28
Chantelle glared at the back of her boss’s baldy head as he walked away. Fat bastard. He’d given her a right royal rollicking for coming in late. Said he didn’t care if Jesus Christ had showed up in her street, she was on a final warning and that was that. Where did he get off, showing her up in front of her mates?
Well, screw him.
She hated the man. Hated the stupid job, had only taken it ’cause the Social said they’d stop her benefits if she didn’t – same reason she couldn’t hand in her notice. The best she could hope for was the sack. Slipping off her five-inch platforms, she kicked them under the counter, put on a pair of flat glittery pumps and waited near the till for the hordes to arrive. Lizzie, the new girl, unlocked the door and threw it open, but no one was waiting outside. Hardly surprising. It was boiling again. Oppressive. The continuing heatwave meant no one wanted to shop.
Another mind-boggling day of boredom to look forward to.
The boss was too tight-fisted to put in air conditioning. God forbid he’d invest any of his considerable wealth on his staff. The place hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years and was stained brown with nicotine from when he allowed customers to smoke. The staff had never been allowed, of course, even in the back yard that housed the netty, bog, loo, john, WC – whatever form of words you cared to use. Chantelle hated going in there. Spiders were like tarantulas. They waited until you sat down before making an appearance. Same with the rats. The first time she’d seen one, she’d run outside with her knickers round her ankles, straight into Baldy’s path.
Only time she’d seen the dickhead smile.
The evil twat took great delight in docking her pay for any misdemeanour under the sun: being late, texting, flirting with customers, eating, chewing gum, generally having a laugh. If he couldn’t think of a reason, he’d make one up. Breathing was allowed, but only just. He didn’t mind her showing her tits though, did he?
Wanker.
Chantelle sighed. It was her day off tomorrow and she planned to go to Whitley Bay, check out the beach and top up her tan. She deserved a little fun after the mayhem of the last thirty-six hours, what with the press and all.
The boss stuck his head out of his office, checking they were all getting on with their work. Omar was sniggering in the corner, pretending to dust the phones, Chaz on window-cleaning duty making a right mess.
And still Chantelle waited behind the counter. Had everyone died? Where the fuck were the customers? She waited some more and then checked her phone. No messages. Keeping one eye on the office door, she texted a couple of mates:
wot u up 2 the morra? metro to coast ok? got hods of nwz’ll blow yr mind.
Seconds later, she received a reply from Tracy, her best mate from school: oh yeah?
And another from Karin: like wot Shell?
pure gold! meet us at mine – not 2 urly – tell u then. Xx Chantelle enjoyed being a tease.
Staring through the open door, she pocketed her phone. The sex shop opposite was doing a roaring trade. A sign in the window said: 70 per cent off – Midsummer Sale. She might pop over at lunchtime if Baldy went out. It wasn’t Harrods or Harvey Nicks, but they had some good lingerie in there for very special occasions. The way she figured it, she’d be celebrating soon.
‘How much is this one?’ Omar’s voice interrupted her daydream.
He was holding up a Motorola at least ten years old. Bless. Chantelle walked round the counter and dropped her voice, telling him not to waste his money. If he really wanted it, he should nick it tonight before they closed and she’d look the other way. She’d done it hundreds of times and never been caught. But he looked at her affronted, dubious about her plan. Problem was, he’d been brought up, not dragged up, and he was far too nice.
‘Just call it staff discount!’ she whispered.
Omar backed away.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she said. ‘Shy bairns get nowt!’
Still he wasn’t convinced.
Chantelle made a face. ‘Doh . . . you’re on the minimum wage!’ Then she went back to her dreams, annoyed by his hacky look. Give a person advice, the very least they could do was take it. She was pleased she didn’t have his scruples. He was too honest to be trusted, that was his problem. No way would she share her secrets with him. Having an appetite to better yersel’ wasn’t a crime, was it?
Chantelle thought about this for a moment. Her father didn’t think so. He’d taught her never to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was a good dad really, when he was around. Always gave her the benefit of his advice. She could practically hear him from the grave: As one door closes, another slams in your face!
Well, not this time . . .
Chantelle had plans and couldn’t wait to execute them. She’d stumbled upon an opportunity and was hell-bent on making the most of it. Catching her reflection in the glass cabinet to her left, a tingle of excitement ran down her spine as she imagined herself transformed. In a few weeks’ time she’d have new clothes, new hairdo, totally new image. New identity? Nah. Well, maybe. Nah. She liked the name Chantelle. It had a certain amount of je-ne-sais-quoi, as her French teacher used to say. She didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded posh.
God is good, Chantelle thought, and the Devil’s not bad either.