by Ashe Barker
I scramble to my feet, rubbing my head as I stand up. I peel off my rubber gloves and head back into the office.
“Ah, there you are. The door was open…”
It’s Mrs Henderson, the lady with the cottage in Morpeth. I hadn’t expected her, we don’t usually get our clients actually coming to our offices. But I do my best to extend suitable hospitality to what I hope is to become a valued customer.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Henderson. Please, won’t you sit down? I was just about to make a coffee, could I offer you something?”
She politely declines the offer of refreshments, but does take a seat, at Phyllis’ desk. “I was passing, on my way to a conference in Edinburgh. Well, sort of passing…” She pauses.
I smile my encouragement. I’m glad she decided to call. The A1 is the route to Edinburgh, and it runs about a mile west of where we now are. Not too much of a detour, not really.
She continues, “I need to be getting off soon, but I thought I’d call in and see if you’ve had a chance to work out the figures for my extension. I need to talk to my bank you see, and I was hoping to be able to do that before the weekend.”
I nod, nervously scanning Phyllis’ desk for the print out of the costed proposal. It’s my own sketch that identifies the correct bundle of papers from among the piles of everything looking exactly the same.
“Of course, we did it earlier. It’s here.” I pick up the proposal and hand it to her, my own sketch on the top. “I think Cain was intending to post it, but since you’re here.”
“That’s what I was thinking, save me some time and you a stamp. Oh, what a pretty drawing…” She breaks off to study the sketch. “Who did this?”
“I did. It’s what I imagine your house could look like, after the work has been done, obviously. I embellished it a bit, added the patio, and the pot plants. And the dog…”
“It looks lovely. And this is exactly the end result I’m hoping for. You’ve clearly understood the brief perfectly. And this picture is just what I need to convince me I’m right to do the alterations. Can I keep it?”
“Of course, it’s meant for you. I’m glad you like it.”
She’s leafing through the sheets pinned to the back of the sketch, nodding slowly. “I do. And I like these figures too. Yours is by far the cheapest quote. And your drawing tells me you really do understand what I want to achieve. The job’s yours, Miss…”
“Fischer, Abigail Fischer. I’m one of the partners here.” I stick out my hand and she grasps it, shakes warmly.
“I’ll email of course, formally accepting the quote and confirming Parrish Construction as my selected contractor and agreeing the start date. It’s been nice doing business with you, Miss Fischer.”
I smile at her, pleased to have done my bit. “And with you…”
She waves cheerily at me as she heads for the door, the papers tucked safely under her arm, looking for all the world like a seriously satisfied customer.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m lost in thought as I stroll along the main road heading out of Berwick toward our house. The rocky shoreline is to my right, the gray waters of the North Sea rippling darkly. This is dramatic coastline, and I know those waters are exceptionally cold, even in the summer. It’s mid-October now, and even the most determined paddlers would think twice. I keep stopping to admire the swooping, screeching seagulls, though I know the locals detest them. Phyllis calls them a menace, says they make a mess and are too noisy. Maybe if I live here long enough I’ll come to share that view, but for now I love them.
“Need a lift, miss? Would you like to come and show me your etchings?”
I turn sharply to see Cain hanging out of the van window, curb crawling beside me.
“You’ll get us both locked up.” But even so, I’m pleased to see him. I open the passenger door and hop into the van beside him.
“Good trip?”
“Yes, not bad. What about your day?” He grins at me as he puts the van into gear and pulls away.
I think for a moment. It’s been a weird sort of day, on reflection. A day of ups and downs. And of momentous, hopefully life-changing decisions. Which reminds me, I need to explain to Cain that I’ll be going back to Bradford for a week. But not yet.
“It’s been good. Really good. We got that job in Morpeth, Mrs Henderson’s cottage.”
He glances at me, puzzled. “How come? I didn’t sign off the quote yet.”
