The Three Rs (6 page)

“No, of course not.”

“Why ‘of course’? One of my best subbie plumbers is a woman. She likes the work, she’s a lone parent and can fit it around school hours.”

I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t ask but my mouth has developed a mind of its own. “Subbie? What’s a subbie?”

“Well, in this context it’s a sub-contractor.”

In for a penny, my mouth on a solo mission once more, I ask the obvious question, “And in other contexts?”

“Well, Miss Fischer, that’s a whole different conversation. One for another time. Please concentrate on the matter in hand.” His tone is low, rich and sexy as he responds.

I find myself mumbling an apology. And the struggle not to call him ‘Sir’ is intensifying.

“Right. What about in the office then?”

Now my heart sinks entirely. I can do practical things, I might even have been able to manage some basic plumbing, work as an apprentice to subbie super-woman perhaps, but work in the office? I’ve as much chance of flapping my arms and flying from here to Berwick. I’d be an unmitigated disaster.

“No, not in the office. I’ve never worked in an office. I’d be no good at that.”

“You’re my business partner now, Miss Fischer, which means you don’t pick and choose. Neither do I, we both get on and do what needs doing. I need someone to take charge of the admin side, get our accounts in some sort of order, invoicing sorted, chasing overdue accounts, bank reconciliation. If you’re new to all that I don’t mind talking you through it at first.”

“No, Mr Parrish, this is just out of the question. I have a home here, in Bradford. A job I like. I can’t just up and move to Berwick on a whim. I don’t mind pulling my weight, helping out if need be occasionally, but there must be something else I can do? I don’t see myself behind a desk.”

“And I didn’t see myself standing quietly by while most of my fucking business was whipped out from under me and handed to some bloody stranger. It seems we all have to adapt, Miss Fischer. How much notice do you need to give at the school?” His tone has hardened again, his words clipped and cold.

“What? And stop swearing at me.”

He ignores my complaint. “How much notice do you need to give? I want you starting here as soon as possible.”

“But I can’t. I’ve already told you that. I have a flat here, in Bradford. Berwick is miles away.”

“About two hundred miles, I’d say. Too far to commute, I agree. Especially as I gather you don’t have a car.”

Naturally not.
How would I ever manage to pass my driving test? I’d never get past the written bit.

He continues, neatly re-arranging my whole life as though I have no say in any of this, “You’ll need to move to Berwick. I’ll sort out some accommodation for you. You need to talk to your boss at the school and then get back to me with your start-date here. Is that clear?”

“I-I… Yes.” I feel as though I’ve been hit by a steam-roller, all my objections crushed. My answer was whispered, as my head now whirls with all the awesome potential for disaster. A strange town, strange bus routes, knowing no one. No Sally or Wendy to ask when I need help. It’s going to be a nightmare.

And, just possibly, this could be the most wonderfully exciting, life transforming thing to ever happen to me since my bone marrow transplant. And I know I’m going to Berwick.

“Good. Talk soon then, Miss Fischer.” And with a sharp click the line goes dead. He’s gone.

Chapter Four

A week’s notice. That’s all the school is entitled to. They pleaded with me to stay longer, until the half-term break perhaps which was only three weeks away. I could have told Cain I couldn’t up sticks and move to Berwick until the school holidays, insisted I was contractually committed or something, but I don’t feel comfortable lying to him. He was quite explicit regarding his actions if he were ever to find out I’d been untruthful regarding my prior knowledge of his uncle’s intentions, so I don’t expect he’ll be any more tolerant over this. I explained to Dave, apologetically but firmly, that I could only work until the end of the following the week. So now, just ten days after first meeting Cain Parrish, I’m at my flat, watching out of my living room window as I wait for his van to pull up outside.

