Love Your Neighbour: A laugh-out-loud love from the author of One Day in December. Kat French

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       CHAPTER FIVE

      Gabe shuffled through the disappointingly thin pile of CVs on the reception desk with a heavy sigh. The job advert he’d placed in The Herald had yielded eleven applications for the receptionist post, but on closer inspection only a clutch of them were even remotely suitable for interview. He’d briefly considered the interesting but wildly unsuitable Ms Scarlet Ribbons, a part-time stripper who’d handily enclosed an eye-catching photograph of herself rather than a CV. He could think of many things Ms Ribbons would no doubt excel at, but handling bereaved relatives wasn’t one of them.

      In the end he’d whittled it down to the three most decent-sounding applicants and arranged the interviews over the course of this afternoon. A knot of pressure formed in his gut. He needed to get this right. Hiring and firing was yet another aspect of business that was a first for him, but he knew from experience that a great receptionist could be the lynchpin of such an organisation.

      He glanced up as Dora appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits.

      ‘You’re an angel, Dora,’ he smiled and glanced at the clock. ‘Time for a quick one?’ He nodded towards the teapot and two cups, knowing that she’d banked on him asking exactly that. She made a show of looking at her duster for a second before pushing it into her apron pocket and sitting down at reception.

      ‘You look grand sitting there. I don’t suppose you’re any good at reception work?’ He grinned as he poured Dora a cup of tea and added two sugars, knowing her preference because they shared a cuppa most mornings these days.

      ‘Not me, Gabriel,’ she said. ‘All that sitting about. You know me, I like to be up and about.’ She was right there. Dora was one of life’s bustlers, a behind-the-scenes person who oiled life’s wheels for the front men. Not that it made her any less important. She was already proving herself indispensable, both in her professional capacity and as a warm and funny listening ear to his problems. Gabe had grown up in the bosom of a large Irish family where the women ruled the roost, and here in Beckleberry, Dora had slipped seamlessly into that role.

      ‘I’ll keep an eye on these three that are coming in this morning,’ she said. ‘Tell you what I make of them.’

      Gabe nodded, mildly concerned for the job applicants. Dora’s approval had proved to be a hard-won commodity. ‘Thanks Dora. I’ve not done this before. I need to get it right.’

      ‘You will, Gabriel. I’ve faith in you.’

      He glanced down for a second, fiercely reminded of home by Dora’s kindness. Reaching out, he picked up the plate of biscuits, grinning when she shook her head and patted her stout tummy the way she did every day.

      ‘Ah go on with you, you’re gorgeous. Have a biscuit.’

      He glanced up at the clock ten minutes later as Dora left reception and then squinted through the driving rain outside. A whippet-thin woman in a long flasher mac was on her way over, hunched beneath a black umbrella. Gabe checked the appointment sheet. Five minutes early. Punctual. A good first sign.

      He opened the door for her, and then pretended not to hear the choice collection of swear words she rattled off as she battled with her umbrella in the high wind. Droplets of rain bounced off her lacquered helmet of short, peroxide-blonde hair, and when she’d finally beaten the brolly into submission she turned to him with a cigarette-stained smile. She pumped his hand with surprising strength for such a slight woman.

      ‘Valerie McDonald,’ she barked, and declined his offer of a drink unless it was a neat double vodka. Gabe smiled, and dismissed her oddness as nerves. ‘So, Valerie. Maybe you could start by telling me what it is about the job that appeals to you.’

      Valerie snorted and shot off at a pace.

      ‘I’ve spent my entire life flogging one thing or another, Mr Ryan. Houses. Photocopiers. Cars. You name it, I’ve sold it.’ She smiled, and Gabe decided it was a safe bet that she’d never sold toothpaste.

      ‘Coffins will be a damn sight easier to sell than sports cars, let me tell you. Not so many optional extras.’

      Her nasal laugh had the same effect on Gabe as fingernails down a chalkboard. He ran a nervous hand over his stubble. This wasn’t going quite as he’d hoped. Valerie leaned towards him across the desk and lowered her voice, even though there was no one else in the room to keep her secrets from.

      ‘I’ll make sure the punters buy the expensive mahogany boxes rather than the plywood, if you get my drift.’ She tapped the side of her nose twice with an arch wink. ‘Bit of a captive audience around here. Plenty of old coffin dodgers in these villages. A shrewd move, if I may say so, Mr Ryan.’

      Gabe decided he really wasn’t keen on Valerie McDonald. ‘That’s not why I …’

      She drew her hand across her throat to shut him up. ‘It wasn’t a criticism. Au contraire. I’ve already developed a sales strategy for you, actually.’

      ‘You have?’

      Valerie nodded. ‘I’ll need to move this desk closer to the window first though.’ She slapped the beechwood surface of the brand-new and carefully positioned reception desk. Gabe was almost afraid to ask why, but his silence was encouragement enough for Valerie.

      ‘If I’m by the windows, I can check out the family’s wheels when they pull up, see? Then when they come in, I’ll be able to pitch my sales patter at the right level. Merc equals solid oak casket. BMW more modern, maybe something in birch with Shaker handles? Dented Fiat Panda equals bargain-basement pine.’ She laughed, and nodded at her own wit. ‘It’s clever, isn’t it?’

      Gabe СКАЧАТЬ