A Home in the Sun

by Sue Moorcroft

  Judith crossed Market Square into High Street, threading her way between people hurrying to work. What kind of job should she be looking for? Before she went to Malta she’d worked long hours for a big construction company on sites that had felt like muddy cities with streets filled with rumbling construction machinery. But she didn’t want to go back to that, all the regulations and permissions and head-in-the-clouds architects along with the awful headaches for junior managers of large projects. In her absence things would have changed; she’d have to get her head around updates and new regulations for things like glazing and insulation. And she’d have to overcome that male-dominated world all over again. She’d met Tom on one of those blokey construction sites but she no longer had the kind of energy needed to deal with his colleagues.

  No. She just couldn’t hack it at the moment. It was too much pressure for someone whose emotions were all over the place and the income from a decent part-time job should be enough as she had no mortgage. Something interesting … not a shop, not a bank, not a big bland office, not a call centre, not a pub …

  ‘Judith!’

  She blinked herself out of her list of negatives and realised with a small shock that Tom was standing across the High Street, shoulders hunched, a navy baseball cap pulled over his eyes. ‘Hang on,’ he called. He waited for the lights to stop the traffic, then crossed to her pavement. She regarded him with misgivings. She wasn’t in the mood for more of Tom’s grumpiness – or ‘being in a mardy’ as the local slang would have it.

  But today Tom seemed quite genial. ‘Fancy a cuppa? There’s a new caff up here, Hannah’s Pantry, and they do a beautiful brew.’

  Lack of sleep caught up with her in a rush, making her head feel light. A ‘beautiful brew’ sounded just the cure so she said, ‘OK, why not?’ and let him show her to a small café in High Street, its frontage painted navy blue. A friendly cuppa might improve relations between them. She didn’t want to be living in the same town as him in enmity.

  Others were already enjoying the fruits of Hannah’s Pantry, when they arrived. It was panelled in pine and served tea and coffee in mugs, with milk from a jug and sugar from a bowl. The menu was chalked up on a board and luscious homemade cakes waited in a glassed-in counter. The staff members were young, probably sixth-formers, with one bulky woman – Hannah – in charge.

  ‘Mornin’ Tom.’ Hannah reached around her capacious chest to pop toast from an enormous chrome toaster.

  ‘All right, Tom?’ A tall young man cleaned a table with a quick spray-and-wipe.

  ‘Hey, Tom.’ A diminutive girl rapidly set out a range of jams and marmalades, wiping each jar.

  ‘Morning, morning,’ he replied comfortably, as he edged between the tables. By the time he’d exchanged greetings with three staff and two customers, Judith had got the idea that he was a regular. They both ordered tea and toast and sat down at the pine table the young guy had prepared near steamy windows. At the bottom of the glass, the ghost of a smiley face beamed out from a previous layer of condensation.

  As they breakfasted, Tom asked Judith about Malta. Judith told him a little of her life there but nothing about Giorgio because, apart from being just too weird to discuss him with her ex-husband, feeling as raw and let down as she did, she simply didn’t want to let Tom into those memories. Despite Richard’s shocking news, Giorgio was too precious, too special, too private to open to Tom’s gruff brand of – or perhaps even lack of – sympathy. And, you never knew with Tom – he might even gloat.

  ‘So, if you’re back for good, what do you intend to do with yourself?’ Tom’s large teeth crunched into toast made from thick white bread and running with butter. Awake, washed and brushed, he looked considerably better than he had done when she’d seen him last.

  She spread ginger marmalade on her own toast and took a bite, enjoying that particularly British combination of hot toast, cold conserve and a slick of butter between the two. ‘A job’s high on my list of priorities.’ She sipped hot tea from the forest-green mug.

  He grunted. ‘Back to the hard hat and wellies?’

  ‘Hope not. I don’t want to work full time. Don’t particularly want the stress of site meetings and trying to make architects understand why their pretty picture won’t work on the ground – you know what that’s like. I’ll have to look about, think about what I can do.’

  He talked around a mouthful of food. ‘I could look out for something for you.’

