Free OMG Baby! by Emma Garcia

leaves.
    As the door closes, Christie slumps in her seat, clutching her neck with both hands. ‘Oh my God, Viv, no word of a lie he nearly gave me a heart attack!’
    ‘He’s just lonely, that’s all,’ I say, switching on my laptop.
    She begins marching up and down spraying great jets of ‘Spring Breeze’ air freshener. ‘I can’t understand how he can sneak up like that.’
    ‘Did you have your iPod on?’
    ‘No! I just turned round and there he was! Standing right there! I think he might be a ghost.’
    ‘That would be good, a ghost landlord. Would we still have to pay rent, do you think?’
    ‘In blood.’
    ‘Not so good, then.’
    ‘He’s like the living dead. Viv, have you stopped to think why there’s no one else in this building?’
    ‘No, I haven’t.’
    ‘Because he’s eaten them, that’s why.’
    I look up and frown. ‘Have you been on the Horror Channel again?’
    ‘You mark my words, Viv, no good will come of this.’
    ‘Look, Christie, Damon isn’t a ghost, OK. He’s just a bit of a strange man. No need to become Mother Shipton.’
    Her eyes go wide, staring at the back wall, and her mouth hangs slightly open.
    ‘Is he behind me?’ I spin round. Damon is not there.
    ‘See – you’re terrified of him too,’ says Christie.
    I enter into a pact with Christie to meet at the Tube station and always come to work together. Then we make cups of hot sweet tea for the shock and open the box containing Lucy’s wedding crackers.
    Under layers of shredded paper there are plastic bags, and in each bag there are four massive crackers.
    ‘These are grey,’ I say, opening a bag. ‘Does that look grey to you?’
    Christie takes a cracker to the window and squints at it. ‘Hmm, they smell of foist,’ she murmurs.
    ‘And huge. Huge grey crackers. They’re supposed to be mini. These are bigger than Christmas crackers . . . There’s no way that colour could be described as “pearl white”, is there?’
    ‘More like “wet-rat grey”,’ says Christie.
    ‘Where’s the fricking brief?’
    Christie half runs to her desk and grabs a piece of paper.
    I scan down. ‘It doesn’t describe the colour, just a reference number. Did you check it?’
    ‘No. Did you?’
    ‘No,’ I admit.
    Shit. Lucy will kill me.
    ‘We didn’t check the size either. I never thought to – Technology Paul used to do all that at Barnes and Worth,’ Christie says quietly.
    ‘We can’t get a new order in time?’
    She shakes her head and we sit on the floor among packaging and big smelly grey crackers for a bit, thinking. Lucy’s wedding was our showcase. We were supposed to take photos to use as adverts in bridal magazines. We ordered extra hoping to sell to party shops. We’re about to confirm a meeting with Tease, the massive high-street chain of sex shops, this month. These were the samples . . . We’re just depressingly rubbish.
    ‘Shall we pull one?’ she asks.
    I hold out my hand with mounting dread. God knows what’s inside. This business is doomed. We can’t even brief suppliers properly. We pull and the cracker snaps open with a bang and a curl of smoke. The contents slide out onto the floor. I notice with a tiny bit of relief they’re all as expected, except the chocolate boobs have a bit of a white bloom to them.
    ‘Right, well, the favours are fine. That’s good. What we’ll do is save this situation. Somehow,’ I say, as Christie twirls the penis-shaped bubbles between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I mean, the size we can’t do anything about – we just have to hope they fit on the tables – but the colour . . . Maybe a bit of extravagant-looking ribbon?’
    Christie holds a cracker at eye level and slowly turns it. ‘I don’t know, Viv. Would you want these on your wedding table?’
    ‘Of course I would, especially if they doubled up as place settings and had nice ribbon on,’ I say, slowly rolling my hand for her to go with me on this.
    ‘Place settings!’ Christie starts to