she’d stumbled away into the toilets. Poor thing, her hormones must be all over the place. I’d heard about that sort of thing; Dad still bore the scars from when Mum was pregnant with me. He said she’d attacked him with an umbrella stand just because he hadn’t wanted to leave the pub when her waters broke. He’d only just got a pint in, and it was his turn next on the pool table. Terrible things, hormones.
I was debating going into the Ladies after Myra, when the cafe was suddenly plunged into gloom as all the lights went out. The coffee machine gave a groan as it shuddered and went off too. Oh blimey - a power cut. “Sorry about this,” I said to the old lady, who was peering into her pill box. I went to the kitchen to see how Joe would manage lunches without the microwave. He was still inside the oven and I could see that the dial was set to ‘on’. Oh dear - he must have knocked it when he was cleaning. “Goodness me, Chef!” I exclaimed, turning the dial back to the ‘off’ position. “You’re lucky we’ve had a power cut - you might have gassed yourself!”
Joe’s reply was very muffled.
“What’s that, Chef? You want me to go and do what?” I bent right down as he repeated it. “Hug myself? Well, that’s very nice of you, Chef! I’ll give myself a hug in just a minute. What shall we tell the customers - sandwiches only until we get the power back? The heating’s gone off too, of course, so it’s going to get a bit chilly.” I couldn’t resist telling him; I was bursting to tell someone! “Guess what, Chef? Myra’s just told me she’s pregnant - I’m going to be a Dad! Just think - there’s a Mini Me on its way into the world!”
Joe stuck his left arm out of the oven and turned the dial back to ‘on’. I laughed and started to fix Myra a healthy, nutritious salad. I knew she always said, “Do I look like a fucking tortoise?” when faced with anything leafy, but I wanted my child to have the best possible start in life. My child! It really was a miracle.
I was fizzing with excitement when I arrived at work on Monday morning. Myra had begged me not to tell anyone yet, but Mum caught me Googling ‘baby bike seats’ last night and had guessed straight away; she’d practically squealed the house down in her excitement, and had logged straight into the Direct Gov website to see what additional benefits we might be entitled to.
I’d written to Dad at the PO Box number I had for him in Manchester, imagining his face when he opened the letter; he’d be so thrilled! And he was bound to visit us now, no matter how difficult it was for him to take a break from all the business meetings that had kept him away for almost two years. He was going to be a terrific role model for my child.
“Morning Joy!” I called as I reached my desk, taking care to carefully pat my fingers around the work surfaces, checking for super glue. There was still a pair of my cycling clips stuck to the desk; I’d never been able to shift them. “What did you get up to at the weekend, go anywhere nice?”
“No.” She stood up and came over to me, her face grey and creased. “I was here all weekend, with Kate. We were trying to, er, assemble some statistics for the auditors. I’ve been updating the concerns database for twelve hours solid.”
“Oh yes! How did the audit go?”
“It’s still going. Kate overheard one of them say three days wasn’t nearly enough, not when they were having such a field day.”
“Well, that’s great, isn’t it? That they’re enjoying themselves, I mean. It must be going really well.”
She sighed. “Just try and keep out of their way, Morten. Don’t tell them anything, don’t engage in conversation and don’t make eye contact. If they ask you something, just refer them straight to me. Have you got that?”
“Yes, no problem.” I beamed at Joy and glanced around to make sure we couldn’t be overheard. “Can you keep a secret, Joy? I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Will it affect your work in anyway?”
“Er, no, I don’t think so-”
“Then I don’t need to know, do I? Get your headset on, keep your head down and don’t look up again until I tell you to.”
Monday mornings were always extremely busy, so it was difficult to perform a proper search of baby websites, but I found one entitled ‘An expectant Dad’s guide to pregnancy’ and kept it minimised, flicking back to it whenever a customer launched into a lengthy rant or a prolonged spell of weeping. The first line read: ‘The thing about men and pregnancy is that there’s only so much you can do - the expectant mother really does all the work’. Blimey, it was going to be easier than I thought! Mum often joked that Dad only took an interest in me when I became old enough to go and buy his fags from the off licence. Little did she know I started doing this when I was six! Dad always made sure I put on a reflective armband if it was dark when he sent me out; he was a very responsible parent. I wanted to be as involved as possible with Myra’s pregnancy, although I wasn’t looking forward to the birth; the last time Myra had been in extreme pain (she got her arm stuck inside a vending machine when her Kit Kat wouldn’t drop) she’d gripped my arm so tightly her nails had punctured my faux PVC bomber jacket and drawn blood.
