning to attend the Moving On Circle. But my return to work had been so awful that by the time the day ended I hadn’t been able to face going home to an empty flat.
‘You’re back!’ Carly had placed the cup of coffee on the bar, taken the businessman’s change, and hugged me, all while dropping the coins into the correct sections of the till drawer, in one fluid motion. ‘What the hell happened? Tim just told us you had an accident. And then he left so I wasn’t even sure you were coming back.’
‘Long story.’ I stared at her. ‘Uh … what are you wearing?’
Nine o’clock on Monday morning and the airport had been a blue-grey blur of men charging laptops, staring into iPhones, reading the City pages or talking discreetly into handsets about market share. Carly caught the eye of someone on the other side of the till. ‘Yeah. Well, things have changed since you’ve been gone.’
I turned to see a businessman standing on the wrong side of the bar. I blinked at him and put my bag down. ‘Um – if you’d like to wait there, I’ll serve you –’
‘You must be Louise.’ His handshake was emphatic and without warmth. ‘I’m the new bar manager. Richard Percival.’ I took in his slick hair, his suit, his pale blue shirt, and wondered what kind of bars he had actually managed.
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You’re the one who’s been off for two months.’
‘Well. Yes. I –’
He walked along the optics, scanning each bottle. ‘I just want you to know that I’m not a fan of people taking endless sick leave.’
My neck shifted a few centimetres back in my collar.
‘I’m just laying down a marker, Louise. I’m not one of those managers who turn a blind eye. I know that in many companies time off is pretty much considered a staff perk. But not in companies where I work.’
‘Believe me, I’ve not thought of the last nine weeks as a perk.’
He examined the underside of a tap, and rubbed at it meditatively with his thumb.
I took a breath before I spoke. ‘I fell off a building. Perhaps I could show you my surgery scars. So, you know, you can be reassured that I’m unlikely to want to do it again.’
He stared at me. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m not saying you’re about to have other accidents, but your sick leave is, pro rata, at an unusually high level for someone who has worked for this company a relatively short time. That’s all I wanted to point out. That it has been noted.’
He wore cufflinks with racing cars on them.
‘Message received, Mr Percival.’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best to avoid further near-fatal accidents.’
‘You’ll need a uniform. If you give me five minutes I’ll get one out of the stockroom. What size are you? Twelve? Fourteen?’
I stared at him. ‘Ten.’
He raised an eyebrow. I raised one back. As he walked to his office, Carly leaned over from the coffee machine and smiled sweetly in his direction. ‘Utter, utter bellend,’ she said, from the side of her mouth.
She wasn’t wrong. From the moment I returned, Richard Percival was, in the words of my father, all over me like a bad suit. He measured my measures, checked every corner of the bar for molecular peanut crumbs, was in and out of the loos checking on hygiene and wouldn’t let us leave until he had stood over us cashing up and ensuring each till roll matched takings to the last penny.
I no longer had time to chat to the customers, to look up departure times, hand over lost passports, contemplate the planes we could see taking off through the great glass window. I didn’t even have time to be irritated by Celtic Pan Pipes, Vol. III. If a customer was left waiting to be served for more than ten seconds Richard would magically appear from his office, sighing ostentatiously, then apologize loudly and repeatedly because they had been kept waiting so long. Carly and I, usually busy with other customers, would exchange secret glances of resignation and contempt.
He spent half the day meeting reps, the rest on the phone to Head Office, bleating about Footfall and Spend Per Head. We were encouraged to upsell with every transaction, and taken to one side for a talking-to if we forgot. All that was bad enough.
But then there was the uniform.
Carly came into the Ladies as I was finishing getting changed and stood beside me in front of the mirror. ‘We look like a pair of eejits,’ she said.
Not content with dark skirts and white shirts, some marketing genius high up the corporate ladder had decided that the atmosphere of the Shamrock and Clover chain would benefit from genuine Irish clothing. This genuine Irish clothing had evidently been thought up by someone who believed that across Dublin, right this minute, businesswomen and checkout girls were pirouetting across their workplaces dressed in embroidered tabards, knee-high socks and laced-up dancing shoes, all in glittering emerald green. With accompanying ringlet wigs.
‘Jesus. If my boyfriend saw me dressed like this he’d dump me.’ Carly lit a cigarette, and climbed up on the sink to disable the smoke alarm on the ceiling. ‘Mind you, he’d probably want to do me first. The perv.’
‘What do the men have to wear?’ I pulled my short skirt out at the sides and eyed Carly’s lighter nervously, wondering how flammable I was.
‘Look outside. There’s only Richard. And he has to wear that shirt with a green logo. The poor thing.’