Page 31 of Someone Else's Shoes
He is there within seconds, wearing a pair of slightly too tight suit trousers and a belt with a high shine. His demeanour is that of a headmaster who has been dragged out of an important meeting to deal with a recalcitrant child.
‘Why did you not warn Fishers about the look of the colours on the uncoated paper?’
‘I’m sorry?’
She turns too quickly, and almost knocks her coffee from the table with her elbow.
‘Four thousand copies of their new property brochure and they’re on the phone yelling because of the colour quality on the uncoated paper.’
‘They said they wanted uncoated paper. They were keeping costs down. Ted and I did warn them it would look different from what they were used to.’
Simon pulls a face, as if there is no way this could be true. ‘Mark Fisher says you didn’t tell them anything. Now he wants us to redo the whole job at cost. They say nobody is going to buy houses with everything looking so flat and colourless on the page.’
‘I sat down with Mr Fisher specifically at our last meeting and told him it would be a very different look. I showed him examples of the Clearsills catalogue. He dismissed it and said that would be fine.’
‘So Mr Fisher is lying, is he?’ Simon’s voice is scornful.
‘He – he might be misremembering. But I remember it clearly. I even took notes. He said cutting costs was their main concern. It’s not our fault, Simon, if he’s changed his mind. Besides, it’s the designer’s job to communicate these things to the client. I – I only stepped in because I wasn’t convinced they understood what they were asking for.’
‘Well, Samantha, you stepping in has been pretty unhelpful because they are now convinced it’s all Uberprint’s responsibility. And you need to work out how you’re going to put this mess right before it has very serious ramifications indeed.’
He spins on his heel and is gone before she can protest. She has not even had time to take her coat off. She lets out a long sigh and slumps slightly in her chair.
An email pings as she slides her left arm out of the sleeve, and she leans forward to open it.
Chin up, babe. Don’t let him get you down x
She looks up and over at Joel, whose face has appeared above the side of the Logistics cubicle ten feet away. When he smiles at her she can’t work out whether she wants to blush or burst into tears.
*
At lunchtime the builder who has ignored Sam’s increasingly frantic messages for the best part of four months calls without warning and announces they will be starting work the following week on rebuilding the front wall, which had been irrevocably damaged in June by a pensioner no longer able to see their reversing mirrors. It’s an insurance job, for which Sam breathes a sigh of relief: who knew a small wall could be so expensive?
She calls home while sitting in the staff eating area, one of the few places Simon never visits (he seems to see it as beneath him, with its carefully demarcated coffee-mug ownership and microwave oven). She is eating a tuna and sweetcorn sandwich made with two-day-old bread. It is claggy in her mouth, or maybe today’s altercation with Simon is making it feel like that.
‘Hi, love,’ she says, forcing brightness into her voice. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Okay,’ Phil says flatly.
She can hear the burble of the television down the phone, and pictures him staring blankly at the overly made-up women discussing current affairs on the screen.
‘Well … Des Parry finally got back to me. They’re going to start work on the wall next Monday – finally! – so you’ll need to move the camper-van.’
‘The camper-van? To where?’
‘I don’t know. Onto the road?’
‘But it’s got no tax.’
‘Well, we’ll have to tax it. He can’t get to the wall if it’s parked where it is. Or maybe one of your friends with a garage could look after it.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I can ask the boys.’
She closes her eyes for a moment.
‘We haven’t really spoken in a while. It would feel …’ His voice tails away.
‘Phil. Love. We need to move the van, whatever. It would be great if you could work out how to do that. I’m pretty stretched here.’
