‘Hiya!’ Gwen said again.
‘What?’ said the woman, looking up. She looked odd. Distracted, but also a bit… no, not shy… embarrassed. Why? She hadn’t farted or something had she? Oh, please let it be that. Please.
‘Is everything OK?’ ventured Gwen, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.
‘What do you think?’ the woman snapped back, miserably. ‘I look like this! It is definitely not OK.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Gwen, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘I think you look very nice,’ she finished, sounding like her Aunt Phyliss outside Sunday chapel. Please tell me she’s not about to start ranting about feeling fat. I am so going to hate her.
‘Nice?’ snorted the woman. ‘Not you too. Honestly, you turn up with a short skirt, and suddenly everyone’s trying to jump you. Typical Torchwood.’
Gwen blinked. ‘Excuse me, I think you’re mistaken. I’m, ah, definitely not trying to have…’ What would they say in a real office? Er… ‘Oh god. I’m not flirting with you. I am simply saying that I think that you’re looking… quite nice. Yes.’ Gwen finished the sentence and vowed never to start another one. There. It probably hadn’t gone too badly – the poor thing was probably constantly being hit on. Easy mistake to make, etc, olive branch extended. Lovely.
‘Oh, please, get over yourself, Gwen,’ snapped the woman, miserably. ‘You don’t understand a thing.’
‘Is that so?’ Gwen felt herself puffing up. The woman started to smile, smile in a way that Gwen decided would go really well with a slap. As the red mist started to descend, Gwen heard the thundering of boots on the metal gantry behind her.
‘Gwen!’ yelled Jack. ‘Gwen!’
Gwen turned. ‘What?’ she snapped.
‘It’s not what you think!’ said Jack.
‘No, it’s not,’ said the woman, looking a little scared. Good. Hang on. There was something familiar. A little sad, even.
Gwen looked back at the woman. ‘Do I know you?’
The woman shrugged helplessly.
‘Gwen, this is Ianto,’ said Jack.
‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said Gwen.
EMMA IS HAVING HER LAST BAD DAY AT WORK
Emma took a drag on her cigarette and looked up at the office. The voice in her head was telling her marvellous things. And she believed them.
She couldn’t quite get over the changes in her. It was like she’d been on one of those TV programmes, only without the agonising surgery and patronising humiliation. She was calling today Makeover Day, the day she made a real difference at work.
Interestingly, people had only gradually noticed the change in her, which disappointed her slightly.
‘Oh,’ Emma had thought. ‘Not even a little?’
And yet, the morning had passed with barely a comment – good hair, nice dress, was that a new herbal tea she was drinking? But nothing to stop the world. The thing is, there was only one reaction she was waiting for – Vile Kate’s.
But Vile Kate hadn’t even noticed. ‘Ooh, you shouldn’t eat that, not now you’ve passed the big three-oh!’ she’d said. Vile Kate was always saying things like that. Always pottering surreptitiously around the office with large cards with nasty drawings of teddies on them, her life an endless round of collecting together presents for leaving- dos and birthdays and weddings and births and Secret-sodding-Santa.
Kate was, as far as everyone else seemed to think, the jolliest, nicest person in the office. She had a lovely new boyfriend (‘Maurice’ pronounced ‘Maw-reece’), an almost endless bundle of kiddies, and a natural ability to succeed at work without either intelligence or effort. And yet Emma hated and feared Vile Kate.
And this was because of her stunning talent at swatting her down without effort: ‘Aw, sweets – you’re all out of breath. Of course you’ll be like that if you keep smoking.’ Or: ‘Oh dear. You’re looking tired. Are you all right?’
Everyone liked Kate. No one really liked Emma. Not that that was a real problem – it was just work. It hadn’t been a problem in Bristol. Emma had had loads of mates back in Bristol. She’d loved living there. Well, until she and Paul had split up. They’d been really amicable about it, and it had been easier moving to the Cardiff branch when the chance of a tiny promotion had come up. She still saw him loads, and they still hung out with the same bunch of friends a couple of times a month. It was all great. It was just taking her a while to find friends of her own in Cardiff. Which had meant a lot of quiet nights in, or nights out with the girls from work. Everyone at work (apart from Kate) was lovely. They were just a bit… you know, All Bar One.
Emma had been trying to learn a bit about rugby and to like the flavour of Brains followed rapidly by zambuca. She was already a master of staggering down Chippie Alley in search of a kebab and a taxi.
‘I see you’re doing that speed-dating, love,’ continued Kate, looming over her desk. She had one of those voices, a constant tone of mildly resentful surprise. Emma imagined she’d use the same tone for ‘Ooh, I hear you’ve joined the Nazi Party.’
Emma stared dead ahead at her computer and let the remark hang in the air. Don’t respond. Don’t join in. Don’t… you know. Let her win.
‘Exciting,’ continued Kate with a little laugh at nothing. ‘Well, I think it’s nice if you’ve not managed to find a man in the usual manner.’ Another little laugh.
Emma felt herself blushing and stared directly into her Outlook, willing a new email to turn up. She kept her smile effortlessly in place.
I’ll show you, she thought.
IANTO IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN STATIC CLING
Gwen and Jack sat in the boardroom, trying not to look at Ianto as he came in with a tray of coffee.
‘How?’ she mouthed.
Jack shrugged.
Ianto leaned forward to pass over a cup and Gwen boggled. She mimed melons to Jack. He nodded.
Ianto looked between the two of them, stiffly.
‘OK, team!’ said Jack. ‘It’s a busy day. Lots to cover. Ianto’s a woman, a ferry nearly sank and static electricity is up by twenty-three per cent.’
‘What’s top priority?’ asked Gwen.
‘Ianto,’ boomed Jack. ‘Unless you’re wearing nylon.’
‘OK,’ said Gwen. ‘How did he… she…? I mean…’
Ianto shrugged. ‘I just woke up like this. No memory, slight hangover, pair of breasts. Honestly.’
Gwen nodded. ‘Right. Nothing unusual then?’
‘Well, not apart from the surprising lack of cock.’
‘A situation we can all sympathise with,’ sighed Jack. ‘Ianto Jones is brilliant, you know. He wakes up.
