'What a Godawful shame I said,' with no pathos or (self-) sympathy at all.
'You know she's . . .'
'I know Davina is the loveliest person I've ever met,' I said, butting in. 'If only everyone was so nice.'
That morning seemed to be full of grouchy customers, frustrated salesmen and (much more verbal) frustrated saleswomen. Keeping professional at all times, I somehow got through it. Then, an hour before lunch, an e-mail arrived.
I looked at the address. It was in the standard company format but began with "bristolcent". Our existing branch in Bristol began "bristolpatch". While I dithered, wondering if it was a scam, my landline rang.
'Hiya, Mikki. Have you got my email?'
It was Dave. She'd sent me the email as a test and needed to know if it had safely made its way through the ether.
'Yes,' I said.
'Yippee! That's as far as I can go with the branch open. But it's good news.'
I smiled. Talking to Dave always made me smile. 'The opening went well, I take it?'
'Like a dream. They had this Cornish comedian up to cut the tape. I can't remember what they call him, but all his stories began, "This guy down St Just . . ."'
'I know who you mean,' I said. 'I can't remember his name either, but he can make me laugh until I cry. And when are you back?'
'Tomorrow lunchtime, all being well. I need to do two or three hours tonight. It'll be too late to set off after that.'
'And,' I whispered, 'will you sleep with me tomorrow night?'
'Mikki darling, I thought you'd never ask.'
