Fran

"So I see. What do you want to do?"

"I'll tell you. First, I want your absolute assurance you will never mention our date around the office; we called it off and never went. Then, start letting it be known that you're married. If I hear any sniggers you'll regret it."

"And how exactly will I regret it?"

She told him about the receipt. And that her daughter had a friend who lived nearby who would show a copy to his wife, next time she showed up. He went pale. And looked even worse when she made her final demand.

"Two hundred and fifty pounds? That's blackmail!"

"If you say so."

"And how do I know it'll end there?"

Francesca explained she had this one debt she needed to repay. And promised that would be the end of it. Carl believed her; she wasn't the type for extortion, and two hundred and fifty wouldn't break the bank.

"I agree."

"Good. Assuming you don't have that much in your back pocket, we'll go to a cashpoint now. I'll drive."

He went to the ATM and gave her the money. She got back in the Fiesta, and he went round to the passenger door.

"Fuck off Carl. You can walk home!"

Isabella returned with a bucket of KFC chicken.

"I know we can't really afford this mum, but you looked a bit rough this morning. I thought it would save us cooking. I hardly bought anything else."

"What was that 'hardly anything else'?"

"Just some more notebooks and pens for next semester at Nottingham."

Francesca felt tears welling up. She excused herself and went to the bathroom for a moment. Back at the table, eating chicken and drinking coke, she straightened her shoulders.

"I need to tell you something Isabella."

"Ooh. This sounds serious."

Francesca told her the bare bones of the previous night's events. She didn't say much about Carl, but she did confess to lying to Bob, getting rather drunk, and then insulting him on the dancefloor. She also said that she and Carl would not be seeing each other again. Isabella listened attentively. She was no fool and worked out that either her mother had spurned Stevenson's advances; or succumbed, and now regretted it. She said nothing for a while. Then...

"I assume you didn't know he was married."

"No, I didn't."

Francesca was dreading what would come next. Isabella would ask if that was why they'd argued. But her daughter was full of surprises.

"At nineteen, am I qualified to offer you advice?"

"Definitely."

"Then you need to apologise to Bob as soon as possible."

"I don't think that will help much now."

"Of course it will! It'll help everybody. If he accepts your apology, you're back in with a chance; that helps you. If he doesn't, he'll have a go at you, which you may deserve, and that'll help him. And either way, we both know it's the right thing to do. That helps me!"

"You're right of course; very wise. I'll get across to the supermarket on Monday. It's closed today."

She needed to see Bob anyway, to pay for the car repairs.

Carl looked sheepish on Monday morning. And there was something new on his desk. When he went out to the Gents' Francesca had a look. It was a framed photo of his wife and son, and last week's birthday card from them. She turned to look around the office and several of the girls were watching. But it was wry disappointment on their faces - not sneers. She gave them all a smile and a shrug and went back to her desk. Five minutes later, she called Bob.

"Bob, I really need to see you."

"I don't think that's appropriate do you?"

"Please. I'll drive over there for a coffee. I'll pay."

"I'm just trying to remember what you said, the last time I asked to meet you. Let's see... it was somethimg like: 'It's better if we're clear about this. The fact is I don't want to.' So, do you understand when I say I don't want to? Or would you prefer me to spin a tale about going to the Alhambra?"

"Bob. I really need to apologise to your face."

"But this is not about what you need, Francesca. It's about me. I accept your apology. Bye."

"Wait! Please don't hang up."

"I'm still here. Be quick; I have to get back to work."

"Bob please let me see you. Even if you refuse to speak to me - or even listen to me - I have your two hundred and fifty pounds here. At least let me bring that round."

"I don't need it."

"That's really unfair! You must let me pay it back."

"Why must I?"

"Because if you don't, I'll be beholden to you for the rest of my days. Is that what you want?"

There was a long silence. Francesca stopped breathing.

"Very well. Be in our coffee shop at ten thirty."

She cleared it with her boss, offering to work through lunch, and was sitting in front of a latte, at ten twentyfive. Ten minutes later he joined her, rejecting her offer of a drink, and sat back folding his arms.

