A prostitute, Rob thought. That’s what I need, a prostitute. He shrunk down in his seat and looked around the table at his colleagues in their party clothes, paper hats and booze-rouged faces.
He thought for a moment that he’d said it out loud. Not that anyone could hear over the sound of Slade. Or was it Wizard?
Mud. It was Mud.
Whatever; it was music from another century. Shows how rubbish the current pop scene was that they couldn’t even come up with decent Christmas songs.
He surveyed the vast space – fairy lights and Santa banners everywhere. His employers had taken two of the tables. The throngs arrived. Sat. Had a few drinks. Got fed a ‘take-it or leave-it’ menu by an army of waiters. Prawn cocktail. Turkey and trimmings. Christmas pud.
There was a choice for the veggies. Apparently. But Anna, his big mate from reception, was left sitting with an empty space where a plate should have been.
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