The Yorkshire Pudding Club by Milly Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

he didn’t appear to be listening as he was too busy pressing himself backwards into the corner and showing off the whites of his eyeballs. She smiled empathetically at him.
    ‘It’ll be all right, you know, it’s always happening,’ she said with a frustrated tut, but the suit had progressed to perspiring and his breathing was getting more raspy and desperate with every fall of his chest.
    ‘Oh God, help!’ he said suddenly, sliding down the wall, clawing at his collar, his tongue lolling out.
    Oh, marvellous, thought Elizabeth. This is all I need, to be trapped in a lift with Michael from sodding Ryan’s Daughter .
    Up to this point, her first-aid experience had been limited to applying plasters and administering tapeworm tablets to Cleef, but being an avid fan of Casualty , she had seen her fair share of hyperventilating to diagnose it now. She fell into an inspired automatic pilot (hoping he wasn’t having a heart-attack, in which case she was probably about to kill him) and struggled withthe Suit’s windmill-like arms, trying to loosen his tie and collar. Then she turfed her precious sandwich out of its paper bag, gathered up the neck and made him blow into it slowly, to inhale his own breath, all the while talking like super-nurse Charlie Fairhead and getting him to focus in on her eyes, although she did wonder afterwards if she had that bit mixed up with Crocodile Dundee . Anyway, it seemed to work and after what seemed like three months, he started to breathe like a normal well person. She tried to take his mind off the fact that they were stuck in a metal coffin by babbling on about anything and everything: Coronation Street , Cleef, her penchant for prawn sandwiches…just to fill the dark, claustrophobic silence and nip enough edge off his fear to stop him slipping back into lift-nightmare land. She even surprised herself with the flow of bull she managed to keep up. She had just got him to his feet when the lift jerked upwards, the lights came on and the lift juddered up to the eighth floor, where Suit apparently wanted to get out at as well. He did not want a fuss and said he felt perfectly fine although he still looked pretty vacant to Elizabeth. After bog-all thanks and not so much as a ‘Ta-ra, then,’ he meandered off in the direction of Laurence’s office.
    Thank you so very much for saving my life. Oh, it was a pleasure. We must do it again sometime. Oh yes, we simply must. Let me take your address and send you a Thank You card. Certainly, it’s ten Rhymer Street, Barnsley, but really there’s no need. Oh please. Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Oh, you must. Oh, go on then, she chuntered to herself whilstheading off to the toilet. There was no paper when she got in there either. What a day this was turning out to be! She just couldn’t wait to see what else was waiting for her in the wings. She found out the answer to that one three seconds later when she dived into her bag for a couple of tissues and felt something wet and runny. She had forgotten about the prawn sandwich which, turned out of its paper bag, had fallen to bits and coated everything with lettuce and fish and butter and pink mayonnaise. Scooping the bulk of it out, she flushed it away, washed her hands and walked back to her desk. Grrrrrreat!
    She was starting to feel pretty shaky now and thinking back, it was no wonder, because she hadn’t had any breakfast either. Luckily, there was still time for a read, a coffee and something dreadful and inedible from the canteen that would give her a well-needed top-up of energy, at least.
    ‘There you are!’ said Julia, setting her teeth on edge just by breathing the same air. ‘Laurence needs a tray of tea for two. NOW.’
    ‘I’m on lunch, I’m just going to get one myself,’ Elizabeth snapped, because if she did not get something a) caffeiney and b) chocolatey in her system, like now, she would: a) keel over or b) kill someone, like: a) Julia or b) Julia.
    Julia tossed back her