Page 21 of One Snowy Day
Twenty minutes and a hastily concocted plan later, they were back in the space they’d left after they’d drawn a blank earlier.This time, Alyssa reached into the glove compartment for her Once Upon A Time Café baseball cap, then retrieved a slightly bashed box of cupcakes from the back of the van.
‘Wish me luck,’ she told her sister. ‘If it’s the same receptionist, I’ll come straight back out and get you to do it instead.’
‘You know that just because this happens all the time in movies, it’s still highly unlikely to work in real life,’ Ginny pointed out, woefully failing to reciprocate Alyssa’s positive pre-interview encouragement.
‘I do, but it’s the only thing I can think of, so it’s worth a shot.’ She reached back for Ginny’s parka and pulled it on, having decided that her own bright red duffel coat would probably be too easily remembered from earlier.
‘You’re right. And don’t worry…’ Maybe Ginny was going to be positive after all. ‘If you get arrested, I’ll have a whip-round for your bail money. But I’ll need my parka back before they cart you off.’
Alyssa didn’t rise to it, just pulled her hat down tight over her head, fastened her jacket, grabbed the box of cupcakes and made a run through the falling snow for the door. For the second time today, she entered the glittering foyer of the building that housed the offices of Huntington Farrell. Her gaze immediately went to the desk in front of her and she was relieved to see that it was a different receptionist to the two who’d been there earlier.
‘Hello, I have a delivery for Jeremy Sprite,’ she said, with as much confidence as she could muster. She just had to get upstairs to speak to the lawyer face to face, and she was sure she could convince him to help. This – false pretences and the promise of a calorie-laden sweet treat – was how she was going to do it. As Ginny had pointed out, it was a scenario that had worked in more TV shows and movies than she could count. It was a sure thing. A definite win. Her key to turning this whole crappy day around.
‘If you leave it here, someone will come down for it.’ The receptionist burst her bubble with a proverbial pitchfork.
Bollocks. Alyssa had to think on her soggy feet.
‘My instructions are to have Mr Sprite sign for them. It’s cupcakes. They’re from his wife and she insisted that I deliver them personally.’
She sent up a silent plea to the gods of big fat porkies.Please let him be married. Please let him be married. Please let him be married.
‘Hold on,’ the receptionist told her, with just a touch of wariness, as she picked up the phone and went through the same procedure as the earlier visit. ‘Hi. I have a delivery here for Mr Sprite and her instructions are to deliver it personally. It’s from his wife.’
And again…Please let him be married. Please let him be married. Please let him be married.
Alyssa watched as the receptionist’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded her head, listening intently. Was this when her cover was blown and the receptionist learned the Mr Sprite was either single, gay, widowed, or divorced his wife in 2016? When the phone was hung up, Alyssa realised she could no longer breathe.
‘I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible to deliver them personally.’
She forced her lungs to kick in, ‘But I have to. Can you ask again? I know he’s a busy man.’
‘No, you don’t understand. It’s not possible because Mr Sprite has already left for the day. He’s not expected back in the office until next week. I’m surprised his wife didn’t know that.’
Alyssa somehow managed a weak smile. ‘Yes, erm, me too,’ before retreating as gracefully as a woman clutching a battered box of cupcakes could do.
Ginny went to the obvious conclusion when Alyssa climbed back in the van. ‘It didn’t work?’
‘Nope. He’s gone for the day. And the rest of the week.’
‘Bollocks, I’m sorry, Lyss. But also slightly relieved that I don’t have to rustle up bail money. Okay, so what’s the next plan then, Lara Croft?’
Alyssa tossed twelve stale cupcakes into the back of the van. ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to think of something, because I’m not giving up.’
12
LACHLAN
‘Well, check you out in your fancy Range Rover,’ Margaux teased him, as he jumped out of the car in front of the pub they were meeting in.
He had no idea how long she’d been in the doorway, but hopefully not long, because wrestling that Range Rover into the space now that the snow was even thicker had been like guiding an oil tanker round a lazy river.
‘Pity you park like a ninety-year-old man with cataracts though,’ she added, just when he thought he’d got away with it.
Margaux lived in Renfrew now, in a flat on the edge of the River Clyde, next to the shopping centre he’d popped into for a jacket earlier. The pub they’d arranged to meet in was adjacent to the shopping centre, and only a two-minute walk from her home. Or rather, a three-minute trudge in this weather, but Margaux was super-fit and had refused his offer to pick her up on the way.
They found a table in the corner, out of earshot of the few other people who’d ventured out today, and both peeled off their heavy jackets. ‘Thanks for dressing up for me,’ he teased her, gesturing to her usual uniform of athleisure wear – today wasbright pink yoga flares and a sage green sweatshirt, with sleeves that came down over her hands, apart from the two thumbs that were making a bid for escape.
‘Sorry, my tiara is being cleaned. But I’ve got on my diamond knickers, so I did make an effort.’ Grinning, she leaned over the table and put her hands on his. ‘Liking the longer hair by the way. Oh, I’ve missed your ugly face.’