I phoned him later that day, after I’d spoken to the school, and told him I could start work a week on Monday. I said I’d come to Berwick the day before, on the Sunday. I intended getting there by train, but he insisted on coming to pick me up, and said he’d drive down to Bradford on the Saturday to help me pack up any stuff I insisted on bringing with me. It seems there’s a small flat over the firm’s office. It’s furnished and Cain says I can have the use of it until I decide where I want to live longer term. I’m assuming I’ll be coming back to Bradford eventually, so I’m reluctant to give up my tenancy here, but I may need to. There’s no point, after all, paying rent for an empty flat. And it could be as much as five years, unless I can find a way out of this.

I spot the van driving up the central avenue toward my block right at the top. I recognize the red and gold lettering on the side, though I can’t actually make out what it says. The firm’s name, no doubt, but there looks to be more than that. I feel a biting frustration that I can’t read it for myself, a frustration that’s been growing and eating at me for the last several days with a ferocity I’ve never been particularly aware of before now. I simply accepted my ‘problem’ and worked around it. Now I resent it, and I resent the limits it places on me. And most of all I resent the humiliation I know is in store when Cain Parrish eventually rumbles me. I’m good at concealing my illiteracy, I’ve developed a raft of excellent coping and concealing mechanisms, but up until now, I’ve never been transplanted away from all that’s familiar and expected to take charge of a busy office. For Christ’s sake…

The van pulls up in a parking bay at the foot of the steps leading from the front entrance. Cain drops down to the tarmac from the driver’s seat and stands for a moment looking up at the block. I watch him surreptitiously for a few moments, admiring his sexy black jeans and white T-shirt, perfectly filled out by a lean, chiseled torso and slim hips. He really is a very attractive man when he’s not being rude. Well, there’s rude and there’s rude, I suppose. I don’t like him to call me a liar or a gold-digger, but he can offer to spank me any time he likes.

He knows I live on the seventh floor, and I see him counting the rows of windows. On impulse I open my living room window and wave to him. He waves back, and I think he may have smiled, though it’s impossible to be sure from this distance. He points to the door, so I nod and duck back inside to buzz him in.

A couple of minutes later there’s a knock at the door of my flat, so I call out for him to come in.

As soon as he enters, it’s as though the all the air has been sucked out of the room. My flat is small, but he totally fills it in a way I never have. He dominates the space merely by standing in it. He looks around him, evaluating and assessing. I stand in the entrance to my kitchenette, my kettle in my hand, trying to suck enough moisture into my mouth to be able to offer him a cup of tea.

There’s a pile of boxes in the middle of my living room. One or two contain the few clothes, CDs and other bits and pieces I want to keep with me. Most of the boxes, though, contain my extensive collection of paints, brushes, spare canvases and several works in progress. I also have an impressive collection of completed canvases which I’m thinking might appeal to a new crop of car boot sale enthusiasts in Northumberland. Cain’s gaze falls on these, his brow creasing as he cranes his neck to see the contents. He crouches alongside one and starts to flick through the canvases.

“These are nice.” He glances up at me, waiting for some sort of explanation, more information about the artwork I seem intent on carting off to Berwick with me.

“Thank you. I like to paint. I’m not really very good, but…”

“Oh, I don’t know. They look great to me. Are they all your work?”

“Yes. I sell some, when I can. At car boot sales mostly.”

“You might not have much time for painting, at least not for a while.”

There he goes, not five minutes in my company and he’s telling me what I will and won’t do. I stiffen immediately, and set my shoulders stubbornly. “I’ll make time.”

He grins at me, and I get the worrying sense he’s actually enjoying my defiance. Deliberately provoking it even. Still smiling at some private joke he seems disinclined to share, he stands up and hoists the biggest of my boxes into his arms.

“Yes, I think you probably will. I’ll start loading your stuff while you do whatever you have in mind for that kettle. Black coffee for me, no sugar.”

* * * *

The journey to Berwick passes pleasantly enough, given the distance. It’s a shortish drive up the M62 to join the A1, then the route is all motorway until we get north of Newcastle. The A1 becomes a normal road beyond that, but still our progress is brisk. Our conversation is amiable, and I get the impression Mr Parrish has decided to play nicely today. I’m relieved. Having given up my job, I’m short on alternative options now, so I don’t want to argue with my new business partner if I can help it. And if he goads me, I know I won’t be able to stop myself reacting.