“Oh, well, Phyllis did the costings from the measurements we took yesterday, and printed it all off. Mrs Henderson called in about an hour ago, on her way to Edinburgh, so I gave her the figures. I didn’t realize it needed signing off. But anyway, she said it was the cheapest quote she’d had and the job’s ours. And I did a sketch, a sort of artist’s impression of how her house will look when we’ve finished. She loved that, said it showed we’d been listening and understood what she wanted.”
“Oh, she did, did she? Nice touch then, maybe you can do more of those—it could be our USP.”
“USP?”
“Unique Selling Point. Something that sets us apart from other building firms. Those sorts of things are important, this is a competitive trade we’re in, Abbie. But in future, I want to see all quotes before they go to the client. Sometimes I can find ways to reduce costs, increase our edge a bit. Sounds like that wasn’t needed this time though. So, where do you want to eat tonight?”
“At home?”
“Could do. But since we’re both fairly presentable, how about we adjourn to the Fisherman for a pub meal? It’d save on washing up.”
I smile happily as he signals left to pull into the car park behind the pub. It’s going to be another exceptionally pleasant evening.
* * * *
Cain shoves his empty plate aside as he leans over to pull his phone from his pocket. He’s just done justice to a huge steak and ale pie, with roast potatoes and vegetables. My chili con carne jacket potato was more modest in comparison, but delicious even so.
“Would you mind going to the bar, order us some coffee. Unless you want something stronger? I’ll just skim through my emails.”
“No problem. And just coffee’s fine for me. You want black, as usual?”
“Naturally. Get them to add it to our bill.”
I’m uncomfortable at the mention of the bill. So far, Cain has paid for everything, and it just won’t do. For heaven’s sake, I’m going to be earning twice as much as he does from the business. We need to talk about money. I return to our table, coffees safely ordered to find Cain staring at his phone, his brow furrowed. He looks up sharply as I retake my seat.
“Fiona Henderson has confirmed that contract.” The news is not unexpected, nor is it unwelcome as far as I know, but he doesn’t look as pleased by it as I might have expected.
“Yes, she said she would. Is there a problem?”
“Yes, could be. The price she seems to think we quoted—where did she get that from?”
Seems to think?
“It was there, in the papers. Phyllis worked it out from the measurements.”
He shakes his head, and I can tell by his darkening expression that something is seriously amiss. “No way those measurements arrived at this price. We couldn’t build her a garden shed for this.”
“If there’s been a mistake, maybe we could give her a ring, tell her what the cost really is…” My voice trails off at his disgusted glower.
“I’ll say there’s been a fucking mistake. And there’s no way we can go back to a customer, after a contract has been offered and accepted, and say ‘oh, by the way, it won’t cost what we said, it’ll actually cost nearly ten times as much’.”
“Ten times as much? How could we be that far out? Surely…”
He’s not listening to me. He punches numbers into his phone, glaring at me as he waits for someone to answer.
“Phyllis? Hello. Cain here. Sorry to bother you at home…” He waits, evidently being told it’s quite all right. Then he launches in
. “Those figures for the Henderson job, where did you get them from?” He waits a few moments. “Yes, but what Abbie wrote down was correct, I checked it while we were still on site. How come the build cost has come out at about ten percent of what I would have expected? Less than six grand for a two story stone built extension, for fuck’s sake.” He pauses again, then, “What?” He looks sharply at me, still listening intently.
My stomach feels heavy, that chili con carne now sitting awkwardly.
“Imperial? Who the fuck uses imperial measurements these days?”
I have a really, really bad feeling now. I’ve messed up. Messed up royally. And worse still, I’ve dragged Phyllis into my screw-up as well. Cain gestures at me, pointing to my bag.
“Do you have the notebook with you?”
I fumble in my bag and pass it to him. He flicks through to the page where my scrawled numbers and drawings record the all-important data from yesterday. He glances through again, still speaking into the phone.
