‘BUPA health insurance package,’ I plead next to her. Julia and I are greeting the menopausal owner as she steps out of her sports car. We do this routine once a month on the only day when we are pleased to see the boss: pay day. Not that I’ll get much money from her today. I’m still paying back the lonely-hearts £50. The menopausal owner was christened Glenda. However, she has been referred to by all staff as ‘the menopausal owner’ since I started the job seven years ago. She is the Alexis Carrington of catering. She is in an indiscernible place in middle age. But she has recently started to look less and less lined and more and more startled with each pay day. Today she wears shades, a burgundy cape and expensive shoes. ‘Julia, good-morning. It’s nice to see you still have a voice like a fishwife. And will someone finally be coming to pick up that turquoise heap parked in front of my café for salvage today?’ ‘Hello, boss. How about some team-building workshops in Barbados?’ ‘Sarah, still with us.
