BOB HAD CALLED ME in for a meeting. He stared at me when I went into his office. I wondered why.

‘Your hair!’ he said, eventually, as though guessing the answer to a question. I hadn’t found it easy to style this morning, but I thought I’d made a fair attempt. I put my hands to my head.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I said.

‘Nothing’s wrong with it. It looks … it looks nice,’ he said, smiling and nodding. There was a moment’s awkwardness. Neither of us was used to Bob commenting on my appearance.

‘I had it cut,’ I said, ‘obviously.’ He nodded.

‘Sit down, Eleanor.’ I looked around. To say Bob’s office was untidy was rather to understate the degree of chaos in which it was always to be found. I lifted a pile of brochures from the chair which faced his desk and placed them on the floor. He leaned forward. Bob has aged very badly during the time that I’ve known him; his hair has almost all fallen out and he has put on quite a lot of weight. He looks rather like a dissolute baby.

‘You’ve worked here for a long time, Eleanor,’ he said. I nodded; that was factually correct. ‘Did you know that Loretta is going off on leave for the foreseeable?’ I shook my head. I am not interested in the petty tittle-tattle of quotidian office life. Unless it’s gossip about a certain singer, of course.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ I said. ‘I always doubted her grasp of the basic principles of Value Added Tax,’ I shrugged, ‘so perhaps it’s for the best.’

‘Her husband’s got testicular cancer, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘She wants to look after him.’

I thought about this for a moment.

‘That must be very difficult for them both,’ I said. ‘But, if detected early enough, the survival and recovery rates for cancer of the testes are good. If you’re male and you are unfortunate enough to get any sort of cancer, that’s probably the best type to have.’

He fiddled with one of his fancy black pens. ‘So,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be needing a new office manager, for the next few months at least.’ I nodded. ‘Would you be interested, Eleanor? It’d mean a bit more money, a bit more responsibility. I think you’re ready for it, though.’

I considered this.

‘How much more money?’ I asked. He wrote a sum on a Post-it note, tore it from the pad and passed it across to me. I gasped. ‘In addition to my current salary?’

I had visions of taking taxis to work rather than getting the bus, of upgrading to Tesco Finest everything, and of drinking the kind of vodka that comes in chunky opaque bottles.

‘No, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘That amount would be your new salary.’ ‘Ah,’ I said.

If that were the case, then I would need to consider the risk/reward ratio carefully. Would the increase in salary compensate adequately for the increased amount of tedious administration work I’d be required to undertake, the augmented levels of responsibility for the successful functioning of the office and, worse still, for the significantly increased degree of interaction that I’d need to undertake with my colleagues?

‘May I take a few days to consider it, Bob?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Of course, Eleanor. I expected you to say that.’ I looked at my hands.

‘You’re a good worker, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘How long has it been now – eight years?’

‘Nine,’ I said.

‘Nine years, and you’ve never had a day off sick, never used all your annual leave. That’s dedication, you know. It’s not easy to find these days.’

‘It’s not dedication,’ I said. ‘I simply have a very robust constitution and no one to go on holiday with.’

He looked away and I stood up, ready to leave.

He cleared his throat. ‘Oh, one other thing, Eleanor. Because Loretta’s so busy preparing all the handover stuff … could I ask you to help out with something?’

‘Ask away, Bob,’ I said.

‘The office Christmas lunch – do you think you could organize it this year?’ he said. ‘She won’t have time before she finishes up, and I’ve already had people in my office whingeing that if we don’t book somewhere now …’

‘… they’ll end up in Wetherspoons,’ I said, nodding. ‘Yes, I’m familiar with the issues, Bob. If you wish it, I’d certainly be willing to organize the lunch. Do I have carte blanche with regard to venue, menu and theme?’

Bob nodded, already busy at his computer again.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘The company will chip in a tenner per head – after that, it’s up to you guys to choose where to go and how much extra you want to pay.’

‘Thank you, Bob,’ I said. ‘I won’t let you down.’

He wasn’t listening, engrossed with whatever was on his screen. My head was buzzing. Two major decisions to make. Another party to go to. And handsome, talented Johnnie Lomond, chanteur extraordinaire and potential life partner on the horizon. Life was very intense.

When I sat back down at my computer, I stared at the screen for some time, not actually reading the words. I felt slightly sick at the thought of all the dilemmas I faced, to the extent that, although it was almost lunchtime, I had no desire to buy and eat my Meal Deal. It might be helpful to talk to someone about it all, I realized. I remembered that from the past. Apparently, talking was good; it helped to keep anxieties in perspective. People had kept saying that. Talk to someone, do you want to talk about it, tell me how you feel, anything you want to share with the group, Eleanor? You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Miss Oliphant, can you tell us in your own words what you recall of the events that took place that evening?

I felt a tiny trickle of sweat run down my back, and a fluttering in my chest like a trapped bird. The computer made that annoying ping which indicates the arrival of an electronic message. I clicked on it without thinking. How I despise these Pavlovian responses in myself!

