by Fox Brison
Chapter 9
Devon
Wednesday December 7th, 2016.
I watched Rachel usher her daughter back to her own table and cursed myself. God she’s going to think I’m a total bitch. The thing is I’m awkward enough with adults, but with kids I’m truly awful. Honestly, every time I hold a baby it cries. In fact, sometimes I don’t have to hold them, I just have to look in their direction. Normally I either run a mile when I see a little human heading in my direction, or feel nothing but relief when they are removed from my vicinity. Oddly enough, right now I felt nothing but disappointment. I chalked it up to missing out on an opportunity to investigate Rachel further.
I mean, what other reason could there be, right?
I concentrated on the job and pretended to fiddle with my laptop whilst I eagerly eavesdropped on Rachel and Jessie discussing a possible night on the tiles. “Fine, okay, you win. I’ll ask Mrs Jessop to babysit and we’ll go to the Angel this Friday, but you have to promise no more Tori… I’m not interested in dating Tori, and I’m certainly not interested in sleeping with Tori. Am I clear? No more set ups, no more blind dates, no more interfering in my love life, got it? I barely survived your previous attempts. Match.com you are not.”
“Oh come on, they weren’t all bad.”
“Jessica Jane! How you can stand there and say that with a straight face is a Christmas miracle in itself. Do I need to say her name, the one who cannot be named for fear of the curse?”
“Who?” Jessie grinned, mischievously.
“Sandra.”
“Oh.” Jessie looked at her friend sheepishly. “What can I say? In my defence she was always normal when we hung out together,” she protested, laughing.
“If you call worshipping Satan normal,” Rachel began, “and let’s not forget the classy move of organising her next date whilst we ate dinner.”
“Yeah, fair do’s, I’ll give you that one.”
“And then there was whatshername, the one you swore would be the next Mrs McTavers.” Rachel shook her head. “She was a complete fruit loop!”
“Annie?”
“Oh my god, I’d completely forgotten about Annie! The rugger player whose captain played footsie with me all night? Seriously, I got repetitive strain injury from pulling my leg away so many times. I ended the evening perched on my chair with my feet tucked underneath me. If that wasn’t bad enough it turned out her ex played for the same team, literally and figuratively. Exit Annie, stage right, with Ms Scrum Half waiting in the wings.”
“So which fruity loop were you thinking of?” Jessie asked, perplexed.
“Jane.”
“Not me Tarzan, you Jane, Jane?”
Rachel barked a laugh. “Ding, ding, we have a winner. She thought swinging on a first date was perfectly acceptable. I should have realised something was up when she asked for my car keys and was really disappointed when I said I didn’t drive. Thankfully, the dark room and sweaty bodies writhing on the sofas was a dead giveaway-”
“Before you had to!” Jessie chuckled. “Point taken, I have picked some wrong ‘uns. Who knew there were so many freaky lesbians in London? And that I seem to know them all personally.”
This was perfect. I don’t know why conformation of Rachel’s sexual orientation gave me such a boost, but reasoned it would aid my investigation into her background. If we could accidently on purpose bump into each other in a more relaxed setting, I might not come across quite as socially inept and then... Suddenly I felt like a lioness stalking a zebra, devising how to separate her from the herd so I could eat… I blushed. Get to know her better, get to know her better, my thoughts bellowed, overwhelming the Freudian slip that sent a tingle to my core.
Wow my mind got there quicker than Usain Bolt in fast forward.
I texted Hannah aware she’d jump at the chance of a night out. Besides I really didn’t recognise the name of the pub they were talking about and she was part of the scene much more than I was - or ever had been.
You want to go where? The Angel in Islington? I heard the incredulity in the text. I bet she said it aloud because she often did when receiving and sending texts.
I’d been left red faced on many an occasion.
Yes. Do you know it? I thought it was an imaginary property on the Monopoly board.
I do know it, but I don’t think it… well… I don’t think it’s your cup of Earl Grey.