"You look nice." she began. "Why are you wearing a suit?"

"Because today I happen to be working in the store manager's office. It's called job rotation. You've heard of rotation? Flitting from one person to another? I'm sure you're familiar with the concept."

Clearly he was going to make this difficult.

"I understand."

"Good. Let's get this over and done with then."

Francesca passed the cash across the the table; she'd squeezed it into an old envelope. As he went to take it, she held it firmly for a moment.

"Please let me explain."

He sighed.

"Go on."

"Another man also asked me out to dinner."

"Carl. You went to his room."

"Yes." she soldiered on. "But, to be fair, he did ask me out before you."

She couldn't remember if that was right, but didn't have the heart to tell him she'd chosen over him.

"So I lied about the Alhambra. He took me to the Duke of Wellington, and got me completely drunk. I know it's no excuse, but I thought Long Island Tea was non-alcoholic."

At least that made him smile a little.

"Then, when I saw you dancing with that girl, I got stupidly jealous. I was angry and wanted to embarrass you. It was only after I saw you that Carl went and got a room and I made sure you knew about it. I honestly hadn't planned that. I was rude and tried to humiliate you. Then I left you on the dancefloor, and proceeded to have one of the worst evenings of my life. I was back home by ten thirty and will not be seeing Carl again. I've been feeling wretched ever since. I'm so sorry."

Francesca thought was a pretty good effort. It might even work. She hadn't actually admitted there'd been sex, though clearly he'd guess. She hoped he'd be too polite to press the matter. And however it turned out now, she had made her apology and not exaggerated too much. She pushed the cash towards him; her heart racing.

"Feeling better now?" he asked.

"A bit. How about you?"

"I'm angry!"

Francesca flinched.

"You didn't just humiliate me; you upset my sister, and suggesting I'd 'pulled' her was embarrassing for both of us. Drunk or not, you didn't need to do that."

"Oh no! I didn't even know you had a sister."

"You didn't ask. You made an instant decision based on your own morals - not mine."

"I did." Francesca started to cry.

"She came over from her home in Switzerland to visit her twin sister's grave. Actually the anniversary of her passing is next weekend. But Ella and her husband are attending their twin's open day at Geneva University, and she decided last minute to come over on her own. I took her to dinner as I'd already made the reservation for you and me. It wasn't a very happy occasion, and I thought a couple of dances might cheer her up. Then she met a drunken bitch!"

More tears streamed down Francesca's cheeks. All the more poignant for her lack of sobbing. Bob looked at her as she swayed in her seat. She looked as if she might faint; not unlike the first time they'd met. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh God, what have I done?" she whispered.

"Made a bad decision. More than one by the sound of it."

She nodded.

"I'm so so sorry."

"Yes, I believe you are."

But Bob hated to see women cry. He'd had enough of that in his life. His heart started to thaw. He reached out, intending to touch her hand. But Francesca pulled it away, as if his touch burn her. She stood up so suddenly, her chair fell over. A few heads turned. She gripped the edge of the table for a second, then stumbled out, with a final 'Sorry'. He waited till the general muttering had died down, and went back to work.

Jim Cooper, the catering manager, watched Nikki sit and wriggle around nervously.

"Don't be scared Nikki. Tell me what's bothering you."

"All right. On my orientation day, you told me about the company's stance on sexual harrassment."

"That's right. I said use your own judgement if a customer makes a pass at you; it often happens to waitresses. But if a member of staff says or does anything untoward, you must report it me. What's happened?"

"It wasn't me. I saw something suspicious with two others."

"Staff?"

"Yes."

"Tell me everything, including their names. No-one will ever know you reported it. You're quite safe."

"Well, a woman came into the coffee shop this morning, and ordered a latte. I didn't recognise her but she didn't look like a customer. No trolley or shopping bags. Soon after, Bob Rice came and joined her. He didn't order anything."

"Go on. You're doing fine."

"Suddenly, she jumped up in a temper and stormed out. After Bob left, I went to clear their table, and found this."

