Meet Me at Pebble Beach

‘How many queries do we get relating to errors in discounting?’ Nigel repeated.

‘Um,’ she scratched her head, ‘Alex?’ She looked pleadingly at him.

He grinned. ‘Regan is the data guru on this.’

Thanks for nothing, she thought. She’d definitely get him back later. ‘A couple a week. Maybe.’ She didn’t really record them like she was supposed to, so it was a complete guess.

‘When I last checked the figures, they were much higher than that,’ said Nigel.

Regan wondered if that was the column on the end that she added lots of ticks to at the end of the week. ‘It’s quite variable,’ she said. ‘Peaks and troughs.’ Nigel nodded and she relaxed. She needed to pay more attention, but it was hard when meetings were this boring.

Back at their desks, Alex was still tittering about Regan’s questioning in the meeting. Regan started plotting her revenge. It needed to be something hilarious. She zoned out trying to come up with a suitable penance for Alex while she did some data input. When he went off to a meeting she put a sticky note over the sensor of his mouse so it wouldn’t work and flipped his login screen upside down. They were only temporary measures, but they would at least put him off the scent that she was planning something bigger.

Regan paperclipped her lottery ticket to the wish list she’d drawn up.

‘Predictable,’ said Alex, returning to his desk and flipping his screen back. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, nodding at the lottery ticket.

‘I’m not giving Jarvis any additional excuses to moan about me spending money. And if I win it’s probably safer here.’ She stopped short of adding that replacing Jarvis was an item on her wish list.

Alex made a grab for it. ‘Do the numbers mean something?’

‘Nope. It’s a lucky dip. Statistics show you’re likely to win more money with a lucky dip.’

Alex looked momentarily impressed. He pulled out his phone and took a snap of the ticket. ‘Hey,’ she said snatching it back. ‘What are you doing that for?’

‘So I’ll know if you’re lying when you ring me on Monday and tell me you’re on a beach in Barbados.’

‘As long as you don’t buy a ticket with the same numbers. I don’t want to share with you.’ She put the ticket and wish list safely in her desk drawer and locked it.

Alex stuck his tongue out at her. ‘Remember we’ve got a director’s visit tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

Regan pulled an unimpressed face. She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do and just because Alex was slightly older and squarer than her still did not give him that right.

‘Ah yes, it’s your big opportunity to impress,’ said Regan. Alex had been chosen to meet the visiting director and she hadn’t. Not that she was bothered – she wasn’t. But Alex was clearly making plans to improve his career prospects.

‘He’s meeting everyone,’ said Alex, breaking eye contact and chucking his stuff into his desk drawer.

‘Yeah, but you’re special.’ He glared at her. She did her best solemn Confucius impression. ‘Just remember the higher the monkey goes up the tree, the more it shows its bum.’ He took a swipe at her and she ran for the door.

Regan was still plotting her revenge on Alex as she walked through the market place en route to her car, which she had parked in the cheapest car park possible. The market traders were packing up for the day and she was astonished by the amount of waste she saw as the grocery stallholder piled up the veg he couldn’t sell next to the bins. He caught her staring at the racks of tomatoes a little past their best.

‘Help yourself, love,’ he called to her. She thanked him but declined. Jarvis would not be impressed if she took home a crate of dodgy tomatoes, but it did seem like a terrible waste.

As soon as she opened the front door she could hear Jarvis tutting. He’d beaten her home. She went to check her watch and for the umpteenth time that day cursed that she’d left home without it. She didn’t know exactly what time it was, but she guessed he must have left work earlier than usual, probably just so he could beat her home and have something to moan about. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for some grovelling.

‘Hiya, you’re home early. I need to get straight on with the tidying,’ called Regan, scooting through the flat. She met Jarvis in the kitchen already shaking his head.

‘Regan, you promised you’d not leave my apartment in a state. And what did I come home to?’ It irritated her that he always managed to highlight that it was his place.

‘I was going to tidy up before you got back, but you’re early.’ She was trying to keep her cool, but the condescending look on his face was seriously annoying. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘But it’s too late. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer, so I’ve tidied up your mess.’

