“She gave me her word,” Mum said earnestly. “I hardly think she’d lie at this point, do you?”
That was too ridiculous to correct. But this was hardly a debate he wanted to wage with his mother of all people, so Flynn did what he typically did in these situations with his mother—he lied. “I’ll give her a ring.”
“Thank you, Flynn. She’ll be thrilled. Now, when are you coming home? We’ve been invited to the Farmingham Fall gala. It’s rather important that we all attend, as they are our cousins after all.”
“They are not our cousins,” Flynn said calmly. “They are only distantly related through several questionable liaisons.”
“That’s not true!” his mother cried hurtfully. “We are related through the Duke of Alnwick. How I wish you’d take it more seriously, Flynn. Something horrible and catastrophic could happen and we could very well be called to Buckingham.”
“Mum,” Flynn said patiently, “even if we were related to the Farminghams in some believable or even traceable way, we are roughly 1,536th in line to the throne. We will not be called to Buckingham, with the possible exception to hoover their bloody floors!”
“Oh!” Mum exclaimed crossly. “I refuse to listen to this. Now please come home before the Christmas holidays because I will not allow the Olivers to snub the Farminghams. Do I make myself quite clear?”
“Exceedingly,” he said. “And if there’s nothing else, I really must get to work.”
“All right, then, darling. And don’t forget Iris. She’s very sad.”
“Good-bye, Mum. Hello to Dad for me.”
Flynn hung up the phone and shuffled off to the shower, where he seriously contemplated getting a new number. Perhaps at a maximum security loony bin or someplace likewise exotic and far away from England.
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel’s mood did not improve the next day.
Three days of maniacal typing had yielded a whopping $108.33 after all the tax and FICA were removed. It wasn’t even enough to cover the utility bill. Thankfully, Mom’s check had arrived for that.
Which meant, after depositing the stupid check, Rachel had exactly $163.13 in her account to pay for phone and cable (which she was cutting just as soon as they saw the last episode of this season’s Trading Spaces), and to fill an empty pantry.
So, to review: It was a good thing Flynn had not called the last couple of days, because she was really too busy squeezing blood from a turnip to even think about going out with him.
Standing in the Turbo Temp office front, Rachel shoved the check into her satchel and turned around, walked back to the counter. The girl who had handed her the check was still sitting there, chewing a huge wad of bubble gum as she stared at the computer screen. She did not look up when Rachel reappeared at the counter.
Rachel waited politely for the girl to at least notice her, which she would not do. Even moving around a little, from one foot to the other, got no reaction. So Rachel very carefully poked the little bell ringer.
The girl looked up. “Yeah?”
“I don’t suppose you have another job in there?”
“It’s Thursday already.”
“Right.” Yes, indeed it was Thursday already, but for the life of her Rachel couldn’t see what that had to do with the price of tea. “So is there anything else you might have?”
“What I mean is, until next week, there won’t be anything.” This, the girl said without even looking at the computer. But she did blow a big pink bubble.
Rachel was so tempted to pop that thing, but asked instead, “Could you just look? Maybe there’s a day thing I could do until next week.”
The girl acted as if she’d just been asked to fetch her toothbrush and soap and get after the cleaning of Mt. Rushmore. With a very loud sigh, she pulled herself around to the computer and punched a couple of buttons. She sighed again for good measure as the thing loaded. Several boxes popped up on the screen that Rachel couldn’t quite make out. The girl stared intently, then said, “Got nothing this week.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. Like I said—come back Monday.”
Dejected, Rachel turned to go.
“Unless . . .”
Rachel whipped back around. “Unless?”
“There’s this big party in the Blackstone neighborhood. One of those mansions over there. The caterer could use some help.”
“Okay!”
“No, not okay. Your quals don’t match up. I’m not allowed to send you out if your quals don’t match up.”
“I beg your pardon, my what doesn’t match up?”
“Your quals. Qual-i-fi-ca-tions,” she articulated scornfully. “’Course, I don’t have anyone else to do it.”
“What exactly do you not have someone to do? Because I am sure I could do it, whatever it is,” Rachel said, leaning over the counter to see what the girl was looking at. But the girl didn’t care for that and gave Rachel a look from the corner of her eye as she angled the monitor away from Rachel.