The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.

       A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.

      And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.

      A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been reprimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.

      I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’m the bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!

      I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.

      I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …

      

      I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.

      ‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.

       Keep calm and carry yarn.

      That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.

      Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.

      Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because she likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?

      The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do СКАЧАТЬ