The Three Rs (30 page)

“No? Are you sure?” If he’s noticed my vehemence—and I have to suspect he has, he’s not calling me on it. Not yet anyway.

“I’m sure. There’s a train every hour, it’s only a couple of hours to York, then another hour across the Bradford. It’s quicker than driving…”

He rolls onto his back, seemingly ready to accept that I’ve made independent plans. “I’ll miss you. When will you be back?”

“On the Sunday? The second Sunday. I’ll be gone nine nights. Is that okay?” If he insists, I might have to think about returning earlier than I intended, which would sort of undermine the whole purpose of the trip.

“I see. I’ll
really
miss you then. I suppose I’ll just have to find something else to keep me busy. And get back into the habit of feeding old Oscar.”

Amazingly, he hasn’t objected. His response is admirably philosophical, really. And not at all what I was anticipating, given his apparent possessiveness a couple of days ago. I draw a deep sigh of relief. He’s accepted it, no questions asked really. I roll over, now propping myself on my elbows on his chest, gazing down into his amused gray eyes. Impulsively I lean in to drop a kiss on his mouth.

“Thank you.”

“You can do better than that. Thank me properly.” His lips quirk in mock challenge.

I manage to wipe the smile off his face with my follow up kiss, full and deep and open-mouthed, exploring his mouth, using my tongue to find and tangle with his as we roll across the bed. Moments later he’s reaching for another condom, snapping the foil and unrolling it over his re-kindled erection. He breaks the kiss, maneuvering me underneath as he pins me to the bed.

“If it makes you this enthusiastic, maybe I should pay for your train ticket as well. Would that get me a chance to fuck your arse too?”

I wriggle under him, arching suggestively. “Help yourself. I’m all yours.”

“So you are, my sweet and sexy little sub. So you are.”

I moan my appreciation as he sinks his cock into my welcoming, slick channel, at the same time hooking his arms under my knees to lift and open me for his deeper penetration. It’s fast, it’s hard and it’s probably not especially pretty. But it is truly wonderful and I cling on as he fucks me expertly, screaming my orgasm moments later. He’s not the only one who will be counting down those nine nights.

Chapter Eighteen

The next morning, Monday, Cain drops me off at the yard but doesn’t come in. He has meetings in Newcastle. He’s seeing his accountant and he wants to track down Fiona Henderson if he can. He did invite me along, and I was tempted. But I’m keen to see Phyllis and reassure her that Cain and I are fine again. And that my plans for addressing my little problem are well in place, so she won’t be in this awkward position for much longer.

Phyllis is already at her desk, embroiled in what I gather is the usual Monday morning backlog of emails, requests for quotes, messages from clients with leaky roofs or patios that won’t stay flat. I make myself useful in the kitchen. Ten minutes later, plied with a fortifying mug of genuine builders’ tea, she turns to regard me solemnly.

“So, how was it?”

“It?” Surely she can’t know how we solved our little dilemma…?

“It. You and Cain. Are you back at the house then? I suppose you must be—you came in the front door and not down those stairs.” She nods in the direction of the staircase up to the flat.

I take a sip of my sweet coffee, not quite able to meet her eyes. I have no regrets, no doubts at all about how things are between myself and Cain Parrish—the spankings, the hot and more than slightly kinky sex—but I can’t see me discussing any of that with Phyllis. I settle for a bit of code. “Yes. He can be very persuasive.”

“Mmm, I expect he can. Let’s hope the Parrish charm works on Mrs Henderson too.”

In a manner of speaking.
I settle for a non-committal sort of grunt, and take refuge behind my coffee cup again.

“Is everything all right about next week then? Are you still going to study with your friend?” Phyllis is clearly keen to pursue our discussion of Friday.

Study? I never thought of myself as a student, but I suppose I am, now. And it feels quite nice. Wholesome. Sort of productive. I nod, feeling rather proud of myself as I look up at Phyllis.

“I mentioned it to Cain, about me being away all week. He was fine about it. I had to convince him not to drive me down there though.”

“He still doesn’t know what you’re going for then?”

