by Susan Lewis
As she set the bowls down, Andee said, “Was that Maria Colbrook who stormed out just now?”
With a sigh Fliss said, “It was. Honestly, you can’t help someone for trying. This is the third time I’ve given her a job and she either burns the food, clouts one of the other staff, or offends the customers. Today she threw a cast-iron pot at Kevin, the cook. Missed, thank God, but I had to fire her or Kevin would have walked. I’ll put money on her being on the doorstep again before long begging for more work. If she doesn’t get hiked off to prison again first. Anyway, I’d better get back to it, the orders are piling up and I’m trying to do the till as well.”
“I’ll finish this and come and take over the front of house,” Leanne promised. “It’ll leave you free to chat with Dan when he comes,” she said to Andee. “But first, I’ve been thinking, should we try to find a partner for him? He’s highly eligible, and he must be very lonely rattling around that lovely duplex over his office.”
“I think he prefers it that way,” Andee told her. “He’s been incredibly busy with the RJ project lately as well as his law firm, but don’t worry, Graeme and I are keeping an eye on him.”
By the time Dan arrived, Andee and Leanne had finished their lunch. After a warm greeting, Andee hopped up from the table, saying, “I’m going to make a call. I’ll be right back.”
In the café’s cloakroom, which was full of wet coats and umbrellas, she moved farther along to the rose-scented area outside the bathrooms and connected to the number Leanne had given her for Claudia. Disappointingly she was bumped through to voicemail, so she left a message. “Hi, my name’s Andee Lawrence. Leanne Delaney gave me your number. I was hoping to talk to you about some drapes that I need made in a hurry. It’s quite a big order, for a show home. If you’re interested and would like to talk more you can get me on this number. I’m really hoping to hear from you. Thanks.”
Chapter Seven
Claudia watched her mother’s face as she replayed the message from Andee Lawrence, knowing very well what Marcy was thinking. It was probably much the same as she’d thought herself when she’d first heard it, although her mother would have far more optimism going on than she’d had.
At last something that might persuade Claudia to emerge from her shell.
“Are you going to call her back?” Marcy asked, returning the phone and carrying on brushing her hair in the mirror. She was clearly trying not to make a big deal of it, continuing to get ready for a meeting at the community center, and given how carefully she’d applied her makeup Claudia wondered, not for the first time lately, if there was someone special on her mother’s horizon.
“I think if I don’t call back you’ll leave me,” Claudia quipped.
Marcy smiled, her blue eyes softening in a way that made her seem younger and happier than she’d looked in a while. “It’s a great opportunity to start building your business again,” she said, “and to meet someone new.”
Claudia wasn’t going to deny that, for it was what she’d thought herself, and turning to look at the dining table laden with dishes of colored beads and charms, special threads and wire, her pliers, glue, and needles, she gave a small sigh. She’d made jewelry several years ago and sold it online, and now she was in the process of doing more, rebranding her designs as Simply Baubles. It wasn’t going to make her a fortune, but it wasn’t a fortune that she needed.
It was a life.
“You shouldn’t waste any time,” Marcy urged. “If you don’t get back to her right away, she’ll find someone else. You can do this.”
In spite of the anxiety tightening her heart, Claudia said, “OK, I’ll call her now,” and tapping Andee Lawrence’s number on the phone screen, she looked at her mother again as she waited for the connection.
Marcy’s face was full of hope, eyes bright with encouragement, and Claudia knew she was doing this as much for her as she was for herself.
“Hi, Andee Lawrence speaking.”
Claudia’s eyes drifted to the rain on the windows. “It’s Claudia Winters,” she said, feeling oddly as though she was stepping into another world, with no knowledge of where she might land. “I got your message. It’s possible I could help you, but I need to know more about . . .”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Andee replied in a rush. “Maybe we could meet at the property so you can see exactly what’s required—and I’ll have to pray you won’t go screaming off into the night when you see what I’m asking for.”
With a smile, Claudia said, “We only arrived in the area a few months ago and I haven’t really set myself up yet, so I don’t have any workers or suppliers, at least not locally.” Could she contact the team she’d used before? No, of course not. Was she out of her mind? “If you’re in a hurry . . .”
“Don’t worry, we can work it out together,” Andee assured her. “I have plenty of contacts, and if you need help sourcing fabrics I can make several suggestions, although I’m sure you’re much better connected in that field than I am.”
Since she wouldn’t have to use her old name when placing orders, Claudia said more confidently, “OK. If you text me the address and a time I’ll be there. I have no other commitments so I can fit in with you.”
“Music to my ears. I’ll do it right away.”
Clicking off the line, Claudia wondered where her mother had gone but didn’t go to look. Instead she walked to the window and rearranged the folds of a gauzy drape. She really didn’t think Andee Lawrence’s call was a trick, something set up by her sister-in-law, but she could no more stop the thought than she could the traffic outside. She scanned the Promenade for familiar faces, but saw only raincoated tourists braving the late September weather and locals going about their business.
“No one’s out there,” Marcy said gently as she came back into the room. “You don’t need to be scared.”