Cain pulls into some services at Durham and we both need the loo. He’s waiting for me as I emerge from the ladies. “Fancy a coffee? Or something to eat?”

I thank him, and we head for the Costa section of the concourse. Cain gets us both a coffee and some sticky chocolaty concoction to share. He hands me a spoon. “Dig in. We’ve a way to go yet.”

It’s heavy and decadent and absolutely delicious. We clear the plate between us. When he’s not being rude and confrontational, Cain Parrish can be very, very nice. If he continues to bribe me with chocolate, I could really get to like him.

He offers me the choice of music to listen to on the drive so I rummage in the glove box and shove something by The Killers into the CD player. I recognize the picture of Brandon Flowers on the CD case, so that seems a safe bet. Still playing nicely, Cain nods his approval. We both have a sweet tooth and we share the same taste in music. It’s something to work with.

I catch sight of the imposing Angel of the North—that awesome piece of outdoor art towering over the Tyne and Wear landscape—long before we actually get to it. From a distance the haunting outline of the Angel, arms or wings outstretched, is intriguing. Up close it’s simply stunning. I love art, in any form. This is the first time I’ve actually seen this particular masterpiece, I don’t want to just sail past.

“Could we stop? I mean do we have time?”

“Of course. We’ve made good time so far. And we’re in no hurry anyway.” Cain signals to pull off the motorway and follows the signs to a small parking area. The huge statue is in front of us, just rising up and up from the grassy mound alongside the road, almost as if it’s been planted in a field. There’s a path leading to it, and a gaggle of people strolling around. I grab my bag and open the van door. Cain says nothing, but there is a thud from his door closing so I know he’s coming too.

Up close, the metalwork seems rusty, but I know this is what the artist intended. The real impact of this piece is gained from looking up at it. The ground slopes away downwards so I make my way to the foot of the hill, and turn to look back at the Angel. Moments later my sketchpad is out, and I’m seated on the ground, my pencil moving swiftly across the sheet as I draw the shape of the Angel silhouetted against the bright blue of the sky.

“Most people would take a photograph.” His tone has no hint of impatience in it. Instead, he sits down beside me and slightly back so he can watch me drawing.

“Not me. I like to draw.”

“I can see that. You’re good at it.”

“Thanks.”

We sit in companionable silence while I finish my sketch. It’s a simple enough image, which is probably why it is so beautiful. It doesn’t take long. When I finish I pass the sketchpad to Cain for him to look at my picture.

“Mmm, it’s good. Better than a photograph.”

“It’s just different, that’s all. I prefer drawings. Later, I might copy it in watercolors.”

“That’d be nice too.”

I turn to grin at him. “Now you’re just being polite. You want to get off, don’t you?”

He shrugs, smiling as he hands the sketchpad back to me. “When you’re ready. No rush.”

Even so, I get to my feet and turn to him. He extends his hand, an invitation that I should pull him up too. I grin, admiring his cheek. And his optimism. I take his hand, and with some effort haul him to his feet. Laughing, we make our way back to the van.

* * * *

I don’t know Berwick at all so I’ve no idea where we should be headed. Still, I’m surprised when Cain maneuvers the van between the pillars of a large gateway and along a graveled drive lined with thick shrubbery. He parks in front of an imposing double-fronted house.

“This doesn’t look like a builder’s yard. Why are we here? I thought you were going to drop me off at my new flat.” I turn to him, puzzled, but strangely I’m not alarmed by this unexpected turn of events. Cain might be intimidating, and on occasions rather too forceful for my liking, but I feel safe with him.

“There’s a problem with the flat. The boiler’s broken. I’ve got a new one on order and I can fit it for you next week. For now though, you’ll be in my spare room. Unless you prefer a hotel, of course. There are a couple of nice places in the town center. I can book you in somewhere and you can leave your stuff here for the time being…?”