Jesus, Han, it’s for work. Our target is going there on Friday. It’ll give us a chance to see what she’s like minus the apron. She might be a sexual deviant here’s hoping for all we know. I can’t go alone because then I’ll look sad. I was already imagining a grotty little dive (complete with sticky floors and the lingering aroma of cigarette smoke from ten years ago) filled with desperate women on the pull for even more desperate women.
Sadder. Hannah had replied whilst I was lost in the nineteen eighties.
I felt my hackles rise a little. I fired you once, remember!
I grimaced because that was uncalled for, but old habits die harder than Bruce Willis. I was, however, learning to soften my edges. Hannah, you’ll basically be getting paid for doing what you do most weekends anyway.
Sold. But what if she thinks we’re on a date? I don’t want you cramping my style, no offence. I imagined Hannah shuddering. We should invite Jane, it’ll look more natural that way.
Good point. Think Jane would be up for it?
For sure.
Hannah was a good egg, but we had little in common, and Jane was lovely, but eccentric didn’t cover half how strange she could be. Friday was going to be interesting if nothing else. I put my mobile back in my handbag and I went to pay my bill.
Damn.
I watched Rachel’s smile fall as I approached the counter. I left my usual tip, but before I made it half way to the door I felt a strong hand grip my arm. “I’m sorry, but this is too much,” Rachel handed me back the gratuity I’d left.
“No, it’s not. Look, this job pays minimum wage and I know people like you rely on tips to make a living.” I aimed for understanding.
I hit the patronising bullseye.
“People like me,” Rachel pushed the note into my pocket, “manage just fine. What we don’t need is pity from people like you.” She stormed back behind the counter shaking her head the whole way.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I muttered angrily as I stepped out into the rain which, having stopped a few minutes before, started again. Great. “I can’t seem to stop insulting this woman. The only drink I’m likely to get out of her on Friday is one thrown in my face.” I pressed the button to open my car. “Which would probably make Hannah’s year never mind day.”
I winced. It wasn’t just my choice of words which put people’s backs up, it was also the sandpaper abrasiveness in my tone.
I hated the way I spoke. The reality was I’d spent years overcoming a stammer that at times could be as debilitating as a paralysis. One method of overcoming my speech impediment was talking quite slowly and enunciating each syllable clearly, which often came across as arrogance and up my own arse, Hannah’s accusation two days into my new job. My entire childhood was spent being the butt of my family’s jokes. My brothers would rile me up in order to make me lose control, first of my speech, and then of my temper. They grew most proficient with their words, using them like a fencer’s foil to flick and feint. It took years of speech therapy and the kindness of Marta for me to eventually have the tools to defend myself adequately, first with a retreat then with a riposte.
My stammer was the main reason I focussed on contracts. It was one area of law that rarely required me to stand up in court and speak. Under pressure, extreme pressure, I couldn’t always control my stutter, no matter how hard I tried, or how ridiculous I sounded, and I would never throw myself under the bus that way. It was yet another disappointment for my mother and father; they had it in their heads I would go to the Inns of Court and become a high powered barrister.
My i
dea of hell.
Most people looked at me and did the whole judging a book by its cover. They saw the clothes, the car, the multi-million pound apartment. No-one scratched the surface to find out what was beneath the seemingly perfect façade.
No-one ever bothered to see the real me.
Chapter 10
Devon
Friday, 9th December, 2016
“Rachel McTavers is looking good to go,” I said to Celeste at our Friday morning meeting. I passed over what we’d discovered thus far. “She is definitely in line for the Gideon Inheritance. Jane has the birth certificates for both Margaret Jenkins and the son she gave birth to, and the dates correlate with what we learned from the diary. She also has a lead on Margaret Jenkin’s marriage to…” I checked the screen of my computer, “Harold McTavers of Gigglethorpe.” I chuckled at the name of the little village in Norfolk. “She’s heading back to town for the weekend and will meet the parish deacon on Monday afternoon to look collect the relevant paperwork.”
