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Author: Jodi Ellen Malpas It’s a usual Monday morning again, but most unusual is that everyone is here. There’s always at least one of us out of the office on site visits or appointments. I’m in the kitchen with Patrick, filling him in on Mrs Kent’s new house.
‘Have you ever asked her if she would change the theme? It may influence whether it feels like home. It would potentially save Mr K a fortune,’ Patrick laughs. ‘Not that I’m complaining, of course. She can move every year for the rest of her life, for all I care, as long as she keeps contracting you to jazz the place up. ’
I frown. ‘Jazz? I do more than jazz the place up, Patrick. I don’t know. She insists on modern everything, but I’m not sure it’s really her thing. I think she gets bored. That or she loves having the workmen around. ’ I raise my eyebrows on a laugh.
‘Now, there’s a thought,’ Patrick laughs with me. ‘The old goat is seventy, if a day. Maybe she should get a toy-boy. God knows, Mr K has plenty on young scrumpet scattered around the globe. I have that straight from a very reliable source. ’ He winks at me, and I smile fondly at him.
I know Patrick’s referring to his wife, Irene. If it’s happening in this town, Irene knows about it. She’s a self-confessed busy body, know-it-all and gossip. If she doesn’t know about it, then it isn’t worth knowing about. I don’t know how Patrick puts up with her. It must be exhausting to be subjected to her oral cavity on a daily basis. Luckily, she only swings by the office once a week before her wash and set. Nodding and concurring is manageable for the half hour she spends bringing us up to date on her hectic social life, and that of others. I try my very hardest to arrange appointments for a Wednesday around noon, when I know she’ll be in. Patrick is friendly and jolly; I love him. Irene is terrifying; she scares the crap out of me.
‘How is Irene?’ I ask politely. I really don’t care.
He throws his hands up in despair. ‘She drives me insane. The woman has the attention span of a toddler. She’s ditched playing bridge and has now informed me that she’s enrolled in some Kumba dancing nonsense. I can’t keep up with her. ’
‘You mean Zumba?’
‘That’s the one,’ He points his chocolate digestive at me. ‘It’s all the rage, apparently. ’
I chuckle at the thought of Irene in a leopard print leotard, jigging her over generous rump all over the place.
‘Oh, Van Der Haus wants to meet you on Wednesday,’ Patrick winks. ‘They really want you, flower. ’
‘Really?’
He laughs. ‘You’re too modest, my girl. I checked your diary and pencilled in twelve thirty. He’s at the Royal Park. Is that okay?’
‘Absolutely,’ I don’t need to check because Patrick’s already took the liberty of doing that for me. And damn if it isn’t going to get me out of enduring this week’s update from Irene. I push myself away from the kitchen worktop by my bum and head for my desk. ‘I’m going to finalise some drawings and email some contractors. ’
His mobile starts ringing. ‘What does she want now?’ I hear him grumble.
As I’m getting ready to run over to the deli to grab some lunch, Tom prances up to my desk. ‘Delivery for Ava!’ he screeches at me, placing a box on my desk.
What’s this? I’m not expecting any catalogues. ‘Thanks, Tom. Did you have a good night on Friday?’
He gasps on a grin. ‘I met the scientist. Oh my, but the man is divine!’
Not as divine as mine! I shake my head in shock at my own wayward thoughts. Where did that come from?
‘So, that would be a yes?’ I confirm.
‘Yes. Tell me who that man was?’ He plants his hands on my desk, leaning in towards me.
‘What man?’ I blurt, far too quickly. I retreat in my chair to get some distance from the interrogating presence of my nosey, gay friend.
‘Your reaction speaks volumes. ’ His eyes narrow on me as my face burns up.
‘He’s just a client. ’ I shrug.
Tom’s scrutinising stare moves to my fingers that are currently playing with a lock of my hair. I release it, quickly picking up a pen. I need to work on this lying business. I’m truly rubbish at it. His tongue moves into his cheek as he straightens himself and walks away from my desk.
What’s wrong with me? So what! I’ve been fucking a handsome, thirty-something man. Or is it forty-something? He’s my rebound fuck. I yank the box open, finding a single calla lily on top of a book that’s wrapped in tissue paper.
‘Giuseppe Cavalli. 1936-1961’
Oh? I open the cover. A note slips out.
Ava,
To me, you are a book I have opened.
I can’t put it down. I need to know more.
Jx
Holy shit! What does he want to know? There’s absolutely nothing to know. I’m just a normal mid-twenties girl. He could start with telling me a few things, like how old he is, for a start. Is it normal to send gifts to someone you’re fucking? Maybe it is for a mature man. I don’t have time to think about this at the moment. I’ve got a heap of emails to respond to and furniture deliveries to chase. I throw the book in my bag, pop the lily in my top drawer and dart over to the deli for lunch, before cracking on.
At six o’clock, Margo hisses and bangs up to the pavement to pick me up. I battle with the rusty handle and finally climb in, pushing a dozen cake magazines and empty Starbucks cups to the floor before I can settle myself on the seat.
‘You need a new delivery van. ’ I grumble. Considering how crazy tidy Kate is at home, Margo is the pits.
‘Shhhh, you’ll hurt her feelings. ’ She grins. ‘Good day?’ She eyes me warily.