  She selected lemon curd to spread on her second slice of toast. Tom was already on his fourth. ‘That’s a nice offer, but I don’t want to be in construction, thanks.’ And she didn’t want any threads to draw her towards Tom. She crunched into the toast and the tart-sweet bite of the lemon.

  When breakfast was over and they’d said goodbye, Tom headed for Thomas McAllister Building & Development despite it being a Sunday and Judith headed off to gaze in the windows of three of the town’s job agencies, reading the cards in the Summer 2004 – P/time columns. Nothing took her fancy. The openings all seemed to do with payroll, warehouse work or driving. She knew she could sign on at an agency for professional people, but then, surely, wouldn’t they offer her jobs within her construction management profession? She turned away with the intention to return on a weekday.

  All her life she’d decided what to do and then done it. The unsettled purposelessness she was experiencing now was foreign to her and vaguely depressing. She knew she wanted something different. Something … well, she didn’t understand what. But different. For lack of anything else to do, she headed back towards Molly’s house.

  Her route happened to take her close to Lavender Row. She slowed, thoughtfully. There would be no harm in calling in to see if Adam Leblond had begun the hunt for alternative accommodation. It might delay the return to the frigid life of Molly for half an hour. She turned left and was soon sauntering up her own street, taking in the geraniums in tubs and windows open to the fresh air now the sun had got the better of the early mist. Soon she was turning onto her short front path and pressing the doorbell.

  Adam Leblond answered the door with a phone tucked between shoulder and ear. He gestured her into the house with a flash of his smile. She followed him into the combined sitting and dining room where the computer in the alcove displayed a screenful of thumbnail images and a cable ran between it and a matt black camera. Silver photographer’s cases were open nearby and paperwork was laid out neatly across the carpet. ‘Two minutes,’ he mouthed, gesturing her towards an armchair.

  Then he returned to his phone conversation with restrained patience. ‘But that wasn’t what you asked for … Of course I could have done the garden as well, but this is a bit after the event, isn’t it? I can’t rewind time.’ He listened for a minute, performed a small eye-roll then wound the call up with a brisk, ‘OK. Let me know tomorrow if you want me to schedule another shoot.’

  The moment he clicked the phone off and glanced Judith’s way with a, ‘Hello—’ the phone rang again. He grimaced. ‘Sorry. But do you mind if I take it?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ She picked up a glossy home magazine to flip through while he entered into another exchange, clamping the phone to his left ear with his shoulder and scribbling on a pad awkwardly with his right hand, the pen lodged between his thumb and the knuckle where his first finger used to be. ‘Yes, I said I can. How many? …What’s the angle of the piece? … Well, you must know what the writer’s written … Email those details to me, please, and I can give you a quote.’

  He put down the phone once more, scribbled on for a few moments, then flung himself down on the sofa, shoving back his hair. ‘Sorry.’

  She closed the magazine. ‘No, I shouldn’t turn up unannounced. I didn’t think you’d be working on a Sunday.’

  He blew out his lips. ‘I shouldn’t be. Unfortunately, I’ve just lost my assistant so I have to deal with my paperwork myself. And the phone call was from a picture editor of a magazine who can access her computer network from home. Probably sitting o
n the lawn with her laptop catching up on a few things while her kids play in the paddling pool.’

  ‘You work for magazines?’

  ‘Mostly. Mags schedule features, then contact me to shoot the accompanying pics for them. A lot are case histories, you know, “I had an affair with the cannibal next door” sort of thing.’ He grinned, obviously not expecting her to believe the reference to a cannibal. ‘I cover the Midlands for several titles. Very busy at the moment.’

  She felt like breathing a Kieran-like, ‘That’s so cool!’ But restricted herself instead to, ‘So you won’t have had a minute to start looking for alternative accommodation?’

  ‘No need.’ His calm eyes hardened. ‘Nowhere near August twenty-first. That’s when you can run an inventory, inspect the property, give me back my key money, and I’ll go.’

  Judith’s stomach dipped.

  Key money.