“This is wonderful. Good job, Devon.” Celeste’s radiant smile lit up the dreary day.
“On the moral and, erm, righteous front,” I continued, “Hannah’s initial search hasn’t raised any red flags. She’ll delve deeper, of course, but I’m confident enough to begin the paperwork straight away. It’ll take a few weeks to cross the t’s and dot the i’s-”
“Hang fire on that for a moment,” she held up her hand as if to physically stop me.
“Why? We haven’t got much time to hang around-”
“I know, but I don’t want anyone forewarned.”
“Fore- ah, Flood and Williams. Of course. As executors once we start the ball rolling they have to be informed.”
“Exactly. What do they make managing the fund, five, ten million a year?”
“More. They charge a nominal three point six million for overseeing investments and the property portfolio, but, and this is the kicker, they charge a ten percent agency fee as well. All in all it adds up to the fifty million plus mark.”
“Bastards,” Celeste growled then immediately apologised when a clap of thunder finished rolling outside the window. “Sorry for my language.” Funnily enough she looked up when she said that, she was so embarrassed she couldn’t meet my eyes.
“No offence taken,” I replied.
“The two hundred and fifty years is coming to a head on Christmas Eve this year, so Flood and Williams are no longer playing for a mere fifty million a year-”
“Shit, they’re going for the brass ring!” I interrupted.
“There is no way they will let that amount of money go with a whimper. I think we should expect a bang and a big one. That’s why we need everything tied up with a neat little bow before they even get a sniff there is a potential heir.”
“Right so they don’t have the time to mount a viable challenge,” I nodded my understanding.
“You’re a quick study. I knew employing you was a good idea. However, if they do object,” she said with a heartfelt thump on the desk, “I will don my cloak of gilded feathers and take on the powers of evil, smiting them with the sword of truth…” she stopped talking when she saw my look of incredulity. There was a bit of fear mixed in for good measure, which possibly contributed to the premature conclusion of her, erm, rant. I could understand Celeste’s need for caution.
We were dealing with Flood and Williams.
My family firm.
Chapter 11
Rachel
Friday, 9th December, 2016
“She’s back,” Jessie nodded her head towards the table to the left of the door.
“Who?” I asked nonchalantly, but I knew well and good who was back. No I wasn’t psychic, I saw her taking a seat through the hatch.
“Ms Hottie, that’s the fifth time in three days,” Jessie tried to whisper, really she did, but who am I kidding? She was as dulcet as a foghorn on a misty morning in November. I saw Ms Hottie smile a little before lifting her menu higher to hide her face, which I could have sworn coloured slightly. She appeared softer in that moment.
Approachable.
Almost vulnerable.
I’d been feeling pretty guilty over the tip incident. I don’t think she meant how I took her comment, and I’ll admit I could be a tiny bit over sensitive when it came to certain things. “Jessie, please go and take her order,” I said, my voice much lower as I served two builders their laden lunches. When I returned to the counter, Jessie was nowhere to be seen. You little shit, I thought exasperatedly.
“Seems you can’t keep away,” I smiled.
“I’m sorry?” There it was again, the merest hint of a blush dusting her beautifully defined cheekbones. It made me go weak at the knees.
Jesus, was I flirting with this woman? “I didn’t realise our coffee was so good.”
“Actually, it’s not-” she stopped in a hurry and I raised my eyebrows. “What I mean to say, it’s nowhere near as good as the service.”
Smooth save, hotshot. It appears she can be charming when the mood takes her. I allowed a small upturn in my lips to show I appreciated the compliment.
“I’m working near here,” she continued, “and a co-worker mentioned that, despite appearances to the contrary, this was a decent enough place to grab lunch or breakfast.”
Another compliment, backhanded this time, but better than none I suppose. “So you’re local then?” Yeah, right Rach. She was far too high-end for this locality… oh crap I hope she isn’t the first of a yuppie invasion, they already hold most of London.
“For the next few weeks, yes. Research.”