Claudia turned around. “I know,” she replied, and drew a hand down her slender neck as though to relieve the tension, “and one of these days I might stop thinking there is.” She smiled. “It’s not happening as often now.”
It was true, the sense of being followed or watched was no longer as consuming, and she’d even stopped seeing Eugena in the supermarket, coming out of the station, in the café, walking toward her on the beach . . . Women who actually looked nothing like Eugena could morph into her for brief, horrifying moments, but thankfully Claudia was getting this under better control.
It wasn’t quite the same with Marcus, for she still had nightmares about him and his cruelty; awful, terrible scenes of violence and anger that stayed with her after she woke up, that even revisited her during the day. Eugena had known what he was like, and some sadistic part of the woman had actually seemed to enjoy all the terror and misery her brother inflicted. “That’ll be the address,” Marcy said, as a text arrived on Claudia’s phone.
Claudia read the message twice and turned shining eyes to her mother. “She wants to meet later this afternoon,” she declared, surprised by a pleasing rush of eagerness. “She says to bring wellies, an umbrella, and a portfolio of my work.”
With a cry of joy Marcy came to embrace her. “This is going to be your first commission as Claudia,” she stated determinedly. “We should celebrate when you get back. Jasmine’s going to be over the moon.”
Knowing how true that was, Claudia felt another burst of happiness, while thinking of the interior magazines she’d had to leave behind that contained lavish color spreads of her designs. It wasn’t possible to use them, for they connected her to the past. However, she had an impressive PowerPoint presentation on her iPad that didn’t identify her at all. “I should text Leanne Delaney to thank her for suggesting me,” she said, starting to clear the table. “Even if I don’t get the job, it was lovely of her to do that.”
“We could always,” Marcy suggested carefully, “invite her to celebrate with us, if she’s free, and if it happens.”
Claudia tried to picture it, someone else here in the flat, raising a glass wi
th them as if they were friends. It was an exhilarating thought, and she’d certainly warmed to Leanne on the few occasions their paths had crossed.
I can do this, I really can, she told herself as she began collecting everything she was going to need. And by the time she’d lugged it all down to the car her imagination was so busy conjuring a dynamic and fruitful meeting that she didn’t even think to check if anyone was watching her.
Chapter Eight
Dan’s been here today and, surprise, surprise, he’s “very disappointed” by the last letter I wrote. “Archie,” he said, “you and I both know you can do better than this, so come on, lad. Step up to it.”
What he doesn’t seem to understand is that I never really care too much about disappointing people; I’ve been doing it for so long I might even be better at it than memorizing songs.
Anyway, he said he wouldn’t come back if I didn’t start playing the game (he didn’t use that phrase, because none of it’s a game to him), what he actually said was, “You’ve seen the last of me if this is how you’re going to behave.”
I said, “Bye, mate. Nice knowing you.”
He looked at me with those laser eyes of his and kept on looking at me until I chucked up my hands and said, “What’s going on, man? What do you want from me?”
“You know what I want.”
I did. He thinks you have a right to know about the person who hurt you, and he reckons that deep down I want to tell you.
I don’t know what kind of planet he lives on—can’t remember where Superman comes from now—but hey, like I’ve said before, he’s not an easy bloke to argue with, so in the end I gave it up. I don’t want him to stop coming (wouldn’t tell him that) and he could be right that I do want to tell you, though it beats me why I would. Or why you’d want to hear it.
Let me warn you right off that mine is not a good story, and I’ve got no skill as a writer, but I guess you’ve got that picture already.
So here goes: I already told you my mother’s a nutjob and that we lived with my grandparents until one croaked and the other got carted off to the whacky shack. Before that happened it was their job to keep me out of the hands of social services when my ma was away. Everyone knew Ma would go mental if she came back and found I was gone, and I promise you really don’t want my ma going mental. Where did she go when she was gone? Depends. Sometimes she was in the nick for not paying her council tax, or shoplifting, disturbing the peace, that sort of thing. Other times she was taken away to places I didn’t know anything about until I was older. BJ would turn up when he felt like it, give her a beating, then stuff her in his car and drive off. Sometimes we didn’t see her for weeks and when she came back she’d be in a right state, shaking and crying and needing a fix so bad we had to give it to her. (Shit is never difficult to get hold of on our estate.)
When she wasn’t in the nick or off doing stuff for BJ—what I really mean is when she was sober and not feeling shit-scared of the world or mouthing off at it the way she sometimes did (complex woman, my ma)—she’d have a go at taking care of me. She’d buy me clothes, cook my food (terrible cook), and tell me to get on with my homework like she even knew what it was. My mates all thought she was weird, but they kind of respected her because she never got in my face about stuff and would let them treat our house like it was theirs.
I never told any of them about the clearing up me and my gran had to do after one of her bad days. Gross it was, and I didn’t talk about the low-grade smack I used to get for her from Leroy two doors down to stop her tearing herself to bits. No one needed to know about any of that, although they probably did anyway, just never mentioned it. Most of the kids had one parent or both who got rolling stoned every day—and there was none of the good stuff in our neck of the woods, I can tell you that.
Did I ever try it myself?