This was the bit where he expected her to thank him. She wasn’t going to. ‘You didn’t have to. You could have come home at your usual time and there wouldn’t have been a mess.’

‘We both know that was never going to happen.’

‘Er, yes it was. Because I’m home now and that would have given me …’ she looked at her bare wrist again, ‘… shitting hell …’ she checked the kitchen clock, ‘… twenty-three minutes. I could easily have tidied up in twenty-three minutes, but as you chose to do it, I don’t need to. So we’re all good.’ She responded to his confused expression with a cheesy grin and went to have a shower. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand living with Jarvis and his endless irritating lectures. In the initial flush of a new relationship she’d ignored his quirks, but now they just seemed to grate on her.

Next morning, the sound of a car horn made Regan stir. She opened one eye. Jarvis wasn’t in bed. She stretched out and was dropping off again when a stab of conscience made her turn over and check the time. She blinked at the clock. ‘Shittity shittington!’ That couldn’t be right. She was seriously late for work and shitting Jarvis must have known and left her to her fate. Regan scrambled out of bed, keen not to repeat the carpet burn of yesterday. It would be another day without a morning shower, she thought, grabbing up her clothes from their floordrobe and dashing for the bathroom, tripping over Jarvis’s precious rug in the process. Bloody thing.

Despite her lateness, Regan never missed getting a coffee. It was the only breakfast she had, and she justified her coffee purchase because it was also a commitment she had made to Kevin. And, more importantly, she couldn’t face a day of terminal tedium at work without a decent shot of caffeine. She flew into the little coffee shop and found Penny was already on the case. Within minutes Regan had swiped her card, grabbed her tray of coffees and was heading for the sugar sachets.

‘New process,’ said Penny. ‘No more sugar in little packets because some buggers keep nicking them. There’s a sugar dispenser on the side.’

Regan was thrown by the new process. Trust Alex to have sodding sugar in his. She wrenched off the lid of his cup, tipped some in and quickly replaced the lid.

Kevin was outside, his hair and beard wet as they often were in the morning. She puzzled over why that was; she had no idea where he would go for a shower. The irony that he had had a shower and she hadn’t wasn’t lost on her.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ trilled Regan, her pace virtually a jog. ‘Morning, Elvis.’

Elvis barked his reply. The sound was loud enough to loosen her fillings and she very nearly threw the tray of coffees in the air. Kevin grabbed his quickly. ‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘And you, Kevin,’ she called over her shoulder and she speed-walked in the direction of the office.

When she arrived, Alex was hovering by their desks wearing a smart white shirt, dark tie and khaki chinos. Regan smirked at his outfit. He was definitely trying to impress the management. She could see he was looking flustered as she approached. ‘I’m sorry. Jarvis is playing games. The shit let me sleep in.’

‘You could set an alarm clock,’ said Alex, pulling his coffee from the tray.

‘I don’t like—’ but Regan didn’t get to finish her sentence. Alex pulled the coffee from the tray and it got a few centimetres from the desk before the lid parted company with the cup. The cup bounced on the desk and, in spectacular fashion, doused the front of Alex’s trousers with hot coffee. Alex gulped in air, making a noise like a train braking. Regan tried hard to stifle her laughter, but it was too funny.

Chapter Three

Alex stared at the stain spreading across his trousers.

‘They’re very absorbent,’ said Regan, grabbing a box of tissues from the desk opposite. ‘At least it missed your keyboard.’

‘You utter cow.’ Alex’s voice was a low grumble.

Regan’s grin slid from her face. ‘What did I do?’

He pointed at his coffee-stained groin. ‘You did this on purpose.’

‘No, you did that all by yourself, pal.’ She shook her head. She understood he was cross, but she wasn’t taking the flack for something that wasn’t her fault.

‘You loosened the bloody lid!’

‘No, I di …’ Regan thought back to the new sugar process. ‘Ah, no. You see the sugar isn’t in the little packets any more—’

But Alex wasn’t listening. ‘Just because I kicked your pen in that meeting. You do this?’

