Free Looking for Andrew McCarthy by Jenny Colgan Page A

had a pair of massive saggy washed out grey knickers with a hole in them.
    ‘You’re just too comfortable. Your relationship has become a takeaway,’ Ellie said.
    ‘ What ?’
    ‘You remember when you started going out together? You used to lay the table? Light candles? Cook for him so you could pretend to be his mum and play house together? And now it’s just, sod it, let’s get a takeaway and eat it watching the TV and not talking to each other …’
    ‘I miss it so much,’ said Siobhan sadly.
    ‘… and that’s why I never have relationships. I really can’t stand takeaway food.’
    ‘And absolutely nothing to do with deep-seated psychological trauma.’
    ‘Siobhan, I order you to shut it. Anyway, that’s the takeaway relationship – lukewarm, stirred over, made up of lots of different kinds of crap. And yet everyone seems to want one. God, I’m good tonight.’
    ‘Have you heard from Billy?’ asked Siobhan suddenly.
    ‘I have actually. He said if I came back he’d hand over my Terence Trent D’Arby album. I’m standing my ground.’
    ‘Ignore her, Julia,’ said Siobhan decisively. ‘You and Loxy are great together. You’re relaxed and comfortable enough with each other not to have to worry about your underwear or nutritional intake. He’s a lovely guy. We like parties. Get married.’
    ‘Oh God,’ said Julia.
    ‘You’re late.’ Mr Rooney was patrolling the corridor outside Ellie’s office.
    ‘I was helping a friend in crisis, Sir.’
    ‘Don’t tell me – she wanted to take four weeks leave to do something stupid?’
    ‘Oh no sir – when she asked for leave she got it straight away.’
    ‘You’re trying my patience, Miss Eversholt.’
    ‘You’re ruining my life, Mr Rooney.’
    ‘You’ll thank me in the long run, Miss Eversholt.’
    ‘This is the long run, Mr Rooney.’
    Ellie hummed and hawed, stomped around the office, made coffee, went to the loo, played about with her e-mail and finally flicked around the large scruffy piles of paper on her desk. This wasn’t looking good. Her plan couldn’t possibly come together without her. This stupid fucking job.
    ‘Oh God. Can you think of anything interesting to do?’ she called to the temp.
    ‘Well, there’s fifty voicemail messages piled up from over the weekend if you’re interested,’ said the temp in a bored voice. Ellie stood up and marched over to the doorway.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, when I walked in?’
    ‘Because I hate this job and everyone here.’
    ‘Can you take the messages down for me?’
    ‘No. I’m only supposed to do word processing this week.’
    ‘But there’s no word processing to do.’
    ‘But I don’t care.’
    Ellie sighed. Five of the messages were from one potential client with an old tile making factory who was deliberately trying to push Ellie to see how nice she could be to him. Ellie was getting increasingly tetchy. Now he wanted to be taken to a horse race then a car rally in return for possibly sending them a small bit of business that would involve ripping out a century and a half’s worth of hand fired tiled walls to provide extra metal bathrooms.
    Six were messages from another firm to whom Ellie had lied about some paperwork she had been supposed to send to them, which she had no intention of ever sorting out before the world’s end; seven were from different people she had been trying to arrange a meeting between, none of whom appeared to have a simultaneous opening until 2020. Eight were about the buildings insurance which would require her to meet with the fire officer, who had only a moustache differentiating him from a toad who could stand up, nine were from the finance office – no problem, she had her phone on automatic delete for those, and ten were from Billy, starting off apologetic and finishing actively offensive.
    ‘And a Partridge in a Pear Tree,’ said Ellie crossly. ‘Oh God. This is all unbelievably shit.’
    The phone rang. She picked it