Jake swiped the bottle of gin across his till. Beep.
‘I thought you said you weren’t going,’ said Kate from her seat behind him. ‘I distinctly remember the words ‘hot pins’ and ‘eyes’ being used.’
Jake continued swiping. Beep. Beep. Beep.
‘I changed my mind,’ he said over his shoulder. They weren’t supposed to talk to each other while serving customers, but the middle-aged woman in front of him was glued to her mobile phone, and Mr. Peters had sleazed off down aisle seven after Sally from Baked Goods.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
‘That’ll be £137.63 please,’ said Jake as he glanced at the three carrier bags he’d just filled with top brand goods worth more than he’d earn in the next three days. Without looking up from her phone, the woman tossed him her debit card. Jake bit his tongue.
‘Well, I’m not going,’ said Kate. ‘Not after last year. He can fire me if he likes. No job is worth having to go to one of Pervy Peters’ team building evenings. I had enough of that kind of thing when I was on the force.’
‘Good for you,’ Jake said. It was all right for Kate. She was retired and only worked at the store a couple of shifts a week to keep herself ‘out of mischief’. What she earned, she spent on presents for her grandkids and holidays with her husband. For Jake, this job barely kept the bailiffs from his door.
‘Any cash-back?’ he asked the woman.
She carried on tapping her phone. ‘£50.’
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