Not What They Were Expecting by Neal Doran Read Free Book Online Page B

get over herself and this ‘no one ever listens to me moaning’ nonsense. Maybe a nice tea and another early night would help.
    ‘And here’s your hand-crafted chicken rogan josh and delicately microwaved naan, as requested,’ said James as he came into the living room. ‘Now what shall we watch on the telly?’
    Coming back from a layout meeting on the paper, Ben Smalling hadn’t been surprised to see the note to call Howard Collins on his desk. Although it had been happening less frequently since he’d left the council, still there was the occasional demand from the old Tory toad that coverage remain fair and impartial, or rather, more partial to his views. He knew already how the conversation would go. Howard would be rather chummy and jolly but there’d usually be some reference to dinner with a big-advertising local estate agency and serious concerns about the effect on house prices. That was a best case. Ben hoped it wasn’t a call proposing some sort of ghastly middle-class dinner party to celebrate their offsprings’ fertility. A feast for the foetus. Guess Who’s Come Before Dinner? Abigail’s Partum?
    It didn’t sound like a social call, he supposed. Howard’s message was just that he wanted to speak to Ben about a grave injustice that he thought would be of interest to his readers, and probably right up his street too. Probably some ‘PC gone mad’ rant to do with his business. Well, if it was important he’d call back, Ben decided, doodling a few more dinner party puns along the margins of the copy for this week’s restaurant review.

Chapter 7
    ‘I’ll have an ESB and a bag of crisps, I’ve just got to make this call,’ said Kam.
    James turned back slightly from his position at the bar, and glanced at his friend and colleague while keeping one eye out to make sure the harried barman didn’t miss him.
    ‘ESB? On a school night?’ he asked.
    ‘Been a long day,’ said Kam bouncing on his heels. ‘Hey gorgeous, it’s me… Don’t ask – I’ll tell you later. Is she having her dinner? Yeah, great, pop her on.’
    James raised a finger, but the barman, partially obscured by gleaming pipes for the beer taps, was ambushed at the other end of the long wooden bar.
    ‘Jimmy, I’m just going to take this outside… Hello, Hannah-Banana, are you being a good girl for mummy…?’
    By the time Kam got back James had finally got served, and found a small wobbly table with two tiny stools at the back of the pub near the gents. It wasn’t ideal, but for a Holborn pub at six o’clock on a Thursday it wasn’t bad – although the proximity to the toilets did mean there was a good chance they’d have to be polite to every other sod from the office who was in there. Still, it was gloomy enough back there to be private, gave them both the chance to clock what was going on across a large section of the bar, and didn’t feel as seedy as lurking by the one-armed bandit by the Ladies.
    ‘Sorry about that. Ended up having a quick fag with one of the guys. Miserable bastard makes me seem like Olly Murs.’
    Kam slouched down into his seat and tore into his packet of crisps, ripping the bag apart down the seam and smoothing the packet flat against the table, before repeatedly jabbing at the contents.
    ‘Rough day?’ James asked.
    ‘First week back from holiday and just all about the merger, corralling two IT teams into one vision of an integrated networked backbone at the core of our shared goal of being the best little medium-sized accountancy in the country. I don’t know if I’m supposed to get everybody to cheer and high-five after setting out that utopian vision. There was one chap with tears in his eyes, but that’s because the room we were in had a window and he’s unaccustomed to daylight. And there was some whooping, but that was this other guy’s condition which we’ve been told we have to accommodate, but also never mention. I’m supposed to be inspiring and organising this new