by Clare Kauter
“Boys’ club meeting?” I asked.
“Business meeting,” James corrected. “Grown-up stuff. Maybe one day you’ll understand.”
Luckily this was only a fake argument, otherwise that burn might have stung a bit.
Adam and Lionel nodded and told James they’d be there.
I looked around and spotted something that nearly made me keel over. A waiter with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Dinner!
I snagged him by the apron as he walked by and relieved him of the tray. Mmm. Bruschetta. Since this was a classy party, they were all about the height and angle, not so much about the quantity. I took one and bit into it. James followed suit.
“I haven’t had dinner. Didn’t have time after work,” he explained.
“Same.”
We scarfed down the entire tray before the waiter scurried back to remove the empty platter. After that, the conversation got a little stilted. James and I were pretending to hate each other, Adam and I actually hated each other, and nobody really knew Lionel except Stacey, but she was kind of awkward around James. Jo had just been staring at James this whole time, while Os looked on in anger. Lea was still pissed at James because I’d said he might evict us. No one was talking.
Oh god. Was it up to me to break the silence?
I’d already used my best material earlier when I’d told everyone that I’d shaved my armpits. What did I have left?
“I think my left boob is bigger than my right,” I announced. The whole group turned to look at me in disbelief. Even Jo broke her McKenzie-gazing to give me a look of disgust. Well, if everyone insisted on leaving me in charge of the conversation, that’s what they were going to get.
“I think you’re right, you know,” said Lea, examining my chest (with her eyes – not, you know, hands-on doctor-style).
The conversation stopped again pretty abruptly. I stood from the couch and announced, “I’m going to go and squeeze out a wee!” before running to the bathroom in order to avoid the horrible social awkwardness.
My phone buzzed the second I got into a cubicle.
‘Squeeze out a wee’
‘Boobs different sizes’
‘Shaved my armpits’
#conversationstartersbyCharlie
It was, if you hadn’t guessed, James McKenzie.
I typed back: At least I tried to make conversation.
I wasn’t game. We’re pretending to be enemies, aren’t we? I couldn’t just strike up a conversation.
We are, but it’s for our own safety. I wouldn’t put it past some of my friends to murder us if they thought there was something going on between us.
Something going on?
Although McKenzie couldn’t see me, I gave a dramatic eye-roll.
They’re delusional. Who knows what’s going on in their heads? I responded.
Right. Nothing going on. Except that you vomited on me that one time.
Exactly. It’s not like I’m trying to seduce you.
Really? I must have read that sign wrong, then.
I snorted at the joke.
Is the mood less weird out there yet?
I figured I should probably head back out to the party. What was I even doing here? Hiding in a bathroom and secretly texting a boy? Gross.
My phone buzzed with McKenzie’s response.
Kind of, although Jo is still brushing against my thigh. Her boyfriend looks ready to kill me.
Husband. His name is Oswald.
She’s MARRIED?
Yes. Stop being such a home-wrecker.
If our situations were reversed, I’d be in prison for this.
She probably should be too, tbh.
At least you recognise that. Hurry up and come back! It’s boring without you. No one takes that long to squeeze out a wee.
Please stop quoting that.
I left the cubicle washed my hands and pushed through the bathroom door, back out onto the VIP floor. I looked around the group as I approached. Lionel was stroking Stacey’s neck while they stared into each other’s eyes like they wanted everyone to feel a little bit sick at how much they were in love. Os glared at James as Jo stared at James who was studiously typing on his phone. Adam and Lea were chatting. (They knew each other from when Adam had investigated Lea’s husband and eventually proved he was a serial killer.)
The mood was too weird for me.
“Well, I’m off,” I said.
“Me too,” said James, hurriedly standing up.
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Early start,” he said.
“Right,” I said. Pretty sure he didn’t have to get up at 5.30 am, but I didn’t bother mentioning it. I turned back to the group. “Bye, everyone. Nice to meet you, Lonny. I’ll see you tomorrow, Adam.” Unfortunately.
“Nice to meet you too, Charlie,” said Lionel. Adam just nodded, looking tired. I was tired, too. Tired of his shit. (Also regular tired, because I’d been awake for 18 hours now. Gross. Was there even any point in going to bed tonight?)
James said his goodbyes as I walked away. He caught up to me as I made my way to the car park.
“If the rent’s too high, I can lower it.”
“No, the rent’s fine. Moving out was a just a little expensive.”
“It’s not good if you aren’t eating.” I frowned at him quizzically. How did he know that? He shrugged. “I saw the way you inhaled that bruschetta. Somebody hasn’t been eating their six square meals a day.” Fair call. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow.”
“Another date so soon?” I asked.
“A business dinner,” he answered, smiling. “I’m hosting a party at one of my hotels.”
“So many parties,” I said. “Billionaire life sounds really hard.”
He half-smirked. “It’s kind of a courtesy thing. I don’t really want to do it. It’ll be a lot more fun if I have someone there to hang out with.”
“And I’m your first choice?” I asked. “Really?”
“How many other friends do I have?”
“Joe?”
“Jo Riley?”
