8

8

Marcus

We dashed back outside to find a confusion of people milling around the barbecue, the air full of loud, excited voices. Shanaz was hopping up and down, waving her hands, which didn't seem to be helping anyone. Flames flickered several inches above the grill, and had caught the edge of the rubbish in the nearby bin. Two kids were wrestling for possession of their dad's coat, apparently to suffocate the flames, while their dad struggled equally hard to keep hold of his precious clothing. Lina was already fast approaching from the store with the fire extinguisher.

But first, there was Mr G, shaking up another two-litre bottle of YBB's Value-Range lemonade, ready to spray it over the flames like champagne at the end of a Formula 1 championship. He seemed to lose focus—or maybe he lost his footing in his floppy sandals, which would certainly explain his contribution to the gazpacho disaster yesterday—because, as the top popped off the bottle, the fine mist of soda arced in the wrong direction.

Right towards us.

"Pips!" I cried, but there wasn't much either of us could do. As I watched, mesmerised, Mr G tottered to a halt, the lemonade gave one last, brutal, farting noise, and spewed its contents all down Pips' front. It swamped him from his chin down to his hips, and all points in between. He yelped; Mr G grunted, suddenly realising he'd lost control of the whole thing; and Lina gave a cry of horror. Someone at the back of the group of customers gave a hoot of laughter.

I bet that was one of those kids wrestling with their dad's coat.

Pips' mouth was open, his eyes wide, his face scarlet. He plucked his sodden tunic away from his pecs, but just held it there; he didn't seem to know what else to do. He looked like he was barely holding his temper, and—oh God—it looked like there were tears threatening.

"Sorry, Pips!" called Mr G. He looked truly regretful. Lina had him by the arm, like he was going to make a break for freedom. I reckoned poor Mr G wasn't going anywhere fast, not in those sandals.

"Take Pips to the staff room," Lina hissed to me. "I'll sort this lot out. Both the barbecue and the peanut gallery." She was rolling up her sleeves as I carefully guided Pips back into the store ahead of me.

It took a couple of hours to douse down the barbecue, remove the bin, and mop the pools of lemonade that gathered on the uneven paving outside. I knew this because Shanaz kept popping her head back through the staff room door to keep us informed, and to gaze at Pips with an expression of equal awe and horror. The twentieth time she tried to talk to Pips, I took a step towards the door—to tell her exactly how little she'd be talking if I got my hands on her and, by the way, how come the fire started while she was in charge of the barbecue?—but then I saw a firm hand grip her by the ear and yank her back out into the hallway. Raised voices followed; the louder of them was Lina's. Shanaz didn't bother us again.

Pips had hunched down on one of the plastic chairs we used at break-time. I mopped him down as best I could with any towels I could find—most of them coloured pink from yesterday's gazpacho incident—but he was still rather damp. He refused to take off the YBB tunic, maybe thinking it'd soak up the worst of the damage, but I could see drops of soda hanging like tears from the bottom of his beautifully fitted trousers.

"Tamara says you should go home now and recover. I think she's worried it's all been too much for you." I paused, not sure how he'd take my next comment. "She said I should make sure you get home safely, and then I could take the rest of the day off too."

"Bet she had that smile as she said it," Pips muttered. "The one that looks like she drew it on with a 2H pencil."

He was right. Tamara had been very tight-lipped.

I protested, "It wasn't your fault. It looks like Shanaz jolted the gas tap back on while she was cleaning it. Then a half-lit cigarette end was tossed by a careless smoker towards the bins, but fell into the barbecue instead—and that was all it needed."

"I should never have left it unattended." Pips looked up at me with an expression somewhere between pitiful and furious. "I told you it hadn't been my year, didn't I? I'll be honest, this is my fourth job in nine months. I only got it because Lina recommended me. I'm pretty sure Tamara will now be recommending I move on again."

"Oh no, she won't," I said. Because if she suggested it, I'd have a strong word in the right quarters. I wasn't going to let Pips suffer for other people's mistakes. "But I thought you said you were only here temporarily?"

"I should have said, until I get fired. It's what happens," he said morosely. "I act up, I don't pay enough attention, I don't really commit to anything. So, now it looks like I'm useless in retail. Same as I was useless in hospitality at the hotel in town. Or in accounts at the council. Or in construction—"

"Construction?" I blurted out. He was strong enough, but so pretty… Or was I stereotyping him?

"Yeah, exactly." He'd caught my reaction. "I broke three nails the first day I was at the yard, and I had to stop driving the forklift—"

"Pips, are you serious?"

He sighed. "Okay, so, no. I only worked in the office and I have to say the eye candy was great. Even if they were all as straight as Tamara's smile. I'm just… not a stayer, it seems." There was a brighter light in his eyes, but he still looked shattered.

"That's total shit," I said.

"What the hell?"

It had been fun to shock him, but I was serious. "You just need to find your niche, and then stick to it. You're a hard worker and you brighten up any place. Okay, so the Demos haven't gone so well. But no one's had a bad word to say about you at YBB. You help out in the stockroom when needed. You train the cashiers, so Lina told me. And Mrs G mentioned how good you are at checking stock for the customers who can't find things."

"Only because Mr G's been there first," Pips grumbled. But the colour was coming back to his cheeks.

I crouched down in front of his chair. "Everyone likes you, Pips. You put your heart into everything. You just have to believe in yourself. As far as I can see, you have tons of confidence. You're bold."

"Yeah? Plenty of other people are too."

"I'm not," I said.

He tilted his head, puzzled. "What do you mean? You're at Head Office, Marcus. You have a fancy job, people paying attention to you, probably a huge salary so you don't have to do extra bloody shifts every week, your career is golden—"

"It's not much of a career when you've only ever had one job," I blurted.

"What?"

"I haven't done much at all since leaving university. Couldn't decide what I wanted to do, did some travelling, ran a business with some Uni friends."

Pips frowned. "That's bold, right?"

"More like stupid, when none of us knew anything about finance or management, and the bloody company crashed within the year. So, I went back to live with my parents, and started looking…"

"For a proper job?"

"Yes." It was a painful reminder of what Pips had said about YBB's management living in an unrealistic bubble, but I seemed to be a prime example. "I know you think you're disadvantaged by having had a lot of jobs. But it's not much better if you haven't had any ! It's a bitter struggle, sending off applications, going to interviews, searching and searching to get an opening. No one wants someone fresh from education, with no commercial experience to offer an employer. The family looks pitying every time I come back from an interview, suggesting, pushing, nagging—"

I stopped; I'd said too much.

Pips put his hand on mine. "Whereas I can say I've had loads of experience. Maybe we could average it out?"

I had to smile. He made me; it was his kind of magic. "I get that you're not exactly thrilled about Head Office Marketing, but I'm enjoying it. I've been sent here on a kind of probation, but I already have so many ideas! It's the first thing that's inspired me in a long time. And I want to make it a win-win. I want to make a difference for YBB, but in the best way."

He was peering at me as I spoke, as if checking my sincerity. Did he see it etched on my face? I wished he could.

"Hm. I guess it's not all bad," he said slowly.

I snorted. "Wow, high praise indeed. Sorry I went all pompous on you there."

He grinned. "No problem. I admire your determination. Your passion."

My pulse sped up. There was something between us, in the glance we gave each other. A twinkle. A spark.

He sighed and got to his feet, as if ready to leave. But he kept hold of my hand, and his grip was warm and sure. "Come for coffee," he said. "It'd better be at mine. I need to change!"