She wished he’d stop pointing at his groin. Regan did feel a sense of responsibility, but she didn’t like his assumption that she was this vindictive.

‘It was an accident, Alex. You need to calm down.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but an office door opened at the other side of the room. Managers and the visiting director spilled out. ‘You’ll need to take my place. But then I’m sure that’s exactly what you planned.’

‘Shit. No. I’m not taking your place. Man up and say you spilled your coffee. I don’t want to go to some dull meeting,’ said Regan, throwing the soggy tissues in the bin.

Alex quickly sat down and wheeled himself under the desk to hide the large coffee stain. It was a smart move. He then leaned on his mouse mat and froze. Regan glanced in his direction. ‘What?’

Alex slowly lifted his arm to show that his once-pristine crisp white shirtsleeve now had a soggy brown coffee patch. ‘Whoops,’ said Regan, cringing. ‘Think I missed a bit.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ said Alex.

The herd of management made their way over. Thankfully, someone more ambitious than Regan led the discussion. Alex was quiet; he kept his lower half under his desk and intermittently scowled at Regan. She shrugged. It was unfortunate, but she couldn’t feel too guilty about it. It was only a meeting – it wasn’t like he’d missed the last lifeboat.

‘And Alex will be joining us to give an overview of the challenges he and his colleagues are facing with invoicing,’ said Nigel, with a confident nod in Alex’s direction. He seemed puzzled as to why Alex was facing the wrong way.

Alex twisted in his seat. ‘I, um …’ He frowned hard. ‘I think Regan should attend instead of me. She knows the department and its challenges as well as I do.’

‘Oh, well. Regan. Um. That’s …’ Nigel appeared to have developed a facial tic. Regan’s mouth lifted at the side. He was clearly dreading the thought of her being let loose in a meeting with the grown-ups.

The director tipped his head. ‘Regan is an unusual name. From Shakespeare, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Regan, surprised that he recognised it. Most people assumed it was her surname. ‘It’s from King Lear.’ Her mother had had ideas well above her station so had saddled her with a name she felt was interesting and unusual. For Regan it was pretentious and annoying, but something she was lumbered with because she was too lazy to change it.

‘Excellent,’ he said. Nigel gave an uncertain smile of agreement. ‘We’ll see you later then, Regan.’

‘Can’t wait,’ she said, holding her smile in place as they filtered away. Once they were safely in the lift, she turned to Alex. ‘Ugh, thanks for that. I don’t …’ she began, but Alex got up and stormed off.

She decided she’d buy him a doughnut at lunchtime. That usually cheered him up. She’d get Kevin one too.

Her phone – which she’d remembered today – buzzed into life. It was Cleo on FaceTime. Without thinking, Regan answered it. ‘Hi.’

Despite hours on a flight, Cleo still looked perfectly coiffured. After a few minutes on the Isle of Wight ferry, Regan usually looked like she’d been mauled by hyenas.

‘This is the hotel,’ said Cleo, scanning the phone around a room about the same size as Jarvis’s entire flat.

‘What country?’

‘Dubai.’

‘Is that a bath in the bedroom?’ asked Regan, catching a glimpse as the camera moved past.

‘Jacuzzi bath. So I can lie here and admire the view.’ Cleo turned the camera and Regan took in the vibrant blue sea. ‘I’m on what they call the Palm.’

‘It’s amazing,’ said Regan, trying to stop her mouth from falling open. ‘What was business class like? Did you get—’ But her questioning was interrupted by a cough behind her. Regan turned to see Nigel scowling at her and running his fingers down his tie. It was the same tie he wore every day; that, or he had a whole rack of the same one at home, but Regan doubted from the iffy stains on it that that was the case. Nigel poked a finger at her phone. That was the trouble with FaceTime; it was on loudspeaker, so it had obviously alerted everyone around her and now they all looked like meerkats on parade. If only she’d remembered her ear buds.

‘Sorry, got to go.’ Regan hurriedly ended the call.

‘Regan, we’ve spoken before about personal calls. Haven’t we?’

Regan wondered if Nigel went to the same school of condescending arses that Jarvis had studied at. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ she said, but they both knew it would.