My shoulders slump spectacularly. I got zero work done. Instead, I spent all day thinking about a certain stunning creature of an age I don’t know. I get the book and note out of my bag and hand it to her across the van. She takes it from me, uncertainty marring her pretty, pale features, as she opens the front sleeve and the note slips onto her lap. She picks it up, scans the words and gapes at me.
‘I know. ’ I say in agreement to her stunned face.
She reads the note again, her gaped mouth closing and turning into a grin. ‘Yikes! The Lord is deep. ’ She thrusts the book back at me and pulls into the traffic.
‘He is. ’ I start thinking about pillow talk, but just as fast, I stop thinking about pillow talk.
‘Just how good in bed are we talking here?’ Kate asks casually, keeping her eyes on the road.
My head snaps to the side to look at her, but she won’t return my stare. ‘Very. ’ I reply. The best, amazing, mind blowing! I want to do it again and again and again!
‘Will this be a pin-ball rebound?’
I sigh. ‘Yes, I think it will. And not just because of the sex. ’
She reaches over and squeezes my knee, smiling thoughtfully. She knows what’s happening here.
We slow at the entrance of a residential street, and Kate brings Margo to a stop.
‘Right, get in the back. ’ she orders.
‘What?’
‘Get in the back, Ava!’ She reinforces her instructions with a batting of my knee.
‘Why?’ I know I’m frowning heavily. Why on earth does she want me in the back?
She points down the street and realisation dawns on me. I look at her, completely wide eyed.
She has the decency to look a little apologetic. ‘I’ve strapped, padded and cushioned, but this street is a fucking nightmare. That cake took me two weeks to finish. If it goes over, I’m fucked. ’
I turn my gaped mouth away from Kate and look down the tree lined street, with parked cars on both sides and room for one line of traffic down the middle. That’s not what’s bothering me, though. It’s the vicious, black, rubber speed humps dotted every twenty yards that have my attention. Oh God, I’m going to be tossed about like a penny in a tumble dryer.
‘Can’t we carry it?’ I ask desperately. <
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‘It’s five tiers and it weighs a ton. Just hold onto the box. It’ll be fine. ’
I exhale, unclipping my seatbelt. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got me doing this,’ I grumble, climbing into the back of the van and wrapping my arms around the tall cake box. ‘Couldn’t you assemble it on site?’
‘Nope,’
‘Why?’
‘I just couldn’t. Hold the fucking cake!’ she yells impatiently.
I tighten my grip, spreading my legs to keep my balance, and lay my cheek against the box. We’re positioned at the mouth of the road, engine revving and looking like something out of a comedy sketch.
‘Ready?’ she calls back.
I hear Margo crunch into gear. ‘Just bloody get on with it, will you?’ I snap. She’s giggling as she slowly starts creeping forward. A car horn starts honking impatiently from behind.
‘Fuck off, you tosser!’ Kate yells as we hit our first speed hump.
I’m propelled into the air, my face squishing against the box, my heels sliding from under me. ‘Kate!’ I screech, landing on my arse.
‘Don’t let go of that box!’
I scramble back to my feet, grabbing the box, just as the back wheels jolt down the other side of the hump. ‘Will you take it easy?’
‘I need a run up, else she won’t make it over!’ she exclaims, hitting another hump.
‘Bloody hell!’ I’m catapulted into the air, landing with an almighty thud. ‘Kate!’
She’s laughing hard now, only serving to piss me off more. ‘Sorry!’ she gasps.
‘No, you’re not. ’ I grate, pulling myself up again. I kick my heels off to try and get a better balance.
‘Oh, no,’
I blow my hair out of my face. ‘What?’
‘I’m not reversing mister!’ she hisses.
I spot a Jaguar driving at us and with only enough width for one vehicle and no space to pull in, it’s a standoff. A string of loud car horns start singing out around us as Kate proceeds forward, knocking me all over the place in the back of Margo.
‘I’ll ram you,’ she warns Mr Jaguar, smacking her horn repeatedly. ‘Is the cake okay?’
‘Yes! Don’t you dare let him win,’ I yell, landing on my backside again. ‘Shit!’
‘Hang on, only two more to go. ’
‘Oh God!’
Two jolts later and probably another two more bruises on my behind, we’re double parked and unloading the stupid five tier cake. Mr Jaguar is honking, cursing and throwing hand gestures all over the place, but we ignore him. My feet are still bare as I help Kate out with the cake, delivering it into the massive kitchen of Mrs Link, who’s throwing a sweet sixteen for her daughter. I leave Kate to sort the rest and go back to Margo to wait for her, ignoring the car horns as I look for my shoes in the back. They could be anywhere.
Noel Gallagher invades my eardrums, singing Sunday Morning Call from the front seat and my heart – which is currently hammering through exhaustion – starts hammering an excited drum in my chest. I abandon shoe searching to scramble to the front and answer, ignoring the reasons for my keenness to speak to him.
‘Hey,’ I puff down the phone, jumping out and slumping against the side of Margo. I’m fucking knackered!
‘Okay. Now, I know it’s not me that’s worn you out, so do you mind telling me who has you puffing and panting like you’ve been fucked into next week?’
I smile. Oh, his voice is a welcome distraction from the fiasco of the last twenty minutes.
‘What’s with all the car horns?’ he asks.
‘I’m delivering a cake with Kate, we’re blocking the road. ’ I explain, but I’m distracted by an overweight, balding, middle aged businessman approaching with a face like thunder.
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