“No. Not yet. I thought I might tell him. After.”

“I see. I still think it’d all be a lot easier if he knew the score. He’d be able to help you.”

I don’t doubt he would. And by now I know him well enough to believe he’s not the sort who’d say anything unkind or derisive, at least not deliberately. But I’ve no way of knowing what his private thoughts might be, apart from astonishment. That’s a given. Would he think less of me? Surely he would. Anyone would.

It’ll be difficult enough telling him afterwards that I’ve somehow managed to get to the advanced age of twenty-two and can’t read as well as the average seven-year-old. But once it’s fixed I can start to move on from this, and distance will make the self-loathing easier to face. This is what I
used
to be, how it
was
. It’s not the ‘me’ I am now. This ‘me’ is clever, determined, successful. Moving forward. This ‘me’ is someone I’m proud of. Or I will be. Roll on Friday.

“Abbie? Are you okay?” Phyllis is looking at me, concerned.

I glance at her, shaking my head to clear it. “Sorry, I was miles away. I’m fine. Just a bit tired. It was a heavy weekend. Nice, but busy.” Encouraged by her answering smile, I go on to tell her about our excursion to Lindisfarne, pulling out my sketchpad to show her the pictures I drew.

She particularly likes my Vikings, and comments on the more than passing similarity between my pillager-in-chief and a certain Cain Parrish. I have to accept she has a point.

I spend the rest of that morning bent over my sketchbook putting the finishing touches to a number of drawings I’ve started since leaving my old home. The Angel of the North, the building site, Lindisfarne. I’m going to add water colors, but that doesn’t seem quite the right activity for a day in the office. Phyllis doesn’t agree.

“To be fair, love, you’re not going to be much use doing invoices or checking the trade press for jobs we could tender for. Why not get on with what you’re good at? There’ll be plenty for you to do later.”

“I’d have to go home for my paints.”

“Well go then. The walk’ll do you good.”

I don’t need asking twice. I’m headed for the door, my jacket over my arm before she can change her mind and find some envelopes for me to stuff. I pause in the doorway, remembering my last attempt at mastering invoices.

“By the way, I did have a go at finding the unpaid invoices last week. Like you asked. I’m not sure I did it right though. I left the ones I thought needed chasing in a separate pile.” I point to the papers on my desk. “I was wondering if maybe you could check them…?”

She glances up at me wryly as she continues her rapid fire typing. “Probably best, love. I’ll have a look tomorrow.”

* * * *

She doesn’t do it tomorrow though. The next morning Cain and I arrive at the office together, to find the door still locked and no Phyllis. Once inside, there’s a message on the telephone answering machine telling us that her Stan is under the weather and she needs to stay with him today, that she’ll make up the hours later.

“Does she have to do that? Make up the time, I mean?” It seems to me that Phyllis already does more than her share.

Cain seems to think so too. “Well, I’m not counting. She’ll probably have some work she can do at home anyway, knowing her. Could you phone her back and tell her it’s okay and not to worry? We’ll manage.” He glances up at me from the pile of envelopes he’s busily splitting open in Phyllis’ absence. “Well, you will. Do you mind staying here on your own, love? We could do with having someone to deal with phone calls if nothing else. And this lot.” He tosses the rest of the unopened mail onto Phyllis’ desk. “I need to get off to Morpeth, sweet talk Mrs H and her bloody architect. She seems ready to be reasonable, but that little shit’s kicking up a fuss. You’d think the massive cost saving that dropped in her lap was his doing, the way he’s carrying on…”

I cringe. No matter how kind, how generous both Cain and Phyllis are, whichever way you slice it, it was my doing. I hope Cain does manage to salvage something, and the least I can do is agree to hold the fort. I’m not relishing the prospect of spending the day here on my own though. Still, I have my paints now. And needs must.

“I’ll be fine. You get off. Drive safe.” I smile brightly, and Cain drops a quick kiss on my mouth as he heads for the great outdoors. “Put anything important or interesting on Phyllis’ desk, and shred the junk.” He gestures at the rest of today’s post, just before the door swings shut behind him.

