Free The Time of Our Lives by Jane Costello

we?’
    ‘Shit a brick.’
    ‘Wow. I’m not sure what they’ll make of that.’
    ‘That’s not my comment!’
    ‘God, of course. So sorry.’ My head spins as I contemplate the consequences of a front-page story like that. We’d be the laughing stock of the industry. All our nice,
reassuring adverts featuring wholesome families with 2.4 children would be mocked mercilessly. And with plenty of time left for Getreide to put the brakes on the merger, who would blame them for
wanting to disassociate themselves from a company whose reputation has become suddenly and dramatically sleaze-ridden?
    ‘I need to think about this,’ I mutter, hyperventilating. ‘I need to look into this. I need to find out if this is true. What am I saying? It
can’t
be true. It
sounds like a load of nonsense. What on earth made them think it was anyone to do with Peebles?’
    ‘One of the passengers heard him bragging that he was a big cheese in this company.’
    ‘Did this journalist have the name of whoever he thinks was involved?’
    ‘I don’t think so because he asked us for it. He said we’d be doing him a big favour, although I don’t know why he thought we’d be inclined to do him any favours.
You don’t think it was Gaz Silverman, do you?’ Gaz Silverman is our deputy accounts director, though I have no idea why Laura would think it was him.
    ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Is Roy not in the office yet?’
    ‘Well, I’ve just noticed that his coat’s here, so he must be in a meeting.’
    ‘At least he’s in the building then. Please try and track him down, Laura. And the PR agency. Let’s both of us get on to them.’
    ‘Okay, Ms—boss.’
    I’m about to insist she calls me Imogen when I realise ‘boss’ doesn’t sound too bad at all.

Chapter 9
    I know I should be enjoying our day trip to Las Ramblas; it’s my sort of place: a majestic, tree-lined pedestrian avenue that’s abundantly atmospheric and flanked
with bustling shops and restaurants.
    It’s one of Barcelona’s biggest tourist attractions and visiting was one of my top priorities. So why is it currently playing second fiddle to my preoccupation with work? That, and
the fact that my new flip-flops appear to have an integrated cheese grater between the toes.
    ‘Imogen, why do you look so worried?’ Nicola asks, linking my arm with hers as an intense sun beats down on our shoulders.
    ‘I don’t,’ I protest. ‘I mean, I’m not worried.’ I pause. ‘Okay, maybe I am. I can’t deny I’ll feel happier when I’ve got hold of Roy
or the PR agency. Unless I hear from them soon I’m going to have to tell David what’s going on, a prospect I am not relishing. I can’t understand why neither of them are returning
my calls.’
    ‘Isn’t that someone else’s problem while you’re on holiday?’ Meredith asks. She’s in Daisy Duke cut-offs and from behind she doesn’t even look pregnant,
a phenomenon I’ve noticed is particularly unsettling for those with aspirations to chat her up.
    ‘You’d think so—’ I am halted mid-sentence by a hot, damp sensation that splashes onto my shoulder with an ominous plop. I do a double take, realising to my horror that a
bird has ‘done its business’ on me. Though a description of such benign modesty hardly suffices – whatever creature emptied its bowels as it passed overhead has clearly been
feasting on the same grub as King Kong. ‘Oh, noooo!’ I shriek as the offending pulp trickles down my arm with all the resistance of a Cornetto in front of a three-bar fire.
    Meredith’s eyes grow to three times their usual size. ‘What the
hell
is that?’
    ‘What does it look like?’ Nicola mutters as she roots around in her bag for a tissue. But someone beats her to it.
    ‘
Déjeme ayudarle
.’ The voice is gruff but barely audible, even if I could speak Spanish. Its origin is a tall, craggy-jowled man with eyebrows that could remove rust
from a haddock trawler. To my alarm,