She wasn’t exactly forthcoming, but then I appreciated a challenge. “Research? Oh, maybe I can help? I’ve lived around here practically my whole life.”
“That would be completely inappropriate. Client confidentiality.” She was to the point, I’ll give her that, bordering on rude. The thing is I wasn’t sure if I was growing inured to her bipolar tendencies, or I simply didn’t care, but her cold and abrupt manner wasn’t bothering me as much.
I fixed a benign smile on my face. It must have looked like I’d just popped down to Harley Street for a quick botox fix. “I understand completely. I’ll give you a few minutes to look at the menu.”
“That will not be necessary, I know exactly what I want,” I stared into her darkened pools, her eyes dilating suddenly. I think I knew what she wanted because I wanted the same. “I’d like the Cajun chicken panini and a tea please.”
Okay, so no we didn’t want the same thing, but the thought was nice for that millisecond.
Maybe Jessie was right and it was time to dip my toe back into the dating pool.
Chapter 12
Rachel
Friday, 9th December, 2016
Usually I looked forward to the weekend. I’d sometimes pick up an extra few hours on a Saturday morning, but apart from that I was all Ruth’s. We’d go on nature walks, or visit one of the multitude of museums and galleries that littered London. That was the great thing about living in the city, there was always something to do that didn’t cost a penny.
However, this weekend?
This weekend I was dreading.
What was I thinking? My only consideration when agreeing to go out with Jessie was to get some respite from her constant nagging. Right now I cursed my sluggish mental reflexes … Ebola… depression over Brexit… Tottenham’s star striker being injured… any one of them could have been used as an excuse to forgo this torture by lesbian flirtation.
I stared into the long mirror on the back of my bedroom door, twisting to make sure the split in the back of the black faux leather dress was on the right side of decency. I nodded to myself. It barely kissed the top of my knees but was demure enough to pass inspection. My sister, Louise, had bought it for me. Possessing a real eye for fashion, she’d pick up bits and pieces in second hand stores and flea markets and owned a wardrobe that would have easily rivalled the likes of Victoria Beckham. Me, on the other hand, I had the fashion se
nse of a monkey – and a colour blind monkey at that. I rarely bought clothes for myself and when I did, they had to fit two criteria: practical and necessary. I finished my ensemble with a pair of black suede ankle boots, again Louise’s influence. I thought about straightening my hair but went for the opposite extreme. My curls were fuller and bouncier than ever. I chuckled. I could have stepped out of an eighties Jon bon Jovi rock video, but all in all I didn’t look to shabby.
After getting roped into it, I was determined to make the most of my first girl’s night out in over a year. Ruth and Mrs Jessop were settled on the sofa with Princess Merida’s lilting Scottish accent for company; she was Ruth’s favourite Disney heroine this month. “You know the routine,” I said to Mrs Jessop before kissing Ruth goodbye. “I love you, monkey!” She wiped the lipstick mark from her cheek, but her eyes never left the screen. I shook my head as I put on my grey wool overcoat and quickly hustled from the flat. I was meeting Jessie at the tube station and didn’t want to keep her waiting.
I settled into a hurried gait. The night was cold and Jack Frost would be busy with his brush painting silvery pictures tonight, that was for sure. My breath streamed into one long vapour trail and I tucked my hands into my coat pockets wishing I’d thought to bring my gloves. The streetlights provided amber spots on the concrete pavements, and as I passed from one circle to another, I couldn’t help but wish I lived in the countryside where I’d be able to look up to the heavens and see the host of winking stars hidden by ambient lights and smog, my sister and brother-in-law being two of the shivering diamonds watching over us.
Jessie was leaning against the railing outside of the station, her phone gripped tightly in her hand. “Day-yamn, you look fine tonight, Rache! Loving the hair.” I did a half curtsy and grinned. Hearing the rumble of the train approaching beneath our feet we rushed down the stairs, and I prayed I wouldn’t stumble. I wasn’t used to heels, not even the small ones that decorated my ankle boots.