“Yes, here it is. Five-point-five, by six-point-two…” Another silence at his end, then, “She said what? But, didn’t you think to check? You must have known the figures didn’t make sense.”
He continues to listen to whatever Phyllis is saying, his eyes closed as he leans his head back against the seat.
“She came into the office this afternoon, apparently, and Abbie gave her the printout. She left a happy woman, and now we know why.” His tone is calmer, more resigned. Another brief silence, then, “Okay. You weren’t to know the client would show up. And Abbie wasn’t to know the figures weren’t the final ones. Shit!”
Our coffees arrive, but Cain ignores his, still intent on making sense of this unfolding disaster. At last he tells Phyllis he’ll see her in the morning, and ends the call.
“Phyllis says she asked you if the measurements were metric or imperial, and that you were very definite that they were imperial. Feet and inches, Abbie. Why the hell did you say that?”
I stare at him, totally confused. I have no idea, none at all, what he means by ‘metric’ and ‘imperial’. I have heard of feet and inches, so naturally that’s what I thought the measurements meant. I don’t say any of that, though—I don’t know where to start trying to explain. Instead, I settle for a whispered, “Sorry.”
“Sorry! Is that the best you can do? Christ, Abbie, five-point-two means five-point-two meters. Five meters and twenty centimeters. Not five feet and two inches. Five-point-two meters is about seventeen feet. We’ve under costed for the materials we’ll need, and the labor time. We’ve only priced for a five-foot-five, by six-foot-two extension, nine-foot-nine inches high. What the client wants is nearly ten times that size. Five-point-two meters wide, by nine-point-nine meters high converts to seventeen feet wide by thirty-two feet high, more or less. That’s a hell of a difference. We’ll lose thousands on this job. What were you thinking, Abbie?”
What indeed? I have no answer. I’m not even completely sure I understand how the problem arose. He’s babbling about random numbers that seem to make some sense to him, but he lost me at the first mention of meters and centimeters. I can only repeat my apology.
His expression now is one of disbelief. “Sorry! For fuck’s sake, Abbie, how could you be so…”
I don’t let him finish. I can’t let him say it. I might say it to myself, but from him it would be just too painful, quite, quite unbearable.
“Don’t you dare call me stupid! It was a mistake, I’ve apologized. Don’t you ever make a mistake?” I’m already grabbing my notepad and ramming it back into my bag, my half-finished coffee abandoned.
Cain seems to agree the meal’s over. He stands, shoves his phone back into his pocket and pulls out the van keys. He stalks over to the bar to settle our bill while I make my way outside. He joins me a few minutes later, his face still a mask of furious incredulity. He unlocks the van, opening my door for me.
“This conversation is not over, Abbie. You’ve a lot of explaining still to do.”
Like hell. No way am I explaining anything to him, at least not while he’s in this mood. I sit mutinously in my seat, and a couple of minutes later I fling the door open as he pulls up in front of the house. I leap down and head for the front door, Cain hard on my heels.
“I wasn’t about to call you stupid back there. I know you’re not stupid. That’s what makes this all the more ridiculous.”
I round on him again, my temper spiking and every defensive instinct leaping straight to red alert. “Don’t call me ridiculous either. Who do you think you are? I didn’t do it on purpose, I’ve said that. It was a genuine mistake.”
“A fucking expensive mistake. That quote should have been nearer to fifty grand than five.”
“Well you’ll just have to talk to Mrs Henderson then. She must have realized. She’ll know it was a mistake.”
“Why the fuck should she? You didn’t. Or so you say.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying I’m lying?”
“Well it makes no sense to me…”
I see red. I’ve heard enough. Defensiveness, humiliation and bone-deep fear of being found out is a powerful cocktail, I find. I lose my temper completely. I just want out of there, and to be rid of him. “Go fuck yourself. Because you’re sure as hell not fucking me again.”
I dart past him, making for the stairs.
“Abbie, don’t you dare walk out on me when I’m talking to you.”
