The rest of the day is spent trying to find ways to explain to the usual suspects why we couldn't answer the phones yesterday. We can't tell them the truth, because that'd just give them ideas, and I don't ever want to have to go through that again. We just say that there was an "emergency" in the building and try to leave it at that. This works, until late afternoon, when Mr Beales rings back.
"You lot can't keep nothin' from me," he says, apropos of nothing in particular.
"Excuse me?" Now what?
"It's in the paper. 'Terrorist fears spark full-scale evacuation of local office.'"
Does he have to sound quite so smug about it? Mind you, I am impressed he can read such long words. Then follows the verbal equivalent of a particularly ungraceful fencing match, as I try to side-step Mr Beales' attempts to extract the juicy details. By the time I've got him off the phone, I'm as keen to get drunk as Greg is. We decide to go straight to the pub from work, and then on to The Star of India.
This proves to be an exceedingly unwise decision, but now it's very late and I'm far too distraught to even write about what's just happened, so it'll have to wait until I'm calmer. We could've sparked an international incident, for f*ck's sake. Thank God that poor waiter has no idea who we work for, or that'd be all over tomorrow's bloody paper.
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