  She’d forgotten she held his key money. The modest savings she’d thought she still had plummeted by about twenty-five per cent. Rats.

  His grin flashed and all the grooves beside his mouth and eyes deepened. ‘Do you know you’ve got marmalade on your chin?’

  She jumped up to glare into the mirror over the fireplace. Sure enough, the cleft of her chin was decorated by a smear like a comma. ‘Bugger.’ She scrubbed at her chin with lick-and-tissue, succeeding in making the skin pink. ‘I had breakfast with my ex. His idea of fun not to tell me, I suppose.’

  ‘Breakfast with your ex? Civilised.’

  ‘Accidental meeting.’ She returned to her seat, her chin burning slightly and her cheeks burning a lot. ‘Then I went browsing job agency windows.’

  Interest dawned in his eyes. ‘You’re looking for a job?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Economic necessity, like anyone. Something part time, hopefully.’

  ‘What sort of thing? Because I’m desperate for someone like you to help me on a big shoot, tomorrow.’

  Surprise zinged through her. ‘Like me? What am I like?’

  He gestured vaguely. ‘Personable, with a brain. I have a hectic day scheduled. Got to drive to a village near Coventry to take shots of a family with thirteen children ranging from a new baby to twins of twenty. Nightmare trying to keep everyone engaged and happy for the duration of the shoot at the best of times, let alone when there are so many kids. And everything’s more difficult since …’ He indicated his damaged hand. ‘I had a brilliant assistant, Daria, a friend’s daughter who came on shoots and did my routine phone calls and invoicing and stuff. Terrific. But she’s just run off to Northumberland after a whirlwind holiday romance, leaving me stuck.’ He sounded disgruntled at Daria’s defection.

  Judith glanced at equipment cases on the floor of the dining room, gazing at grey felt-lined compartments packed with cables and lenses. ‘Doesn’t sound too difficult,’ she observed.

  His face lit up. ‘So you’ll give it a go? That’s great!’

  She was taken aback at this leap of faith. ‘I actually meant it doesn’t sound too difficult so you ought not have trouble filling the vacancy.’ Did she want to be a photographer’s assistant? How many people did it take to hold a camera anyway? ‘Wouldn’t you need someone full time? And permanent?’

  ‘Two days one week, four days the next, depending. I can advertise for someone permanent, but in the meantime I’ve got tomorrow to get through. You’d be doing me a huge favour if you helped out. I pay by the day.’ The sum he mentioned seemed to Judith to be worthwhile. ‘Please?’ he added, brushing back his hair in harassed fashion. ‘I’m really stuck.’

  ‘Oh. Um. I have no relevant experience or qualifications but perhaps just while you advertise,’ she managed, eventually.

  ‘Excellent.’ Decisively, he jumped up and pulled one of the metal cases closer. He fished out a lens in his left hand and a camera body in the right. ‘I can teach you what you need to know. Let’s start by me telling you the names of all the equipment …’

  At the end of two hours she was dizzy with changing lenses, taking equipment on and off tripods and putting the settings he wanted on the Nikon cameras. Every item was now tidily back in its compartment.

  ‘Earlyish start in the morning,’ he breezed, closing the last case. ‘Can you be here by seven? I need to get going about then. The shoot’s not till ten but you know what the traffic can be like at that time in the morning.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him, taking in the straight hair that flopped across his forehead above an expression of studied casualness. ‘You didn’t mention a crack-of-dawn start.’

  He smiled disarmingly, eyes twinkling. ‘Hardly crack of dawn. Dawn’s much earlier in summer.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘About seven’ proved to be deceptively approximate.

  Judith arrived two minutes after that time on Monday morning, having found it difficult to wake after the sleeplessness of the night before, and arrived to find the gear loaded and Adam in the driving seat of his car, waiting. He started the engine as she plumped into the passenger seat. ‘’Morning,’ she said agreeably.

  ‘Indoor–outdoor shoot,’ he replied, as if they were colleagues of long standing and could dispense with anything but the job in hand. He pulled away before she’d even got her seat belt fastened. His right hand had some kind of aid around it that helped him grip the steering wheel and the car had column gears so that his left hand didn’t have to dip to a traditional gear stick and leave his right hand in charge of steering on its own.

