Page 9 of Just a Taste
Another tick.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
Another tick.
Is this what Roland meant when he said he didn’t want to be blamed for causing an aneurysm? Because, right now, Hoxton looks like he’s halfway there.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask innocently, breaking the charged silence that’s fallen over us.
In true Hoxton fashion, he doesn’t say a word. Just pushes himself up from the table, collects his laptop, and then strides right out of the kitchen.
Despite everything, I can’t help but laugh.
Good riddance.
CHAPTER TWOAlex
I can hear the faint sound of Christmas music coming from the kitchen.
I can’t make out the lyrics properly from here, but I’m pretty sure it’s a modern spin on one of the many,many, festive jingles that have been playing on repeat at the office since December 1st darkened my calendar.
I don’t understand how it doesn’t drive more people insane.
My home, up until now, has been a refuge. A safe space. The one place where I haven’t had to worry about plastering on a fake smile – or grimace if you listen to the way Roland describes it – whenever people gush endlessly about Christmas and the festive season, like it’s any different from any other day of the year.
Roland’s hideous tie, I could handle. But this?
Through the walls I listen as Noelle attempts to hit a particularly high note. She fails miserably, but that doesn’t discourage her, and she continues to belt out the lyrics to the song crackling from her phone speaker.
What is it about Christmas that makes even reasonable people unbearable?
Roland with his tie.
Noelle with her apron and apparently never-ending medley of Christmas songs.
And Luca and this nonsense about hosting a Christmas meal with my Board of Directors.
It’s my own fault really.
Tensions have been high between me and my Board for a few months now and I had, perhaps foolishly, assumed they would just continue to simmer under the surface as they always do. They’ve not liked the direction I’ve been taking the company in over the last year. Never mind that we’ve seen record profits over the last quarter, the consensus seems to be that we could always be making more money. Corners could be cut. Production could take place overseas. Salaries could be lower.
Their pockets could be a little fatter.
I’ve largely ignored their complaints, but I can’t ignore the growing sense of mutiny that ripples under the surface of every meeting we’ve had recently. If I’m not careful, I might just find myself in trouble.
Luca, my friend since our university days and the only member of the Board I can actually tolerate, was the one to suggest tonight.
This Christmas meal.
Just the thought of it makes me roll my eyes, but Luca insisted it would be a necessary step in mending the fractured relationship.
‘They don’t like you,’ Luca said bluntly over drinks one evening. ‘And they don’t think you’re taking the company in the right direction, so they’re already disinclined to agree with anything you suggest.’
‘I hardly think one meal is going to change that.’
‘No,’ Luca conceded, ‘but it’s a gesture of peace. A way for you to show that you’re not as much of a prick as they think you are.’
They’re not the first to make such an assessment about me, and they most definitely won’t be the last. Being liked isn’t something I usually expend a lot of effort caring about, but I’ve worked too hard to lose everything now. If suffering through a Christmas meal with my Board is what I need to do to keep the company I founded running smoothly, then so be it.
