Day drinking is not a habit I want to get into, but I think – given today’s events – I can be forgiven.
Back down in the car park, I hurry over to the Mercedes as fast as I can. I just want to get out of here for the day. Partially to get cosy with that bottle of Chardonnay, but also because I really do need to go and find my CV – wherever it’s lurking on my laptop – and start the annoying and stressful process of sprucing it up.
The second I turn the ignition key, the car gives me an enormous clobberdy-bang. I’m a lot more worried about the implications of this now. It’s one thing to have a faulty car when you have a job that can pay for repairs, but being unemployed with a clobberdy-bang brings a whole new level of terror.
I pull out of the car-parking space, my brain afire with dark and worrying thoughts.
As I hit the exit, I am forced to slam on my brakes once again, as I see a car appear to my left. It’s a bloody Tesla – and those things are most definitely silent but deadly. They can creep up on you without you even knowing about it, thanks to their hushed battery-powered engines. I hate them with an absolute passion.
Guess who’s driving it?
Go on . . .
It won’t be hard.
Yes. That’s right.
It’s Hugh Firmly Blittingstool. He’s come to bask in my misery.
I jest, of course. The man driving the Tesla is Nolan Reece.
He looks at me with alarm through his windscreen as he slams on his own brakes.
So, that’s twice I’ve nearly managed to crash into him today. I’m doing so very, very well with my life.
I offer another one of my patented ‘Ellie Cooke is sorry for being so Ellie Cooke today’ apology smiles, and hold up a hand to acknowledge my driving error.
As if on cue, the Mercedes gives me a clobberdy-bang so huge and loud that it nearly shakes the fillings out of my teeth.
The black cloud of toxic emissions that blanket the car immediately afterwards smells so bad that I know I’m going to have to drive the stupid car straight to the nearest garage, instead of going home to open that bottle of wine.
Nolan Reece watches this happen from the confines of his ultra-clean, ultra-environmentally friendly car, with a look on his face that can only be described as ‘perplexed’.
He should probably just jump out and hand me my P45 now. It’d save us all a great deal of time and effort.
Instead, he gives me a stilted wave, and accelerates silently out of the car park, causing the black cloud to disperse as his car passes mine.
The black cloud around my Mercedes, I should point out – not the one in my head.
I sit there for a few moments, gathering myself.
This could not have gone any worse if I’d just clubbed a baby seal to death in front of my new boss, and then set fire to his Tesla.
I don’t see any way of pulling myself back from the brink here.
. . . but I’m going to bloody well try, anyway. That fear of the unknown will make me.
I will do anything to stay on at Viridian PR. Better the devil you know than the job interview you don’t.
But first, it’s time to sort out the clobberdy-bang, while I still have the money to do so.
That should make me feel a little better about myself.
And once the clobberdy-bang in my car is fixed, maybe I can come up with a plan to fix the clobberdy-bang in my life.
Yes.
That’s the way to think about it. Be positive. Be hopeful. Be proactive. Be—
CLOBBERDY-BANG.
Oh, for the love of an environmentally conscious god . . .
Chapter Two
DYING TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE
Okay, I have to think of a plan now – a good one.
A way to keep my job at Viridian PR, and solve the second clobberdy-bang in my life.
The first cost £750 to fix . . . which was as painful as you’d imagine. I was assured by the mechanic that it had something to do with my gearbox synchromesh. Given my knowledge of cars, he could have said it was down to my bogbox winkywonk and I would still have forked out the cash. Car repairs generally have to be taken on trust, which is why they can be so stressful to sort out.