  She managed to click the seat belt home and followed his lead that chit-chat was not required. ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘It means we have to carry more equipment. We’re heading for a village called Bulkington, north of Coventry. I know our route is A14, M6, but can you look it up from there, for me? The map book’s under your seat.’

  Blearily, she found the page and glanced at the network marked in blue, green, red, orange and white that denoted the country’s roads. She yawned and tried to focus, her head feeling twice its usual weight. After a few moments’ study she said, ‘Looks like you take the M69 off the M6, and it’s just off that.’

  ‘Sounds easy enough. Find something on the radio that you want to listen to then have another rummage through the biggest equipment case. Make sure you remember how to change memory cards, grip, tripod, etc. Please,’ he added, as an obvious afterthought.

  She dragged the case off the back seat with an inner sigh. It would have been nice to relax the journey away. Not sleep, of course not, that would be an unprofessional way for a photographer’s assistant to behave. And, also, she’d probably snore with her mouth open or something equally cringe-worthy. But playing with memory cards wasn’t interesting, and she yawned prodigiously all the way up the A14 as they progressed slowly through the morning traffic.

  Eventually, he took pity on her. ‘How about a coffee stop?’

  She gave another face-wrenching, eye-watering yawn. ‘Coffee would be brilliant. I’m sleepy.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ he answered ironically.

  They bought coffee in big cardboard beakers and awarded themselves ten minutes on a bench outside the service station, the idea being that fresh air might wake Judith up. By the time she’d drained her cup, she did feel brighter. ‘Better get on.’ She looked at her watch. A proportion of the time Adam had built in for traffic hold-ups had drained away.

  This proved to be a problem when they finally turned onto the M69 and Judith got the map out again to navigate them through the A-roads. She was better able now to focus on the multi-coloured strands that denoted the roads they travelled. She found Bulkington, close to the M69, with her finger. Then her heart sank. ‘Oh, hell. We can’t exit the M69 where I thought we could. It’s one of those places where the roads cross but there’s no junction.’ At his impatient sigh, she added, ‘Sorry.’ Her face heated uncomfortably. It wasn’t a good start to her day as a photographer’s assistant.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he muttered. Then, ‘OK, we can’t turn
around on the motorway, so what’s our best solution?’

  He was obviously irritated but at least he hadn’t yanked the car onto the hard shoulder and snatched the map from her hands as Tom would have tried to do. Mortified at her error, she studied the map with a degree of care that would have been useful in the first place. ‘At the next junction you can turn right onto the A5, then take the first right. The road curls back beneath the motorway.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’ But he flicked a glance at the dashboard clock and moved purposefully into the outside lane to get a hurry on … just as they encountered the first signs indicating roadworks.

  By the time they’d navigated the roadworks and the route off the motorway to Bulkington they were fifteen minutes late. Judith, gaining the distinct impression that being late wasn’t in Adam’s business model, had to ring ahead on his mobile to apologise, hot with embarrassment at making a silly, uncharacteristic mistake.

  ‘Don’t you worry, dear, we won’t be ready anyway,’ was the comforting response from Jillie Lencko, the mother of the impressive family.

  And she was right. They arrived at the two semi-detached houses knocked together. Invited in, they discovered one of the eldest female twins had gone to the shop in a huff and the other wasn’t back after staying out all night. Jillie Lencko displayed a spectacular quantity of breast through her open dress as she fed a baby who smelled as if he needed changing while a handful of the thirteen Lencko offspring raced around in an exciting game of chase. Having originally been two dwellings, the house had two front doors and two back, allowing plenty of scope for racing in and out of the property. They went back out to the car.

  ‘You’re going to earn your stripes organising this crowd.’ Calmly, Adam began to unload his gear from the back.

  From this, Judith assumed he’d to set up his equipment while she took charge of the personnel. ‘I’m not changing the nappy. I’ll sort the rest.’