I snorted. “Joe Winton. Although I’m sure Joanna would be happy to attend.”
He laughed. “Joe Winton is working. Joanna is married. Plus, you know more about Pokémon than both of them put together.”
“That is important at a business dinner.”
“Crucial knowledge.”
“I guess I’ll have to be there, then. As long as you have me home at a reasonable hour.”
“Sure,” he said.
I was not entirely convinced that he meant that ‘sure’. Tomorrow was going to be another long day.
Chapter Three
When I woke up, I felt like I hadn’t slept for days. It had been past midnight when I’d finally climbed into bed, after packing my bag for the next morning. I groaned loudly and got up, sleepily pulling on my tracksuit. The pants fell down. I stared down at them, crumpled on the floor, and frowned. I bent and pulled them up again, but they wouldn’t stay. This tracksuit had been too big at the best of times, and now… It was hideous.
I grabbed a belt from my wardrobe and hoicked the pants back up. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I nearly choked. I was not one to care much about outward appearances, especially when I was just going for a morning run, but even I had some concerns about this look.
I was sitting up at the kitchen bench sipping green tea when Adam Baxter walked in. (All the guys from Baxter & Co. knew where I kept my spare key – under a flower pot by the door – so they rarely bothered knocking.) He took one look at my tracksuit and said, “I am not being seen in public with that.”
“Well, then we have a slight problem, because I don’t have anything else.”
“You can not wear a belt with track pants.”
“Just watch me.”
I’d been working at Baxter & Co. for around a month now, and I was able to jog the full 6km to the gym without breaks, but I still wasn’t particularly fast. That mo
rning, Adam ran slightly too quickly for me to keep up with him, presumably so no one would realise we were together.
He made me work out solidly until 8 o’clock, after which he sent me to the showers. When I came back out, now wearing denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and Converse sneakers, I collected my gluten-free muffin and sat with Adam. Apparently my outfit was now worthy of his company. I didn’t really want to hang out with him socially, but he’d mentioned yesterday that he’d tell me about extra jobs over breakfast.
He took his wallet from his pocket and handed me a wad of fifty-dollar notes. “Buy yourself a decent tracksuit.”
“Will this come out of my pay?”
“No,” he answered. “This is a charitable donation to the world in the form of getting rid of that thing you were wearing this morning. You know what?” He handed me a few more fifties. “Get yourself some new joggers as well.”
“What do I do with the change?” I asked.
“Keep it,” he said. “I don’t want it. I have to pick you up tomorrow morning and if you wear that saggy piece of crap again, I’m firing you.”
“OK,” I said. I was used to Adam’s brusque style after working for him for a month. Almost. “Anyway, last night you mentioned some jobs you had for me.”
He ignored me. “A single muffin for breakfast?”
“The case?”
“The muffin.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He gave me a look of disbelief. To be fair, it hadn’t been my best lie. Food was one of my favourite things in the world, alongside sleep and… Um, OK, mostly sleep. As James McKenzie had alluded to last night, I usually complained loudly if I didn’t eat at least six meals per day. Adam had rightly noticed that this ‘one muffin’ behaviour was unlike me.
I sighed exasperatedly. “Not everyone can afford a three course breakfast.”
“A couple of dollars isn’t going to make much of a difference.” Somebody had never been poor. He clearly didn’t know how much rice you could buy for a couple of dollars. Neither did I, but it was probably a lot. Which would be really handy if I knew how to cook rice.
“I’m fine with the muffin,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.
“We don’t pay you enough?” he asked, incredulously. He was not letting this go.
“No, it’s not that, it – it’s just – ”
“You blew all your money shopping and now you have nothing left, so you’re trying to earn extra money to pay rent. Am I right?”
Of course he was right. He was a genius private investigator. He’d probably never been wrong in his life.
“Nearly,” I answered. “You forgot the part where I need to pay three grand off my credit card, and my housemate has also blown all her money and has no job, so I also have to pay the full rent for this month.”
“I doubt McKenzie desperately needs his rent money. He’d probably be OK with it being a little late if it means you’re actually eating.”
“Why are you so concerned? You don’t even like me.”
“Hungry people don’t work as well.” Of course. Adam was all about them economics. “Go get yourself a proper meal.”
“But –”
“I don’t care what you have to say. We both know you’re going to lose this argument anyway, so just do it.”
I huffed and walked back over to the buffet. There was a decent spread today, just like every other morning. I settled on a green juice – kale, apple, mint and cucumber – and a tofu and mushroom scramble on sprouted grain toast with a side of avocado. I walked back to the table and plonked my massive breakfast down loudly.
“Good. Now eat it,” he said, ignoring my tantrum. “I have a case for you. A nice easy one. A kid whose parents are worried about what he’s been getting up to after school. All you have to do is follow him and find out.”
“Easy,” I said through a mouthful of scramble. To his credit, Adam didn’t even look all that disgusted. Secretly, I was glad he’d made me go back for more breakfast. This was delicious. I took a sip of my juice. Yep. Worth it.