Arrogant bastard. I yell my answer from the top of the stairs, “You can talk to yourself from now on. I’m leaving.” I slam the bedroom door behind me.
Moments later he bursts into the room, to find me turning all my clothes out of the drawers. I reach under the bed for my holdall.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Like I said, I’m leaving.”
The door slams again. “Oh, right. And where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m moving into my flat. Will you give me a lift or do I have to walk there?”
“What? Abbie, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want you to leave.”
“No? Well you give a pretty good impression of it. But it’s not up to you. I’ve had enough of your accusations. I screwed up, I know that. And I said I’m sorry, but that’s not good enough for you, is it? You think I’m stupid, or ridiculous. Or both. You’re even suggesting now that I did it on purpose. Well, like I said, fuck you.”
All the time that I’ve been yelling at him I’ve been throwing my stuff into my bag and now I pull the zip around roughly. It doesn’t fasten, but I’m well past caring. My signature hot—and as often as not self-destructive—temper, is in full flow now, and he’s getting both barrels of it.
Not that this seems to bother him unduly. He leans casually against the door, watching my antics. I grab my bag and round on him furiously.
“Please get out of my way.”
He doesn’t shift. “I don’t want you to leave, Abbie. Not like this. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just want to understand how this happened.”
“No? Well I’m past caring what you did and didn’t mean and what you want. Excuse me please.”
I make to push past him, and at last he stands politely aside. I take my chance and shove past him into the hallway, only to have him turn and stroll along after me.
“Right, I’ll drive you then if you’re so bloody determined to go. But I’m telling you now, Abbie, this is temporary. I want you back here where you belong. When you cool down you’ll see that.”
My temper flares again. I dump my bag on the floor and turn to square up to him. Nose to nose now, I hurl my anger in his face. “Oh will I? How come you’re such an expert then? Maybe when I cool down I’ll see you for the over-bearing arrogant bully that you are. Have you considered that?”
The cool bastard seems quite unimpressed by my aggressive stance, but my choice of words does appear to get to him. He frowns and has the grace to look genuinely concerned. “Bully? When did I ever bully you?”
<
br /> I’m not backing down. “Think back. What about the first time I ever clapped eyes on you, when you waylaid me in the street as I was leaving work? You insulted me then as well, come to think of it. And threatened me. I should have known better than to get involved with you.”
I reach down to grab the handles of my holdall and start to lug my bag along the upstairs hallway, only to have him take it from me and lead the way downstairs. He reaches the front door and turns to me again.
“Abbie, please stay. Let’s talk.”
I have a momentary pang of conscience. He is being reasonable. More or less. But rational, reasonable debate does not come easily to me at the best of times, and certainly not when I’m caught like this, on the back foot, feeling defensive, vulnerable and threatened—my dark secret on the point of being exposed. And just as I’d finally reached out and grabbed the solution. The solution that had seemed out of reach, had appeared to be quite unattainable. Until now. How frustrating to come so close, and to be found out, to fall at the final hurdle. I glare at him, just wanting to be out of there. “I’m done talking to you.”
He shrugs, clearly baffled but resigned now to the inevitable. He reaches for the door handle, opens the front door and gestures me through. “Okay, get in the van.”
Ten minutes later I’m alone, in the middle of my new living room, my bag bursting its contents all over my carpet. The sound of Cain’s van pulling away reaches my ears, then fades as he drives back along the road. As the silence surrounds me I sink to my knees, sobbing.
Chapter Sixteen
Somehow I manage to lie awake most of the night then oversleep the next morning. By the time I open my eyes, it’s bright daylight. I reach out of bed and grope around on the floor for my phone. I manage to locate it and turn it on to display the time. Nine-fifteen. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling and contemplating the wreckage which is my new life. Cain hates me, doesn’t trust me—thinks I’m an idiot. Or worse. And I loathe him. I do. Really.