Nikki handed over the envelope with 'Francesca' written on the front.

"Did you open it?"

"No, it was already open."

"Did you count it?"

"No."

"I'll count it now while you watch. Then we'll both be covered."

Nikki went back to the cafe, feeling relieved. Jim phoned HR and made an enquiry. No, there was nobody on staff strength called Francesca. At lunch he discussed it privately with George, head of security.

"Sounds like he pissed off a call girl." said George.

"That's what I thought. But it's a lot of money for a whore round these parts. And she must have been insulted to throw it back at him. I wonder what kind of performance he was expecting for two hundred and fifty."

"Who knows? Perhaps he wanted some of his mates to join in. Tell you what I'll do. He may still come looking for it. I'll put it in a sealed envelope and lock it up. And I'll leave a note with Lost Property. He'll be referred to me if he asks. I'll get him to explain, and then decide how to proceed."

"I guess that's the best we can do. I hate mysteries."

"Got it!" said George. "I'll send an email round, from my department saying 'Sum of money found; believed to belong to a staff member'. That should flush him out."

Bob sat in the security office, looking calm. He confirmed the amount of cash in the envelope, and explained why it was his. George wasn't satisfied.

"I'm sorry Bob but it still sounds suspicious. I'm informed it looked more like you were giving this Francesca the money. What you do in your own time is entirely your own business of course. But in company time, and on company premises, we all have to be squeaky clean."

"Understood. I have her phone number. She'll confirm this."

"How do you feel about giving me your phone and allowing me call to her first?"

"So I can't prime her? Go ahead." He passed his phone to George. "There's only one Francesca in Contacts."

George called her and she repeated the story, and soon Bob was leaving the office with two hundred pounds. He knew George was only doing his job and he'd promised to pass on fifty to the person who had handed it in.

Later there was a call from Francesca.

"Sorry, I know you don't want to hear from me, Bob. I just wanted to make sure you didn't get into any trouble. I assumed you picked the money up."

"I forgot it. And no, I'm not in any trouble."

Bob waited. He was considere telling her 'Everyone assumed you were a whore.' But his anger had gone and he'd hurt her enough. She still sounded very upset.

"Look. I have an idea. I'm going up to the cemetery on Saturday, to visit my mum's grave."

"Yes, you said."

"How do you feel about coming with me? No agenda, but I think it might draw a line under this unpleasantness."

"OK. What time?"

"Say ten?"

"I'll be there."

She hoped she didn't sound too keen.

"What should I wear?"

Francesca was almost wringing her hands.

"He definitely said no agenda, right?" said Isabella.

"Yes."

"So your problem is - you don't know if this is goodbye, or try again? Is that how you see it?"

"Exactly."

"And once again, you're turning to your wise old daughter for advice."

"Rub it in all you like, but yes I am."

"Then the answer is simple."

"Do tell."

"Drive yourself there and back. Wearing anything even remotely sexy would be outrageous. You're visiting a grave. But wearing black, like it was the original funeral, would be too far in the opposite direction; you never even knew her."

"True. I don't even know how long she's been gone."

"So, dress down, practical, a little make-up is acceptable, but don't overdo it. It'll be a Saturday, so how about your new tracksuit? It's dark blue, casual, but smart enough if he takes you to lunch. And the forecast says rain; so have your hoodie anorak and wellie boots in the car. Just in case."

"Good idea. Umbrella?"

"No. Yours is black; too ostentatious. And take some simple flowers. Not too many - you mustn't take more than him."

"Got it."

Sure enough, it was slinging it down on Saturday morning. Francesca struggled into her anorak and pulled the hood up. At least it was dark grey. It was wet underfoot, so she opened the car door and tugged her boots on. They were black. She slammed it closed and zipped up against the rain. Her small bunch of poppies was already soaked.

"You'd better leave them in the car." said Bob, who had pulled in behind her. "They don't allow flowers."

'Shit!' she thought. 'What a great start!'

"Sorry, I didn't realise."

