Gaynor Startle, my sworn mortal enemy and manager of Tesco’s Tidbury for the past thirteen years and counting. I’ve had the misfortune of working alongside her for the last eighteen months now and since day one I realised her heart is on par with the coldness of our £6.99 rump steak special in the chillers’. It’s as if she’s always waiting to catch me slipping, watching me like a hawk from behind the tinned peaches and gluten-free crackers on aisle seven. I bet she’s got a trophy cabinet of past employees heads in her peach floral lounge at home, which she rests her bone china tea cup upon when watching the weakest link.
She’s a weird but soppy looking woman, but you should never let looks fool you, I suspect she’s somewhere in the bloodline of the spawn of Satan, a second cousin twice removed perhaps. Her wiry blonde hair is always meticulously cut into a bob just below her oversized earlobes, real tactical Gaylord, don’t think we can’t see them. Her beady little brown prawn eyes sink too far into her round pale face, and her cat’s bum mouth betray her fifty-odd years of angry life and constant chain-smoking. If she didn’t have her Tesco’s staff discount card I bet she wouldn’t even smoke half as much as she does, the tight cow. She must only be about five foot four and I easily have a good five inches on her in height. No wonder she’s still single.
“Gaynor, how nice to see you.” I smile through gritted teeth. “I had trouble getting parked.”
She tuts to herself too loudly and eyes me suspiciously, looking me up and down for faults her attention finally fixing on my burgundy converse.
“I don’t recall red being on the staff dress code Sandra.” She cat-bum’s me smugly.
“I’m not wearing red.” I snort as I pull sarcastically on the bottom of my white tabard and matching white leggings.
“Your shoes.” She snaps.
“My converse.” I correct.
“They’re red.” She grunts.
“Burgundy.” I protest.
“They’re not allowed. Remove them now please.”
I go to open my mouth but pause and hitch my breath back instead. In my head I visualise her being a fat plucked turkey from the fridge whose arse I’m smashing fist-fulls of sage and onion stuffing into until my knuckles bleed.
“I don’t have any to change into.” I retort, struggling to remain reserved.
“Then you’ll have to go and fetch some plimsolls from the Back To School, and make it quick, the doors open in five.” And with that she turns on her fat one-inch Hush-Puppies heels and goes to make someone else’s life hell. What a cow.
Three hours later and the morning rush has finally died down and I’m looking forward to the lunchtime lull and my forty-five minute break. There’s not much call for chilled meat at lunchtime but the deli and cheese counter are absolutely rammed with impatient and hungry workers as usual. I soon find myself mesmerised by Ben’s skilled hands, watching hypnotically as he reaches into the display trays to lift out wheel’s of cheese, handling the wire cutter with the precision of a fine-tuned machine and weighing the perfectly cubed cheese blocks to within a milligram of the customers desired weight. Fuck. Me. He’s. Hot. And I don’t even notice the customer stood at my counter glaring at me as I caress a pound of bagged sausage meat between my fingers. He interrupts me with a badly faked cough as I turn despondently to face him. Bloody customers.
Sitting on my self-made and tactically positioned throne consisting of quilted Charmin Ultra loo rolls in the warehouse, I flick through the pages of Heat and peel back the plastic on my cheese ploughman’s sandwich, in accolade of my fine beau of course. I’m several bites in by the time Ben finally comes striding my way and like a homing pigeon I’m suddenly totally in tune with his presence. Coo-coo Ben Cummings. I so badly want to be your Sandra Cummings. Cummings on your face!
“Joining me for lunch Ben?” I smirk.
“Actually I…” But before he can finish his sentence the forklift truck comes tearing down the warehouse, drifting skilfully on two wheels around the corner and skidding expertly to a halt beside us, pallet of Muller rice totally unscathed. A long overall’d leg with a ballerina-esque foot pads down gracefully onto the warehouse floor; long slender manicured fingers tousle back L’Oreal worthy sun-kissed blonde hair, revealing a cutesy face, with a perfectly proportioned nose and brown eyes framed by immaculately shaped eyebrows. “…Was just looking for you Jennifer!” he finishes. Not fucking Jen, Ben’s girlfriend! That’s right, it’s Ben and Jen, the most perfect girl ever in a sickeningly loved up long-term relationship with my unrequited Cheesemonger. She’s so gorgeous it’s totally unfair and my triangular tits want to cry milk and bow down in awe of her.