The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2893 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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James arrived and drove the people carrier to school. Nothing happened—well it never does when you’re expecting it and so prepare to deal with it. Ingrid wasn’t at her house when the police arrived. The van, as expected, was stolen and found burnt out at a car park up on the downs. The men had all worn balaclavas and were unidentifiable—save possibly the one with a bruise the size of Danni’s foot across his face.

Then, he took me home and gave me the keys to his Boxster. “Just for today—don’t bend it. I’ll collect them this evening. If I can use your wi-fi, I’ll work from here today.”

“Of course. You sure about this?” I pointed at his phallic symbol.

“Go on before I change my mind.”

“Okay.” I put my laptop bag in the passenger foot well and took my bleeper for the gates with me. I gave James the spare one and told him to leave it in the car when he’d finished. There is a code you can punch in and the gates will open, so anyone else who lives here can do that if they don’t have a key.

This car is an absolute beauty and I was tempted to go to the office via Aberdeen, but I wouldn’t get any work done that way and James would probably charge me for the mileage. Oh well, all good things come to an end, hopefully not a sticky one. I parked the Porsche in my space and got a temporary parking permit to display in it. They can be funny about parking these days so a few minutes lost in the morning can save hours later, especially if you get clamped, which can be both time consuming and expensive.

I dumped my bag on Diane’s desk. “What on earth is that?” she pointed to a bit of the metal bar sticking out from my bag.

“A torque wrench.”

“What a spanner that speaks to you?”
“No, not that sort of torque, torque as in the physics of things.”

“That means a lot, thank you.”

“Oh good, I’m glad.”

“I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about, Professor.”

“Sorry, not paid to teach physics.” I breezed past her into my room expecting a cuppa to follow me. She came in put down my cup an a table by the door. I went to avail myself of its health giving properties when I discovered it was just a clean mug with a dry teabag in it to which the following note had been attached. ‘I’m a secretary, not paid to make tea.’

Quite a clever riposte, I thought before thinking how I could sack her. I walked out to her room with my cup. “D’you want a cup of tea?”

“Please,” she said holding out her mug.

“Do me one while you’re making yours will you?”

She glowered at me. “I’m not paid to make tea,” she said testily.

“No, I know you do it out of the goodness of your heart.”

“You’re standing closer to the kettle.”

“I’ll get out of your way then,” I said and practically jumped into my office.

A few minutes later she came in with my tea still glaring. “Have I any appointments this morning?” I asked.

“Nothing until this afternoon, you’re teaching evolution for Dr Freeman.”

“Good, at twelve noon, we’re going out for lunch.”

“We, professor?”

“Yes, WE, secretary person.”

“I shall cancel all my lunchtime appointments.”

“Eh?”

“You know, getting my hair done, leg wax, manicure, Alpha Course, physiotherapy appointment and eating my corned beef sandwich while I type your letters.”

“Is that all?”

“Well it is Tuesday, I take it easy on Tuesdays.”

“That would explain things.”

“Glad we sorted things out. I shall get back to my grindstone, then.”

“Yes, go and look busy, you never know when that crusty old professor may come out of her room in curmudgeonly mood.”

“True.” She left smirking.

I worked my way through the pile of paper she’d dumped in front of me. It was quarter to twelve. I rose from my desk and looked in the filing cabinet drawer for my notes on evolution. Having found them, I returned to my seat and quickly flicked through them. It was all pretty standard stuff, now did I wish for a fundi to interrupt and tell me it was only a theory, just to liven things up or just try and get through it as quickly as possible—after all they should have read up on this days ago, but they’ve been on the beer since then—unless it was American beer which I’m told has a lower specific gravity than tap water.

I touched up my lipstick and checked my hair—we were only going to a restaurant—okay, the green room—but I was half decent. Diane poked her head round the door, “Ready when you are.”

We clicked our way up the corridor and out through the main reception to the car park. “What are you driving while the jag is in for repairs?” asked Diane.

In reply I pressed the remote key and the Boxster’s lights flashed.

“That is yours?” she asked in a breathy sort of way adding, “Why am I surprised, you’re millionaires.”

“Actually, I’m driving a VW people carrier but I employed a bodyguard to take us to school today and he offered me the use of this old thing.”

“Wow, he must be pretty good if he can afford to run a Porsche.”

“He does charge exorbitant fees now I think about it. Hop in.”

Driving round Portsmouth out to Southsea is hardly the best place to show off the attributes of a high powered sports car and I’m not sure how impressed she was by the car because we were soon at the hotel.

“We’re eating here?”

“It’s where I made the reservation.”

“It’s a bit pricey, isn’t it?”

“My treat.”

“Expensive motor, expensive restaurant—anyone would think you were after something?”

“I am.”

“Like what may I ask?”

“Your continued support as we struggle to cope with the everyday vicissitudes of academic life.”

“You know you have it.”

“So I like to show my appreciation occasionally.”

“You know how to turn on the style.”

“I do, don’t I?”

We entered the hotel and were fawned over all the way to the restaurant, where the waiting staff took over the obsequiousness.

“Are they always like this?”

“’Fraid so.”

“You’d think you owned it.”

“We do, or the bank does.”

“Bloody nora. And there’s me worried if I’ll ever be able to afford to eat here.”

“The chefs here are nearly as good as David, but don’t tell my pa in law, he’ll be trying to entice him away.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“I hope that’s metaphorical or you may have some difficulty eating.”

“It was—what can we order?”

“Anything you fancy.”

“What’re you having?”

“The tuna steak with salad.”

“Sounds good, I’ll go for the same.”

“And to drink?”

“Dunno, alcohol will make me sleepy.”

“The elderflower pressé is quite good followed by a cup of Earl Grey.”