‘If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d replenish the printer paper stocks and get me a coffee?’ He gave her a reptilian smile and she begrudgingly went to do as he’d asked. He wasn’t the worst manager she’d ever had, but he was quite picky, self-important and always seemed to be on Regan’s case, which – some of the time – wasn’t justified.

The meeting with the great and the terminally dull was a lot less taxing than she’d feared. Alex had handed over his notes and figures, so she simply reeled them off when asked, while everyone nodded and her boss gave a deep sigh of relief. Really, these people had no faith.

She nipped out at lunchtime and bought three exorbitantly priced doughnuts, but it was on the magic contactless joint account card so it was fine. She wanted to drop one off with Kevin, though he was trickier to find at lunchtime because he often got shooed away from the market during the day by the manager. Eventually, she managed to track him and Elvis down to the supermarket car park, where occasionally a benevolent shopper would give him something from their trolley.

There was a fancy concrete bench affair outside and they sat there to eat their doughnuts together. Regan liked Kevin. He was probably a similar age to her dad, but it was hard to tell with the beard. Unlike her dad, he had a calm way about him. Like he’d seen it all and done it all. She never liked to ask him too many questions, although it didn’t stop her being curious about his situation.

‘I haven’t had a doughnut for years. That was tasty, thanks,’ said Kevin, letting Elvis lick the sugar from his fingers. ‘It’s funny the things you miss.’

‘Like what?’ asked Regan, trying hard to avoid jam dripping down her top.

‘Eye contact,’ he said with a wan smile. He and Regan exchanged knowing looks. The homeless were somehow invisible to most people. Kevin tilted his head back. ‘I miss my mates, sofas … and those little chipped potato things …’

‘What, chips?’

‘No,’ said Kevin, with a chuckle. ‘Sort of cube shaped. I used to like those.’

‘What about your family?’

Kevin took a deep breath. ‘Goes without saying that I miss my folks, but …’

Regan felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Families are complicated, right?’

Kevin turned his gaze towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear to disappoint mine again.’

Regan opened her mouth to speak and was surprised by the loud bark that erupted until she realised it was from Elvis, who had spotted someone with a tray of coffees walking past.

‘I best be off. Thanks again,’ said Kevin. ‘Carpe diem.’ And he made his way across the car park, Elvis lolloping after him.

She felt there was so much more to Kevin than just some homeless guy. Regan sighed to herself then looked at her watch. ‘Shitterama!’ Did someone fast-forward her life when she wasn’t looking?

Back in the office she waved the doughnut bag in front of Alex’s face. ‘By way of apology for the earlier accident.’

Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. But that was over the line for a gag, Regan,’ he said, swiping the bag.

‘Not a bloody gag. Why won’t you believe me?’ She was getting irritated now.

Alex looked in the bag. ‘Ooh, chocolate dreamcake. You’re forgiven.’

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.

The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothed the waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.

As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.

Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message: Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET

No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.

‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’

‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’

‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’

‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’

‘DiCaprio?’

‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.

‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’

Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah, she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.

Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.

‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.

Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’

He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’

‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.

The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.

‘What?’ he asked.

Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.

‘Wheeler Dealers? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.

Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the mess she was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.

Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’

‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.

‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’

‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.

‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.

‘When’s dinner ready?’

‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’

‘But you’ve been in here ages.’ Jarvis rinsed the cloth and had another go at the toffee that now appeared to be firmly attached to the paintwork.

‘I’m making “special” toffee apples for Alex at work.’ She indicated a tray of four toffee-coated balls covered in chocolate sprinkles with lolly sticks sticking out of them.

‘Why special?’ he asked, frowning at the toffee patch, which wasn’t going anywhere.

‘They’re not apples. They’re onions.’ She did her ta-dah hands again and narrowly missed the toffee spoon, so she shoved her hands in her pockets for safety.

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped me in it at a meeting and kicked my pen across the floor. Then blamed me for him spilling his coffee and made me go to a director’s meeting. It’s payback.’

‘It’s juvenile.’ He returned to trying to shift the toffee.