I was still in gastric turmoil after my meeting with Bob, and so I simply ordered a frothy coffee and a cheese scone.
Whatever Raymond was eating smelled disgusting, like gently reheated vomit.
He ate noisily with his mouth partially open, so that I had to look away.
It made it easier to broach the subject of Bob’s offer and the task he had entrusted me with.
“May I ask you something, Raymond?” I said. He slurped his cola and nodded.
I looked away again. The man who had served us was lounging at the counter, nodding his head in time with the music.
It was a cacophonous din, with too many guitars and not enough melody.
It was, I thought, the sound of madness, the kind of music that lunatics hear in their heads
just before they slice the heads off foxes and throw them into their neighbor’s back garden.
I’ve been offered a promotion, to the position of office manager,” I said. “Do you think I should accept?”
He stopped chomping and took another slurp of his drink. “That’s brilliant, Eleanor,” he said, smiling. “What’s stopping you?”
I had a nibble of my scone—it was unexpectedly delicious, much nicer than the ones you get in Tesco.
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