Free From Pasta to Pigfoot by Frances Mensah Williams

look at his watch yet again. There was now very little time for him to read through the final document and his agitation was increasing visibly.
    Referred to among the staff simply as Junior, the younger Mr Fiske was an extremely large man and proneto anxiety attacks whenever he felt under the slightest pressure. Faye had worked for him for five years as, despite her heavy hints to HR about the possibility of working for a more dynamic boss, he was actually the only partner at Fiske, Fiske & Partners who was prepared to put up with her constant daydreaming and ‘creative’ typing skills. Junior, despite the occasional panic attacks brought on by her lack of concentration, was fond of Faye, and found her extremely soothing and comforting to be around, as well as always ready to listen to the detailed descriptions of his numerous health problems. Although the senior Mr Fiske, the son of the firm’s original founder, had technically retired almost five years earlier, he had prudently retained his hold on the company. His only son was, therefore, still only one of the several ‘& Partners’ on the company’s letterhead – a key reason for the firm’s continued success.
    Just as the last page of the agreement curled out of the printer, Faye’s office phone rang. Snatching the receiver, she muttered impatiently, ‘Faye Bonsu speaking.’
    â€˜Faye, it’s me, Michael.’ His voice was cool and he sounded less than friendly.
    Pushing the sheaf of papers impatiently into Mr Fiske’s outstretched hand, Faye turned her back on him and hissed into the receiver.
    â€˜Michael! I’ve been trying to get you for days. Why haven’t you called? I’ve left loads of messages on your phone!’
    There was a brief pause before he spoke.
    â€˜I’ve been up in Manchester covering an arts festival,’ was his frosty response. ‘Besides, I needed some time tothink some things through. Your behaviour on Saturday was appalling.’ His self-righteous tone wiped away any lingering guilt about her part in the Brixton fiasco and she felt her blood starting to boil again.
    Struck by the difference in his accent now that Wesley and Jiggy weren’t around, Faye listened without interruption, chewing on her nails and trying to hold her temper in check.
    â€˜You’ve been on at me for ages about wanting to know my friends,’ he said, his voice thick with reproach. ‘And when I take you to meet some of the most intelligent, conscious black people – that frankly it wouldn’t hurt you to spend more time with – what do you do?’
    Not pausing for an answer, he carried on while she listened mutinously until a soft cough from Junior sounded behind her. She turned back to her long-suffering boss who was now pointing frantically at several errors on the agreement that he had marked with a red pen. Faye seized the pages and nodded at him with vigour.
    â€˜Michael, hold on just a minute.’ Cutting into her boyfriend’s interminable tirade, she tucked the handset under her chin and looked up at her boss whose forehead was now covered with a light film of moisture as he glanced anxiously and repeatedly at his watch.
    â€˜I’ll just make the corrections and bring this right into you, Mr Fiske,’ she said, in what she hoped was a soothing tone.
    â€˜Please do so, Faye,’ he said heavily, the light film turning into distinct drops of moisture as he spoke. ‘I’m sure Mr Carmichael will be here for the appointment momentarily.’
    Wiping his wide forehead with a large white handkerchief, Junior lumbered back towards his office.
    Her eyes on his retreating figure, Faye spoke back into the phone. ‘Michael, I’ve got to finish a document for my boss. Can I call you back in five minutes?’
    His voice was glacial. ‘Well, I’m very sorry to interrupt your busy schedule.’
    Faye sighed loudly, scrolling up