’Course I did. I’ve done it all, collie weed (that’s some dank-ass marijuana, that is; you can get really toked on that, know what I mean), crack, meth, black tar, all the trippy shit, you name it. First time I had some I was about six, I guess, and I remember how much it made the grown-ups laugh. I expect it was a hilarious sight watching a kid get high, although I think mostly it sent me to sleep.
My big connection to the recreationals started when I was about ten and BJ decided it was time to get me initiated into the real world, meaning his world. So next time he turned up at our place, instead of taking my ma after he’d roughed her up and helped himself to what dough she had, he took me instead.
Was I scared? You bet, but he made me feel kind of grown up, so I soon got over it, especially when he explained what I had to do.
“It’s simple,” he said. “I get the gear from the dudes I know—you don’t ever want to upset them, Archie, not if you got an urge to stay alive—and then I drive you around to make the deliveries. A kind of newspaper round, if you like, but these days we’ve moved on a bit.”
“What are we delivering?” I asked him (talk about green, but remember I was only ten).
“Stuff. You don’t need to know what it is, but it’s serious quality and it’s our job to get it to the PCs who pay top dollar for it.”
“PCs?”
“Posh C***s. They buy big, I mean seriously big, for their carousels—orgies, pimp fests—but you don’t need to know about that, cos you’re too young for it all, and it don’t involve you. You just have to make the delivery while I wait on double yellows, then I take you to the next drop-off, and same thing happens. Never, never hand anything over to the client until you’ve got the cash in your hot little hand. Understood? Whatever excuse they give for not having any on them, we’re not NatWest with the telephone banking, so you do not part with the goods until they’ve paid. If they start kicking off, you just leg it back to me, bringing the stuff, and I’ll sort it out. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You’ll be expected to keep your mouth shut about this, so don’t go bragging to your f***wit mates and playing the big man when you get home. If you do I’ll know and I won’t be happy. And you know what happens if I’m not happy. Your old lady gets it, that’s what’ll happen, and you don’t want that now, do you?”
I began earning some decent cash almost from the get-go, and you should have seen some of the places we delivered to. These PCs lived in some serious houses all over the West End, down by the river, around the City . . . I never knew where we were half the time, or what the areas were called, I only got to know that later when I was older and able to get the Tube on my own if BJ wasn’t available. I understood by then that the dudes he worked for were based in North London—sorry, no names or exact places, info classified—and that what I was delivering was mostly chem-sex drugs, which can be crystal meth, GHB, miaow miaow, that sort of thing. Sometimes though it was cash or phones—that was more intergang stuff—and later, when I got myself a reputation as someone reliable, it was shivvies and even toolies (that’s knives and guns to you).
Yeah, I moved weapons around the country, sometimes going as far north as Manchester or even Glasgow. I slipped between the cracks like a shadow, they said, meaning no one ever really noticed me. It seemed I had a knack for keeping my head down, or looking harmless, or just plain dumb. The other kids didn’t have it so easy and a few got caught. If that happened and the PCs heard about it, all hell would break loose with the dudes because business would have to shut down for a while. But everyone knew to keep their mouths shut; if they didn’t, someone close to them would pay and they’d never snitch again.
Anyways, when I wasn’t working, believe it or not I was at school, turning up randomly after being away for a week or two, and the teachers would say, “Where you been, Archie?” “Did you bring a note from your mother?” Once or twice the head called me in for a chat, but it never really came to anything. You see, I never acted up or caused trouble like some of the others; I wasn’t violent, or disruptive, or a threat to their points system. When I was there I just kept my shit together and did the work. Ot
herwise I think they’d have excluded me for all my absences, but that only happened a couple of times and they always took me back.
I’m going to stop this letter now because I have to be somewhere, but I’ll give it to Dan the next time he comes so he can “clean it up,” as he puts it.
Before he leaves I’ll ask him how you are, and I expect he’ll tell me, and then I’ll wish I hadn’t brought it up. It always goes like that, but I can’t just say nothing, can I, not when I’m doing this for you even if it never ends up getting to you.
Chapter Nine
As Claudia drove up to Westleigh Heights, following the directions Andee had texted her, she was doing her best to spot any “For Sale” signs outside the properties she passed. This was one of the areas where she, her mother, and Jasmine had agreed they’d like to settle, on the edge of town, close to the moor, and overlooking the bay. However, homes here didn’t come up often and there didn’t seem to be anything new to the market today.
Finally reaching the billboard she’d been told to look out for announcing an exclusive development of eight detached residences each with half an acre of land, she indicated to turn in. Fifty meters or so along a wide dirt track pitted with puddles and potholes she arrived at what she presumed to be the unfinished show home. Its style was mock Tudor, not exactly to her taste, but it was certainly striking and would probably turn out to be quite impressive on completion.
As she parked alongside a sleek black Mercedes, a tall, dark-haired woman in a padded raincoat and welly boots appeared from around the side of the house and waved a greeting.
Waving back, Claudia ran to the boot of her car, gathered up her heavy fabric-sample books and the holdall containing the tools of her trade, and ran through the wind and drizzle to where the woman was now waiting at the unvarnished front door.
“Hi, you must be Claudia.” She smiled warmly. “I’m Andee. Lovely to meet you.”
