Page 7 of Maid for Advertising
“I’m sorry but it seemed like she’d got the wrong end of the stick and I think its best to be open about these things. She said she wouldn’t be with you in a million years.”
My mouth snapped shut and I stared at Stella for a long moment.
“I had todosomething Jack. This weekend is really important. Your head’s got to be in the game, not mooning over some teenager who’d never even give you the time of day anyway. Give me her number and I’ll let her know we don’t really need her to work – job done.”
That did shut me up. A teenager? Bloody hell, Stella was right. Messing about with a teenager was the last thing I should be doing. I knew she was young but . . .
“It’s probably better this way,” she said smoothly. “Now she won’t be on the yacht and you can get on with the – “
“She’s coming on the yacht,” I said, straightening in my chair and then clearing my throat. My mind flicked to that hole in her jumper. “If she needs the work then she can have it. We need extra serving staff anyway and she has plenty of experience.”
Stella’s eyes flashed with what looked like anger for a moment before her expression cleared. “Right, well, that’s your decision. I’m only trying to help.”
“I know you are, Stell,” I said, managing a quick smile for her. It wasn’t her fault that I wasn’t the irresistible bastard I thought I was. For some reason Stella was unpopular in the office, but she was good with most of the clients and I knew I could trust her. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped. You were just looking out for me.”
She flipped her hair over one shoulder and the blonde sheet fell perfectly down her back as always (hair flipping seemed to be Stella’s favourite thing – it was a wonder she didn’t have arthritis in her neck the amount of twisting it did all day).
“Anything for you, Jack,” she told me, her voice husky and low.
“Are you getting a cold?” I asked. Only last week Tom had been off with laryngitis. For some reason her mouth went from smiling to a flat line.
*****
Urvi
“Tell me you’re taking more than this, loser,” Kira said as she rooted through my small bag. “I’m not sure they’ll even let you into Saint-Tropez with only these outfits.” She held up a pair off frayed, cut-off denim shorts that had seen better days and shook her head in disgust. “Where are your bikinis? Where are the sexy little cover-ups.”
“I’ve packed my swimmers,” I told her and she held up my Speedo one-piece with the tips of her fingers as if it was contaminated with some dread disease.
“Thisis not a bikini,” she told me, chucking it back into the bag. “The only time it’s acceptable to wear this item is if you are training for a women-only sea swim marathon, or going to a leisure centre with kids. And even then it’s pushing it. But in Saint-Tropez thoseswimmerswill be burnt by the locals. My bikini is basically dental floss withtinygwat-slash-nipple-covering triangles. Waaay more appropriate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bugger off Kira and concentrate on your own bag or we’ll be late. I don’t need any more clothes. We’re going to be stuck in uniform all week anyway.”
Kira grimaced and I felt like doing it too. Mr Blight or the head steward, as he called himself, had phoned me a few days ago, sounding mighty pissed off that we were last minute additions, which I found weird seeing as he was the one short on staff. He told me that all the staff wore uniforms and flat shoes - no heels on boats apparently. Seeing as one pair of ugly court shoes was my entire heel collection, and most of my clothes had seen better days, I was in fact relieved by this information.
“I’m not sure I can be confined to a uniform for five days,” Kira complained, hitching her enormous bag up onto her shoulder.
“For a grand I’m sure you’ll manage,” I muttered as I zipped up my bag and pushed her out towards the front door.
*****
I closed my eyes tight and leaned my head back against the seat. Finally we’d made it onto the goddamn plane. The flight had been delayed and the toilets by the departure gate had been so rammed that I hadn’t had time to wait for a cubicle. Unfortunately this meant no insulin for me yet. I still wasn’t confident enough to sort it out surreptitiously in public, despite Kira’s nagging, and without even a seat there had been no chance anyway.
With my eyes still closed I daydreamed about the first class lounge. I’d seen Jack and the other Mad men and women, including the ice-cold Stella head there earlier. They’d whisked past us in the priority cue for check-in and then I’d seen them ushered away into the privacy and comfort enjoyed by the rich. Jack had spared me a half smile and a low wave, but hadn’t stopped to chat with the lesser beings in the economy holding pen. I bit my lip and shook my head. Being bitter about Jack served no purpose. He’d asked me out there to do a job. I was grateful, damn it! The flights were paid for, the food was included. I hadn’t even had to buy any new clothes. It was the answer to my prayers.
I needed that money. It would cover the price of Freestyle Libre for an entire year. I could start taking care of my condition instead of sweeping it under the carpet. Brittle diabetes is what they call it. Which basically means my blood sugar was hard to control. Endless adjustments to the insulin I took had yet to make a difference, but there was some hope in the form of Freestyle Libre: a new system I’d been told about for checking blood glucose more regularly and non-invasively.
Currently I was pricking my skin with a lancet twice a day, and then running a drop of blood through my testing kit to check my levels. It was painful and messy and took too much time. The new system would involve having a sensor stuck on the skin of my arm, which could detect the blood glucose level under the skin. Holding a small device up to the sensor would mean I could check my levels any time I wanted, as often as I wanted. It would also mean I’d be able to see trends in the glucose level and aim for perfect control. But – of course there had to be a but - the NHS did not fund it, at least not in my area. The starter pack alone (a reader and two sensors) cost £160, and then the sensor had to be replaced every ten days at £70 a pop, meaning another £210 every month. It was a series of extra costs that I just couldn’t afford. But this weekend could change that – at least for a while.
So, yeah, the new system could revolutionize my diabetic control, but for the moment Ineededto prick my goddamn finger and I hadn’t had the chance to do that today, hence no insulin yet, hence no breakfast yet. Not ideal, as with the flight delay it was now nearly noon. I felt a drop of sweat roll down my back as I gave the tall man claiming the seat next to me a weak smile, wishing that Kira and I had been more organized and booked seats together.
An announcement from the captain came over the tannoy: another twenty minute delay. So probably another hour until I could get to the toilet and check my blood glucose. I made a decision and got up from my chair before the large man could sit down, and made my way to the toilet. Nearly everyone was seated, so the aisle was clear. Before I slipped inside the airhostess caught my eye. I was aware that my expression must have been a little frantic. Her gaze flicked down to my bag and she tilted her head to the side, but I disappeared into the cubicle before she could say anything.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I sat on the shut toilet seat and fished out my kit. I was so hungry now my hands were shaking and I dropped the reader a couple of times. After fumbling around unsuccessfully for about five minutes there was a sharp rap on the door.
“Everything ok in there?” a female voice sounded from the other side and I swore under my breath.
“Uh, fine. I . . . um, just need a minute.”