Hi E, you still on for Keith’s party Saturday? Meet you at the station 8ish? R

He had attached a graphic: a photograph of a famous politician’s face, next to a head shot of a dog that looked exactly like him. I snorted – the

resemblance was uncanny. Underneath he’d written Wednesday morning LOLs, whatever that meant.

Impulsively I typed straight back:

Good morning, Raymond. The canine/ministerial graphic was most amusing. Would you happen to be free for lunch at 12.30 by any chance? Regards, Eleanor

There was no reply for almost fifteen minutes, and I began to regret my impulsive decision. I hadn’t ever invited anyone to join me for lunch before. I conducted my usual online checks for any updates from the musician – there was nothing new on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, sadly. It made me feel anxious when he went quiet. I suspected it meant he was either very sad, or, perhaps more worryingly, that he was very happy. A new girlfriend?

I felt queasy, and was thinking that perhaps I wouldn’t go for the full Meal Deal today, just an antioxidant smoothie and a small bag of wasabi peanuts, when another message arrived.

Soz – had to deal with a helpdesk call. Told him to switch it off and switch it back on again LOL. Yeh, lunch would be good. See you out front in 5? R.

I hit reply.

That would be fine. Thank you.

Daringly, I didn’t put my name, because I realized he’d know it was from me.

Raymond was late, arriving in eight rather than the promised five minutes, but I decided not to make anything of it on this one occasion. He suggested we went to a café he liked around the corner.

It wasn’t the sort of place I would normally frequent, being rather bohemian and shabby-looking, with mismatched furniture and a lot of cushions and throws. What was the likelihood of them being laundered on any sort of regular basis, I wondered. Minimal at best. I shuddered at the thought of all those microbes; the warmth of the café and the dense fibres of the cushions would be a perfect breeding ground for dust mites and perhaps even lice. I sat at a table with ordinary wooden chairs and no soft furnishings.

Raymond seemed to know the waiter, who greeted him by name when he brought the menus. The staff seemed to be the same sort of person as him: unkempt, scruffy, badly dressed, both the men and the women.

‘The falafel’s usually good,’ he said, ‘or the soup –’ pointing to the Specials board.

‘Cream of cauliflower and cumin,’ I said, reading aloud. ‘Oh no. No, I really don’t think so.’

I was still in gastric turmoil after my meeting with Bob, and so I simply ordered a frothy coffee and a cheese scone. Whatever Raymond was eating smelled disgusting, like gently reheated vomit. He ate noisily with his mouth partially open, so that I had to look away. It made it easier to broach the subject of Bob’s offer and the task he had entrusted me with.

‘May I ask you something, Raymond?’ I said. He slurped his cola and nodded. I looked away again. The man who had served us was lounging at the counter, nodding his head in time with the music. It was a cacophonous din, with too many guitars and not enough melody. It was, I thought, the sound of madness, the kind of music that lunatics hear in their heads just before they slice the heads off foxes and throw them into their neighbour’s back garden.

‘I’ve been offered a promotion, to the position of office manager,’ I said. ‘Do you think I should accept?’

He stopped chomping and took another slurp of his drink.

‘That’s brilliant, Eleanor,’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s stopping you?’

I had a nibble of my scone – it was unexpectedly delicious, much nicer than the ones you get in Tesco. I never thought I’d find myself thinking that about anything.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘on the plus side, I would get paid more money. Not a huge amount more, but still … enough to allow me to upgrade on certain items. On the other hand, it would entail more work and more responsibility. And the office is largely staffed by shirkers and idiots, Raymond. Managing them and their workloads would be quite a challenge, I can assure you.’

He snorted with laughter, then coughed – it appeared that his cola had gone down the wrong way.

‘I see your point,’ he said. ‘What it boils down to is, is the extra money worth the extra hassle?’

‘Quite,’ I said, ‘you’ve summarized my dilemma very neatly.’

He paused, chomped some more.

‘What’s your game plan, Eleanor?’ he asked.

I had no idea what he meant, which must have been evident from my facial expression.

‘What I mean is, do you plan to stay in office administration long term? If you do, it could be good – a new title and salary. When you come to take the next step, you’ll be in a much better position.’

‘What do you mean, “next step”?’ I said. The man was incapable of speaking in plain English.

‘When you apply for another job, with another company, I mean,’ he explained, waving his fork around. I shrank back, fearful that some microspots of spittle might reach me.

‘Well, you don’t want to work at By Design for ever, do you?’ he said. ‘You’re, what, twenty-six, twenty-seven?’

‘I recently turned thirty Raymond,’ I said, surprisingly pleased. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, you’re not planning to spend the rest of your

life doing Bob’s books, are you?’

I shrugged; I genuinely hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘What else would I do?’