“What’s a bassinet?” I asked Sky, while I waited for my customer, Mr Emery, to locate his policy number.
“Um, like a clarinet, but much deeper.”
“Oh.” Were you supposed to play one to the baby, to help it sleep, perhaps? I’d have to take some lessons because I wasn’t exactly proficient on wind instruments. When I’d attempted to play the hornpipe during ‘Popeye The Musical’, one of the sailors had wrenched it from me and snapped it in half over his knee. All the other sailors had cheered.
“What’s your view on breast feeding, Sky? Do you agree that breast is best?”
“You what?”
“Oh sorry, Mr Emery, I didn’t realise you were back. Do you have children?”
“I’m not allowed near children.”
“R-right. Well, I was just reading about breast feeding, you see-”
“I was breast fed until I was eleven. Never did me any harm.”
“O-K. Um, I’ll just take your policy number then...”
I didn’t see much of the auditors, although occasionally one would walk past to ask Joy something or get her to explain the made-up figures on our whiteboard. They were all rather stern-faced and looked very official in their dark suits. One of them might have been a woman but I wasn’t sure - he or she had very large breasts but was wearing a tie and silver cufflinks. Tim referred to them as “Sasquatch”. I kept my head down and focussed firmly on my customers, and baby buggy websites. I didn’t want to get into trouble!
I returned from lunch a few minutes early, so the team was quite empty apart from someone sitting at my desk. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I think you’re in the wrong place.”
The man swung round and gave me a friendly smile, showing lots of little pointed teeth. He held out his hand. “Hello there! You must be Morten. I’m Gary, from the audit team. I’ve just been admiring your picture of Katy Perry; she’s great, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes, she’s amazing! So talented. I tweet her every day, you know, just to let her know how I’m getting on. I’m an entertainer, too.”
“Are you really? You must tell me all about that.”
Gary fetched another chair and I told him about my stage career and how I’d finally managed to land a lead role after years and years of trying. Judging by his raised eyebrows and incredulous expression, I would say he was mightily impressed and when one of his colleagues passed by I heard him say to them, “This guy’s really something!” He was so nice! Why on earth was everyone so afraid of the auditors? They were absolutely charming.
“So, Morten, I’d better ask you a few questions about boring old work, hadn’t I?” Gary laughed and took out a note-pad. I suddenly remembered what Joy had said to me this morning.
“I’d better wait until my team manager is back from lunch, if that’s ok. I know she’d want to talk to you herself and-”
“
Oh, we don’t need to bother Joy. She’s in a meeting with another of my team at the moment. It’s nothing to worry about - just some simple questions about your everyday role, that’s all. Dreary old form-filling!”
Thank goodness, it was only routine questions; Joy wouldn’t mind me answering those. Gary smiled at me. “Right then, here we go! Some questions on IT first. Yeah, I know - snore, snore! But you must use a lot of systems in your role, Morten; how do you remember all the different security passwords?”
“Oh, I just use the same word each time, but add a different number on the end. I find that’s the best way.”
“What a great idea! What’s the word?”
“It’s ‘firework’. You know, after one of Katy’s songs. I just add a 1, 2 or 3, depending on the system.”
“Right. So you don’t need to write them down anywhere?”
“Oh yes, I keep them on a sticky inside my drawer, look.” I showed him the yellow post-it note stuck to the back of my drawer. “We all do it, just in case we forget to log out of our systems when we go home and someone else needs to use the workstation. It’s really useful.”
“Yes, yes,” Gary scribbled some notes down. “I imagine it would be. So, the complaints database, Morten; do you load anything into that?”
“Yes, I sometimes add details of customers’ complaints. Er, concerns, I mean.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Yes, because not all concerns are