Eeny Meeny

9

Ben Holland loathed his weekly trip to Bournemouth. To him it was pointless, a day lost. But the firm was very strong on face time between their various offices, so once a week Ben and Peter (Portsmouth) would share sandwiches and coffee with Malcolm and Eleanor (Bournemouth) and Hellie and Sarah (London). They would discuss the finer points of maritime law, banking litigation and international probate – before reverting to bitching about their respective clients. It was sometimes mildly informative, even entertaining, but once you’d factored in the travel from and back to Portsmouth it was all just a colossal waste of time.

This one was proving to be even worse than usual. As per normal, Ben had given Peter a lift to and from the meeting in Bournemouth – allowing his more senior colleague to drink at lunchtime. Peter was a partner with a quick brain and a record of getting results. He was also boorish, repetitive and suffered from BO. It was bad enough being in a conference room with Peter. Now he was stuck in the car with him for two whole hours. At least he would have been, if they hadn’t run out of petrol.

Ben pulled out his phone, swearing under his breath. His eyes widened in dismay.

‘No reception.’

‘What?’ replied Peter.

‘No reception. You?’

Peter checked his phone.

‘Nothing.’

A long silence.

Ben tried hard to contain his rage. How many cats had he kicked to be here, in the middle of the New Forest, with Peter, with night falling? Ben had filled the tank up at the Esso station just outside Bournemouth – the petrol was cheapest there – and yet not an hour later the tank had been empty. He hadn’t believed the fuel warning sign when it lit up, but anyway he’d been sure he’d have enough to get to Southampton at least. But moments after the fuel warning had first pinged, the car had spluttered to a halt. Sometimes life just keeps kicking you. Would they have to walk to a petrol station? Spend the night together!

‘Platinum service with the AA and what use is it?’ Peter offered helpfully.

Ben looked up and down the quiet woodland lane. Peter wasn’t saying it, but it had been Ben’s idea to cut through the New Forest. He always did this, avoiding the M27 around Southampton by using a sneaky cut-through that brought him out at Calmore, but today it had backfired badly. Ben had a feeling that this would be mentioned, but only once the ordeal was over. Peter would make great capital out of it. He was just biding his time.

‘Are you going to walk or shall I?’ asked Peter.

It was a rhetorical question. Seniority rules and, besides, Peter had ‘bad knees’. So, it was down to Ben. Looking at the map, he saw that there were some holiday cottages only a mile or two away. Perhaps if he hurried he could make it there before it got too dark. Turning up his collar against the cold, he nodded to Peter and trudged off down the road.

‘We’ll meet again…’ sang Peter. Tosser, thought Ben.

But then, suddenly, a stroke of luck. In the gloaming, Ben could make out two pinpricks of light. He squinted. Yup, no doubt about it. Headlights. For the first time that day, Ben felt his body relax. There was a God after all. He waved his hands vigorously in the air, but the van was already slowing down to help.

Thank goodness, thought Ben. Salvation.