6

6

Pips

"So," said Lina. She stood in the store's doorway, peering out. From there, she had a wide-ranging view of the car park. "You've made less mess than yesterday. I suspect that's why Tamara sent you out here today."

It was late afternoon and I was situated to one side of the store entrance/exit. I'd been allocated two of the nearest car parking spaces to set up a working example of our new barbecue. It was the very latest Value-Cookout model—so we'd been told—and on offer this week. Kingsmere had been blessed with two subsequent days of sunshine, which meant the British public went bonkers, exposing their pale white knees in barely-worn shorts and thinking every subsequent meal could be enjoyed al fresco .

I ignored Lina. The Demo was running to its close; I'd demonstrated everything from chicken wings to stuffed mushrooms, and I was finishing up my last pack of sausages. To be honest, I'd sold more sets of plastic cocktail glasses than barbecues, but that was the boozy British public for you. I'd given the Demo my entertainment best, with a selection of dance moves to Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot and over-enthusiastic gestures with those mushrooms. I'd also given out a sheaf of discount vouchers, struggled to create edible hot dogs for a constant stream of schoolkids, and fought off several real dogs who seemed to expect all the pickings.

Some of the staff had come outside with coffee on their break, to keep me company. And Mr G was seated at the edge of the car park in one of the lime-green plastic garden chairs that were also on special offer—not surprising, because that colour would bring out the worst in anyone, however summery they were feeling—sipping a glass of YBB's Value-Range lemonade and bouncing a kids' football off the nearby garbage bins, all the time watching me work. Guess he thought that was keeping to the letter if not the spirit of Tamara's banishment.

Lina handed me a bottle of water and a cream pastry. Bless her .

"At least I've still got a job," I muttered.

"Why shouldn't you?"

"Lina. You were there! I called the new management guy a fat cat tosser, with no idea of what hard work really is. Told him his marketing initiative was daft crap. Oh God, I came on to him with the force and speed, and subtlety, of a Tube train while crouching on the floor in a sea of spilled gazpacho—"

"He asked after you," she interrupted in her blunt way, taking a huge bite of her own pastry.

"What?"

"After you flounced off. He reassured Tamara everything was okay, helped get Mr G into a cab, at the store's expense, too. Then he asked where you were. Whether you were okay." Her eyes got sly. "And whether you were coming back anytime soon."

"He did?" I grimaced at another bunch of shoppers exiting the store. They flinched back and stepped around me. Maybe I waved the barbecue tongs too enthusiastically. "Well, I did come back."

"And hid in the stockroom for the rest of the day. I think he wanted to talk to you, Mr Head-in-Sand."

I groaned. "Let's forget about the whole thing. I'm here today, and I'm all about a fresh start. Doing another Demo Day."

"And a great job," came another voice. Marcus appeared from behind the repurposed IT'S DEMO DAY AT YOUR BETTER BUYZ!!! banner like a pop-up birthday cake. All freshly shaved and hair-gelled and pretty-blue-eyed. Though the nervousness was hovering.

"I'm needed on frozen foods," Lina said, too loudly, and backed into the store. I was probably the only one saw her wicked grin.

There was a painful little silence while Marcus stood there and I toyed with a charred sausage. No innuendo intended. Where were the hordes of nosey customers when you wanted them as protection? A lone trolley squealed past, pushed by an aimless shopper on his way home. A car engine revved up at the far end of the parking lot and, elsewhere, someone's baby set up a loud wail as a parent inevitably struggled to get them out of the trolley seat.

I sighed and said, "Sorry about yesterday. I was a big-mouthed idiot."

"You're cremating that sausage," he said at the same time.

We stopped, then both smiled, though a little restrained.

"You've been avoiding me." He dipped his head, which made that little kink of hair bounce even more adorably. Still didn't make him any kind of expert on working in a store, did it? But he was dreadfully cute. And he'd backed me up in the Great Gazpacho Debacle.

"Re my earlier comment on being an idiot? I know." I nudged the remaining sausages around, trying to make them look less like sticks of charcoal. "How's your day been?"

He made a tsk noise. "Okay. I've been touring the store with Tamara, talking through the Demo Days schedule. Discussing other potential initiatives. Checking the sales figures for yesterday. Today, too." His expression went a bit sly. "They're the best for weeks."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know small-town gossip. Rumour says Gordon Ramsay may drop by to offer me tips on soup creation. Or the school may be running student day-trips to come and see me screw up even more things. Take your pick!"

He chuckled softly. "There's probably an element of both. But that's what marketing is, Pips. Getting attention."

"All publicity is good publicity?"

He paused. He looked unhappy. "No. It's not. Not if it causes distress." He looked pinker, too. "Not if it causes you distress."

For God's sake . I wanted to believe he cared, but didn't dare, with the way my luck had been going recently. Tamara appeared at the door with her officious look on, and a bright blue suit that sort of matched the YBB uniform and sort of… didn't.

"Are you gentlemen finished?" she asked. "Pips, you can start packing up the barbecue now. Marcus, do you want to continue discussing the plans for next week?"

"No," Marcus said, his eyes still on me.

"I'm sorry?"

He winced. "I mean, no thanks, Tamara. I think we've all done enough for today. Don't you?"

Tamara glanced between us, huffed, then went back inside.