‘Eleanor!’ he said, shocked for some reason. ‘You’re bright, you’re conscientious, you’re … very well organized,’ he said. ‘There are lots of other jobs you could do.’

‘Really?’ I said, dubious.

‘Sure!’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘I mean, you’re numerate, right?

You’re well spoken. Do you know any other languages?’

I nodded. ‘I have a very good grasp of Latin, actually,’ I said.

He pursed his whiskery little mouth. ‘Hmm,’ he said, gesturing to the waiter, who came over and cleared our table. He returned with two coffees and an unrequested saucer of chocolate truffles.

‘Enjoy, guys!’ he said, placing the dish with a flourish.

I shook my head, not believing that anyone would actually say such a thing.

Raymond returned to his theme.

‘There are lots of places that would be looking to hire an experienced office manager, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘Not just graphic design – it could be a GP practice, or an IT company or, well … loads of places!’ He shoved a truffle in his mouth. ‘Do you want to stay in Glasgow? You could move

to Edinburgh, or London or … well, the world’s your oyster really, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ I said. Again, it had never crossed my mind to move cities, live somewhere else. Bath, with its fabulous Roman remains, York, London

… it was all a bit too much.

‘It occurs to me that there are many things in life that I’ve never considered doing, Raymond. I suppose I hadn’t realized that I had any control over them. That sounds ridiculous, I know,’ I said.

He looked very serious, and leaned forward.

‘Eleanor, it can’t have been easy for you. You don’t have any brothers or sisters, your dad’s never been around, and you said that you have quite a … difficult relationship with your mum?’

I nodded.

‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said.

He looked expectant; bizarrely, he seemed to require a more detailed response than this. I sighed, shook my head. I spoke as slowly and clearly as I could.

‘I’m seeing you right now, Raymond. You’re sitting right in front of me.’

He snorted with laughter.

‘You know fine well what I mean, Eleanor.’ It became apparent that I didn’t.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ he said, patiently.

I hesitated. ‘No. Well … there is someone. But no, I suppose the factually correct answer at this point in time is no, for the time being, at least.’

‘So you have a lot to deal with on your own,’ he said, not as a question but as a statement of fact. ‘You shouldn’t give yourself a hard time for not having a ten-year career plan.’

‘Do you have a ten-year career plan?’ I asked. It seemed unlikely. ‘Nah,’ he said, smiling. ‘Does anybody? Anybody normal, I mean?’ I shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure I know any normal people,’ I said. ‘None taken, Eleanor,’ he said, laughing.

I pondered this, then realized what he meant.

‘I didn’t mean any offence, Raymond,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he said, gesturing for the bill. ‘So, when do you have to decide about the job? I think you should take it, for what it’s worth,’

he said. ‘Nothing ventured, eh? Plus, I’m sure you’d make a great office manager.’

I looked at him closely, waiting for a follow-up remark or a snide comment, but, much to my surprise, neither was forthcoming. He took out his wallet and paid the bill. I protested vehemently but he flat-out refused to allow me to contribute my share.

‘You only had a coffee and a scone,’ he said. ‘You can buy me lunch when you get your first office manager’s pay cheque!’ He smiled.

I thanked him. No one had ever bought me lunch before. It was a very pleasant feeling, to have someone incur expenditure on my behalf, voluntarily, expecting nothing in return.

The hour was up just as we got back to the office building, and so we said a brief goodbye before returning to our respective desks. This was the first day in nine years that I’d eaten lunch with a companion, and that I hadn’t done the crossword. Strangely, I felt no concern about the crossword whatsoever. Perhaps I’d do it this evening instead. Perhaps I’d simply recycle the newspaper without even attempting it. As Raymond had pointed out, the world was full of infinite possibility. I opened my email and typed him a message.

Dear R, thank you very much for lunch. Kind regards, E

I supposed it made sense, in a way, shortening the names. It was obvious who was addressing whom, after all. He replied quickly:

No worries, good luck with your decision. See you Saturday! R

Life felt like it was moving very fast indeed at the moment, a whirlwind of possibilities. I hadn’t even thought about the musician this afternoon. I logged onto my computer and started researching venues for the Christmas lunch. This was going to be quite the event, I decided. It would be unlike any other Christmas lunch. It would be important to eschew cliché and precedent. I would do something different, something that would surprise and delight my co-workers, subvert their expectations. It wouldn’t be easy. One thing I knew for certain was this: Bob’s ten-pound budget would be the basis of the event, and no one would need to contribute further. I still resented all the monetary payments I’d been forced to make over the years to have a terrible time in a terrible place with terrible people on the last Friday before the twenty-fifth of December.

After all, how hard could it be? Raymond had really been most encouraging over lunch. If I could perform scansion on the Aeneid, if I could build a macro in an Excel spreadsheet, if I could spend the last nine birthdays and Christmases and New Year’s Eves alone, then I’m sure I could manage to organize a delightful festive lunch for thirty people on a budget of ten pounds per capita.