Ten minutes later, my customary first coffee of the day steaming merrily on my desk, I haul the post toward me. Might as well make a start. I’ve no intention of shredding anything, too much potential there for absolute disaster. I may be thick, but I’m not totally stupid.

Most of the post looks like junk to me. Advertising stuff, bright and glossy with pictures of such interesting items as power tools, uPVC window frames, paving slabs. I pile those up for Phyllis. At least now that she knows about my issues I won’t need to try to justify why I haven’t been more discriminating. The rest I can’t make head nor tail of, frankly. Official looking stuff, closely typed sheets, could be anything. I leave those neatly stacked for Phyllis too, and get on with coloring up my pictures. Needless to say, I leave the computer well alone.

The phone rings a few times. Someone enquiring about whether we do gardening—I tell them we don’t. Another caller tries to sell us a subscription to something called
Plumb Line,
which sounds like a magazine. I agree they can send us their brochure. Cain phones to ask how my day’s going, I tell him I’m fine. I’m even finer when he tells me that Mrs Henderson has overruled her bolshy architect and has agreed to a quote of forty thousand pounds all in for the extension. Cain thinks we can do it for that—no profit, but no massive loss either. It’s a result.

* * * *

Phyllis’ Stan is still not himself according to her message on the answering machine the next morning so she’s taking another day off. She promises faithfully to be in tomorrow. Even if Stan’s still poorly, her neighbor has agreed to sit with him if need be. I’m not enthusiastic about another solitary day in the office, but I don’t make a fuss as Cain heads off for Rothbury and that wonderful building site. After that he’s meeting Beth the glamorous plumber to get started on a central heating installation in Morpeth. I ask him to give my regards to Rachel and to Beth, as I start on this morning’s post.

Today’s crop is much the same as Monday’s, just there’s less of it. The piles of promotional glossies and other boring stuff on Phyllis’ desk are growing, but still I resist the lure of the shredder. And the computer. Myself, my water colors and my sketchpad spend a quiet day together, interrupted only occasionally by the phone. I make appointments for Cain to price up a job in Hexham and another in Alnwick. Next I agree to send our brochure to a developer based in Edinburgh who needs a specialist traditional stone mason to do some sub-contracted work. He’s found us on the Internet so Cain’s marketing must be working. This sounds like the sort of thing Cain likes best. Beth phones to confirm she’s available for the central heating job and on her way to the address Cain texted her over the weekend. Again, I consider plumbing as a career choice. It would be nice to actually work with Cain properly—doing something useful and skilled. My resolve firms even more. I
will
make next week count.

On Thursday morning Cain drops me off just before eight. He has to get to Morpeth for another hot date with Beth and the intricacies of eco-friendly heating systems. I find the door unlocked, and Phyllis looks to have been at her desk for at least an hour already. Her computer is fired up, and so is mine.

“Morning, love. I’ll be with you in a moment. Just wading through all these emails.”

I feel a shooting pang of guilt that it’s all been just left for her, while I’ve spent two days painting. Not for much longer. I make her a cup of tea, it’s the least I can do.

“That pile looks to me like just advertising stuff, junk mail.” I point to the stack of glossies. “Let me know which you want shredding, I’ll do it later. Not so sure about those though.” I tilt my head in the direction of the ‘official’ pile.

“Most of that’s probably junk as well. I’ll check after I’ve got my inbox cleared.”

She’s clearly busy, I leave her to it as I attack today’s post and add to the growing mountains of correspondence yet to be dealt with.

It’s half an hour later—just as I’m contemplating a second cup of coffee—that Phyllis’ muttered expletive reverberates around the tiny office. “Shit! Shit, shit
shit
! When did this come?”

I turn, alarmed. She never normally speaks like this.

“What? When did what come?”

“This.” She’s brandishing something from the boring pile. I abandon my immediate plans for renewing our beverages and take the sheet she’s waving at me. I glance at it, and I’m no wiser really. Apart from the initials in the heading—H.S.E—I can’t manage to decipher anything else especially meaningful.