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around. I print off advance sales figures; if nothing else it’ll make me look prepared. My colleagues avoid eye contact as I make my way across the office.

    Nina is away from her desk, so I announce myself at Brian’s open door. He’s on the phone, but puts his hand over the receiver and beckons me in.
    ‘Sit yourself down.’ He doesn’t smile. ‘Shut the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed.’
    This is it. I’m for the chop. Why did I let Andy ply me with drink? Where the hell did my will power go? I come from a long line of people famous for their inability to handle drink. When Mam retired, after spending twenty-six years cleaning the vicarage, there was a little reception. Nothing too fancy; a few sandwiches and slices of angel cake, fruit punch. It was all terribly civilised.
    And yet my older sister ended up in hospital having her stomach pumped. My other sister, Mam and Auntie Rose narrowly escaped arrest for public order offences in the waiting room. A shamed confession revealed the punch had been spiked with cheap Estonian vodka. Mam goes to another church these days.
    Brian puts down the phone.
    ‘Sorry to drag you away like this,’ he says. ‘But I’ve had head office on the phone.’
    ‘I printed these off,’ I say and hand him the figures.
    His eyes travel up and down the columns. Deep dark brown eyes. Laughing eyes. The sort of eyes that would know what happened the other night was a bit of a giggle. Surely.
    ‘Crikey, they’re right,’ he says ‘Wednesday afternoons from the middle of January. We’re under 50% full. Mostly concessions. Don’t suppose you know any miracle workers?’
    Can it be Brian has called me here to actually talk sales figures?
    ‘We could always try a two for one,’ I say.
    He shakes his head. ‘Everyone’s doing them. It might bring a few extra punters in, but we need something bigger.’
    ‘Freebies for kids?’
    ‘Nice idea, but the audience we get mid January is one parent families. Head office is looking for something to boost bar takings.’
    A thought hits.
    ‘How about we tie something in with the Easter show?’ I say. ‘Half price tickets for all panto matinées provided you book at least one ticket for ‘ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory ’?’
    There’s a moment of silence and Brian stares, appearing to consider my suggestion. He looks impressed. I’m impressed. I have no idea where the idea came from.
    ‘That’s brilliant,’ he says. ‘Get onto groups, and have graphics draw something up. Make sure I get final approval on the copy and artwork. I want this settled by the end of the day.’
    Our meeting feels to be over.
    ‘Was that all?’ I say.
    ‘All? Well yes, unless there’s anything else you wanted to talk about? Any more brilliant marketing plans up your sleeve?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say and decide for some unknown reason to bag out the sleeve of my cardigan and invite him to stare up it.
    ‘See nothing there,’ I say and instantly want the ground to swallow me whole. It’s possibly the worst, lamest joke ever made. I really am going all out for making a holy show of myself in front of the theatre manager, as if my performance the other night wasn’t enough.
    ‘Well let’s get to it then, you’ve enough to keep you busy.’
    I get up and reach for the handle to let me out from the little inner office when Nina appears.
    ‘Oh! Hi Lisa, how are you?’ she says in a voice that suggests heavy smoker. ‘Have you finished with the boss?’
    ‘I guess...’
    Brian nods. ‘We’re all done making millions.’
    ‘Hope you didn’t tire him out.’
    Nina slinks past me and stops next to his desk, one hand resting on his shoulder.
    ‘You’ll have to share those millions with me,’ she says with a filthy laugh - more Sid James than middle-aged vamp. Brian looks terrified, but can’t take his eyes off her. Despite having recently celebrated her 50th, Nina’s still pretty in a plastic Jessica Rabbit