“You look young and non-threatening enough for people to not call the police if they see you following a teenager, unlike most of my other employees.” I tried to imagine the other hulking guys following a schoolboy around. Oh dear. Yep, they’d end up in prison. One hundred per cent. “I’ll get you the kid’s file by lunch so you can start working on it today. I imagine it’s going to be pretty open and shut.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I doubt it’s going to be hard for me to follow some kid. It’s not like he’s going to be expecting a tail.” Plus, it seemed like a nice, safe job. The only kind Adam trusted me with, which was both offensive and comforting. The kid wasn’t going to shoot me, for example. After the incident a few weeks ago, that was not an experience I was looking to repeat.
Adam nodded. “It’s time for you to start work, anyway. I’ll see you later.” That was not a friendly goodbye when it came from Adam. Just a factual statement.
At 9:30 I was at the reception desk sorting through the mail in my in-tray. There were a few meetings to be arranged as well as cases and invitations to various events. Adam came down the corridor from his office and sat a file on my desk.
“Make sure all your work is done by three o’clock so that you can head to his school and follow this kid home. You’re going to have to pursue him on foot or you’ll look like a kidnapper. Use your phone to take pictures if you see anything interesting.”
With that, he left. Master of conversation.
I didn’t stop for lunch because I had so much work to do, and I’d blown this week’s food budget on breakfast anyway. Luckily, Tim Carter came to my rescue.
“How you doin’, honey?” he asked in his southern drawl. Tim was a Texan with sandy blonde hair and big brown eyes. Today he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, the same as every other day, and he was carrying a take-away bag from the cafeteria.
“Did you bring me a present?” I asked.
He grinned. “Of course. I couldn’t let you go hungry.”
He sat down behind the reception desk on the spare chair next to me and opened the bag. “A Moroccan chickpea and pumpkin salad for you, my dear,” he said, handing me the cardboard container. “And a felafel sub for me.”
Everything from the cafeteria was healthy whole-food stuff, but apart from the fresh wheatgrass shots most of it tasted pretty good.
“Everything OK with you?” Tim asked.
I shot him a look. “Yes. Why?”
“Adam sent me,” Tim admitted. I groaned and rolled my eyes. “He’s worried about you. He said you’re not eating.”
Oh, right, Adam was worried about me? More like he was worried about meeting company productivity goals. “I’m fine!” I snapped.
“OK,” said Tim. “Good. Keep being fine, then.”
“I will.”
“Cool,” he said. We were silent for a moment as we chewed on our lunches. “I hear you’ve got your own case,” Tim said eventually. I was glad for the change of topic. I was sick of everyone asking me about my money and eating habits. It’s like they didn’t think I was capable of being a real adult. Of course, they were right, but they didn’t need to rub it in.
“Yeah, I get to follow a child,” I said.
“Like the creeper you are.”
“Yep.”
“Got your white van ready?”
“You bet.”
“And your candy?”
“A jar of boiled sweeties.”
Tim had finished his sub by this time and pushed himself back from the desk, standing. “I’ve gotta get back to it, honey. Stay out of trouble. Don’t get arrested.”
“I hardly ever do,” I answered.
He left.
By two thirty I was done with all my researching and other odd jobs, so I collected my things from my office and set off for the school on foot. Although Baxter & Co. provided me with a car, because I was still on the first tier of the exercise program I ran to wo
rk every morning, so my car spent the majority of its time in my garage. Most days I walked home.
Gerongate High, the worst high school in Gerongate (which is really saying something), was a place I was quite familiar with, having previously been one of its students. As you can imagine, I was a delight to teach, and I really enjoyed my time there, so I definitely wasn’t hiding behind my sunglasses and crouching near a bush in the hope that none of my old teachers would see me lurking outside the boundary of the schoolyard.
Cough.
One thing I hadn’t thought about was how many different exits there were at a school. Luckily I knew the layout well enough to find the exit that seemed most logical for this guy to use, since it was closest to his house.
I’d studied up his file earlier in the day, and recognised a kid who looked like the picture Adam had given me scuttling out the gate. I surreptitiously checked the photo of the kid I had in my pocket, double-checking it was him. Once I was certain, I waited for him to pass me, then emerged from behind the bush like a serial killer, and followed him.
He went straight home, and since I was fairly sure he hadn’t seen me, I guessed Tuesday wasn’t his drug-running day.
By the time I arrived home, it was four thirty. After my late night last night, I was ready for bed, but alas, it was not to be. I had a couple of hours until I was supposed to meet McKenzie at his business soiree, and I had to have a tracksuit bought before then.
I drove down town and stopped outside an expensive-looking sportswear store. Once inside, I decided to phone a friend – it was a hard decision, and I was not good at buying things in physical stores. (What is the deal with change-rooms? Undressing in a public place is just not OK.)
When Jo arrived she looked panic stricken.
“Are you OK?” she asked. “I know it’s none of my business, but I really don’t think you should be shopping so soon after… You know.”
I’d known this was coming.
“My boss gave me money to get a tracksuit and a pair of joggers for work. I’m not even paying for it. I just need you to tell me what suits.”
“How much did he give you?”
“Couple hundred.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Only a few hundred. That’s one cheap outfit for you, Charlie Davies.”
