Page 23 of The Typo

My phone buzzed.

‘You owe me, sis,’ she’d texted, along with a wink emoji. I sent her a kiss back as she patiently endured questioning which would be the envy of MI6.

After dinner, the three of us curled up on the sofa and watched my favourite Bond movie, although my concentration levels were not what they should have been because my mind was racing with thoughts of the impending Zoom call with Cameron. Now that I’d agreed to it, so many niggling questions were spinning around in my head. Our conversation flowed easily in email form, but what would it be like to speak to him in real-time? What if it was like one of those horrendous first dates I’d been on during my phase of hitting the apps, all nervous throat clears and awkward silences? Once again, I reminded myself that this couldn’t be further from a dating situation. But I wanted our video call to go well so that we could continue emailing each other. Those missives from Antarctica were the escape I needed from my current circumstances.

Now my thoughts wandered on to the practical side of the call. Everyone knows that video calls are the perfect opportunity to have a snoop and make judgements about a person’s decorative tastes. What message did I want to give Cameron with my surroundings? Could I find a bare wall in my flat to sit in front of, or should I choose one of those fake backgrounds which make you look like you’re in a fancy library or on safari? But didn’t they have a tendency to distort the edges of people’s faces? Should I have my violin casually lying around somewhere? But what if he then asked me to play for him? That would be a tough one to handle. And what should I wear? I’d probably have to be a bit dressier than my usual at home look of a hoody and trackie bottoms. And what about makeup? Full face or the no-makeup makeup look?

I was definitely overthinking this. It was more stressful than preparing for a first date. And this was most definitely not a first date. This was a virtual meet up for two penpals. And that was it.

I longed to ask someone else’s advice. But I was still smarting from Jodie and Meg’s rejection of my calls (the fact that they’d both eventually sent me generic messages complaining about being super busy hadn’t made me feel any better) and I didn’t want to burden Cass at an already very demanding time for her. There was always Liv, of course, but my big sister was the world’s worst secret keeper, and if I spoke to her, she’d inevitably tell my parents who would probably worry that I was getting scammed by some catfisher.

I wished I hadn’t thought of catfishing. I had a niggling concern that in some way, that was what I was doing with Cameron with the rosy tales of my perfect life. No, catfishers were driven by manipulative motives, weren’t they? Mine were more about self-protection, although that probably still wasn’t a good enough reason, my conscience reminded me.

ChapterTwelve

Ispent the rest of the weekend enjoying being cosseted by my parents, and returned to Edinburgh feeling brighter than I had done in ages, determined to be more positive about the challenges I was facing, and to look forward to my video call with Cameron, rather than spending the whole week winding myself up about it. But when I arrived at the theatre on Monday morning, I was greeted by some news which undid all my good intentions.

‘Oh, Amy, have you heard what’s happened?’ said Leonie as soon as I walked into the foyer.

‘We’re not shutting down now, are we?’ I asked, wondering why once again she was in on her day off, and immediately assuming that the boss had decided the consultation process wasn’t worth bothering with after all.

Leonie grimaced. ‘Not yet, although if you ask me, all that uncertainty is exactly why Malcolm’s in the state he is.’

My stomach turned over. ‘What about Malcolm? What’s wrong?’

‘He broke his ankle at the weekend.’ Then she looked around to check we weren’t being overheard. ‘He was doing a bit of moonlighting at one of the other theatres, you know, trying to build a few extra contacts, just in case. He fell off a ladder and cracked the bone. It sounds really nasty.’

I flinched at the thought of him in such pain. I’d suspected he’d been doing some freelance work on the side because of the uncertainty surrounding our jobs. It was so unfair that it had backfired on him like this. It was the last thing Malcolm needed.

‘Poor Malc, that’s awful. Is he still in hospital? What’s the prognosis?’

‘Malcolm being Malcolm, he refused to let the doctors keep him in. He’s back home. But the rumour is that because he was doing an off-the-books job for another company, Ian isn’t going to pay him for his sick leave.’

‘What? That’s outrageous. He can’t do that. It’s illegal, surely?’

‘Well, if it’s not illegal, it’s certainly morally questionable,’ replied Leonie. She frowned as a notification buzzed on her smart watch. ‘Look, sorry, I’ve got to run to a tech meeting. The other rumour is that Ian’s not going to backfill Malcolm while he’s off, so I guess I’m holding the fort. Here’s hoping I don’t screw it all up. Wish me luck.’

And with that she was gone. I headed to the admin office, dumped my coat on the desk and rang Malcolm’s mobile.

His wife answered. I didn’t know her well, but I could recognise the strain in her voice even in her brief greeting.

‘Hello, it’s Amy from work. I’ve just heard about Malcolm’s accident. I’m so sorry. How’s he doing? How are you?’

She sighed. ‘Thanks for calling, Amy. I’ve been better, if you want the truth, not that I’m sharing that with Malcolm. He’s got enough to worry about without fussing over me. I’ll take the phone up to him. He’ll be pleased to hear from you. He’s feeling very sorry for himself at the moment, not that he’ll thank me for telling you that. Bear with me a moment.’

There was a pause, and I heard her heading up the stairs. Last year, Malcolm had hosted a Christmas party for the Variety staff at his house. I remembered the narrow, steep staircase, how he’d joked they’d have to move into a flat for their dotage. How was he going to manage getting around his home now?

There was a quick whispered conversation as the phone was handed over, then Malcolm hesitantly said, ‘Amy? Hello?’ He sounded weary and in pain, which was hardly a surprise. I wished I was there in person so I could give him a hug, not that it would change the situation.

‘Oh Malc, I’m so sorry to hear about your ankle. How are you doing?’

‘Don’t fret about me, hen. The doctors told me that it’s not fatal, and I’m sure I can believe them because they looked like they were at least twelve years old. Never fear, it’ll take more than a broken ankle to finish me off.’ He forced a laugh, but his attempt at positivity didn’t fool me for one second.

‘I should think so. Is there anything I can do, anything you need?’ I knew Malcolm was a very proud person, but I hoped this might be one of those rare occasions when he might accept some help from a friend.

Malcolm sighed. ‘That’s very kind of you, Amy hen, but unless you can knock some sense into the boss, I’m afraid not. I hate sharing my personal business, even with someone as trustworthy as your good self, but I’m livid. He’s saying he can’t afford to pay extended sick leave because of the theatre’s precarious position. He tried to make out that he was sorry about it, gave me a spiel about how if the place was doing better, things would be different. It is what it is, I guess.’

‘It’s appalling what he’s doing,’ I said. ‘Have you spoken to your union rep, seen if there’s anything that can be done, like legal action? Ian can’t treat you this way, especially not after all the years you’ve devoted to the Variety.’

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