"No need to apolgise. I can take them off you later, unless you want to keep them. I always have some in the house, on the anniversary."

"Oh. Yes, thanks."

As they trudged up a path between the headstones, she noticed Bob's rubber boots were an incongruous yellow. He put an arm round her when she slipped, and she stayed close under his big black umbrella. She seemed to be getting everything wrong.

"May I ask how she died? Or would you rather not talk about it?"

"No, it's ok. It's been three years now. She was Ella's twin sister. She and her husband were driving on the motorway, when someone entered via the off ramp. Wrong side of the road, they died instantly in the head-on collision."

"God, how awful!"

"It got worse. The post mortem revealed she was expecting twins - they run in the family. We're pretty sure that she and Dino didn't even know."

There was a clap of thunder.

"Just like the first time we met!" said Bob.

"That's what I was thinking." she replied.

Was this encouraging? She began to brighten up a little. The weather didn't. It was coming straight down now.

"Dino is an Italian name." she said. "What was your sister's?"

"We're here." he replied.

They'd stopped by one of the larger headstones. Francesca opened her mouth and stared.

'Francesca and Dino Romano. Taken too soon.'

There was more. Dates, surviving family members, and so on. But she couldn't see through her tears. He waited quietly until she regained control. She turned and looked at him.

"So this is your Fran." she said.

"Yes. I suspect you have Italian origins as well. But our lot are happy to change our names. The family name was originally Risso. But when my grandfather, Pietro, came to England, he changed his to Peter. And he thought Risso sounded a bit too Mafia."

"So he translated it into Rice." said Francesca.

"Yes. Then he married an English rose. There was never much imagination when it came to names on the male side. Roberto, my father, became Robert, and also married a fair-haired Englishwoman. And I'm Robert Peter, with my mum's hair colouring. They were a bit more adventurous with my twin sisters though."

"Francesca and... Ella?"

"She was christened Fiorella. It means..."

"... little flower" said Francesca, and started crying harder.

Bob pulled a few weeds from the square in front of the headstone. And replaced some little white stones that had been washed out by the downpour. Francesca held the umbrella over him, but soon they were both drenched. Then he stood, took the umbrella from her and held out one arm. She stepped into its protection and they started back to the cards. There, she retrieved the flowers and gave them to him. He put them in his Nissan.

"You're shivering." he said. "Why don't you follow me back to my house? It's not far, it's warm and dry, and I make better coffee than the supermarket."

It was now or never.

"Only if there's a chance we can try again."

There. She'd said it.

"When did you get that idea?"

Her heart sunk.

"Last Sunday morning. The moment I discovered Carl is married. I know what this looks like, but I knew nothing of your family's background. I just wanted to say sorry to Bob the shelf-stacker, and tell him how much I wish I'd gone to dinner with him."

"Then perhaps there's a chance we can try again."

Soon they were pulling into Bob's driveway. He stopped and opened the passenger door and she scuttled in.

"Don't be intimidated by the size of the place." They stared at the double doors. "My father was ostentatious; he drove a Ferrari. And he left me the house, when he retired to Tuscany."

"What did he do?"

"My grandfather made his money with a fruit and veg stall. Later he opened a supermarket. Everyone thinks it's called Price Smart, but that was his little joke. It's P Rice's Mart. My father took over, also retiredto Tuscany, and now their vineyard supplies all our discounted wine."

"And your job rotation?"

"That was my idea. As the new boss, I wanted to understand how the place works. Then I'll see where we need to improve things. Only the manager knows who I really am. I'm on the tills next week!"

"Wow, is it working?"

"Well I have found out that not all theft is by the customers. Much of it goes out the back of our warehouse. That will stop soon."

She felt comfortable sitting here, with all her prejudice evaporating. It was at least as comfortable as a BMW. But Bob jumped out.

"Come on. Let's go and get dry." he said.

He turned the key in one of the front doors.

"Welcome to my home, Francesca. Stay as long as you like."

He opened the door and ushered her in. She turned to him.

"I think I prefer Fran!"