by D A Latham
He rolled his eyes. "First off, it's not fake concern. Secondly, you just frightened the shit out of me back there. I watched you crying outside the court. I followed you to give you back your bag, I just didn't know how to approach you. I knew from the case notes that you lived by Bromley North, so when you headed south, I followed. I didn't realise you were planning to fling yourself under a train though. I need this coffee as much as you do." His eyes flashed anger as he spoke. "I could've got you sectioned by mental health back there." He tilted his head towards the station.
"Why don't you?" I challenged.
"Because I happen to think you've got enough problems going on. Getting locked up in a mad-house won't help."
I couldn't fault his logic. I watched as he took a sip of his coffee. His mouth was perfectly sculptured. The man had just about everything going for him, lucky bastard. "Thank you," I said, figuring that if I played nice, he'd congratulate himself and be on his way, leaving me with my latte. He nodded, his eyes boring into me. It made me a bit uncomfortable, as though he was trying to see into my head.
"It's a permanent solution to a temporary problem," he said eventually.
"What is?"
"Suicide. No amount of money is worth a life."
"That's easy for you to say," I snapped, "you're not the one who's gonna have bailiffs taking your telly."
"That won't happen." He was self-assured as he spoke.
"Will they tell my boss about this?" I asked. He shook his head.
"No, not for an unsecured debt."
I relaxed a little. "So what will they do?"
"They'll send you a form to fill in with your income and expenditures. They aren't allowed to take your rent, bill, or food money. They have to accept what you can spare. They'll ask you every six months if it's changed."
"I see." I began to feel stupid for reacting as I had. I wished I'd used Citizen’s Advice; I wouldn't have felt so scared.
"I can help you," he said.
"I'm sure you could, but why would you? I can't pay you."
"To assuage my guilt," he replied. I sat back and stared at him, wondering if he'd been genuinely upset watching me try and end it all. I filed the idea for later consideration and took a welcome sip of coffee. He was watching every move I made. I shivered, the combination of being thoroughly wet, cold, and tired began to have its effect. My hair, previously plastered down, began to dry in an unruly mop. I blew a tendril out of my face, hoping that I hadn't uncovered the ugly scar on my forehead.
"I'll see you home," Andy told me. I could tell by his tone that it wasn't a request. I was puzzled as to why he felt responsible for me. I was nothing to him. I drained the last dregs of latte and stood up.
"That won't be necessary, I can walk," I said.
"It's still pissing down, and getting dark. Indulge me."
I followed him out, my shoes still squelching. "Is that noise you?" He asked, looking down at my feet.
"Yeah," I tried to sound nonchalant. I could feel the familiar blush begin its unstoppable rise up my neck. He flagged a taxi immediately, clearly one of those people who don't have to stand in the rain too long. He held open the door and guided me in.
"Thirty-three Freelands Road please," he said to the cabbie. I was just about to ask him how he knew my address, when I remembered he'd been given all my details by the court.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Chislehurst."
I didn't answer. I didn't really know what to say. Making small talk wasn't a forte of mine, especially with a gorgeous man who happened to have saved my life. Instead, I just looked out of the rain-streaked windows as we sped towards my bedsit.
When we pulled up, I opened the door, hopped out and quickly turned. "Goodbye and thank you." He'd been preparing to get out with me, my body language made it quite clear that he wasn't about to be invited in.
"Goodbye Miss Higgs," he said, looking amused.
"Sally. My name's Sally," I corrected him.
As I closed the door, I heard him say, "Till we meet again Sally."
CHAPTER 2
The only great thing about my bedsit was that it was warm. For some fortuitous reason, the radiator in my room was the hottest in the house. As soon as I got in, I peeled off my soggy clothes, carefully hanging up my useless coat, leaving everything else in a heap on the floor for the wash.
My little studio, as the letting agent had called it, was clean and tidy. I didn't have much, but what I had, I took great care of. I wrapped a robe around myself and filled the kettle.
After a cup of tea, followed by a long, hot shower, I felt better. Having faced the demon that was MVDI and learning that they had no real power over me, I almost felt jubilant. The debt would still need to be repaid, but in the meantime, they couldn't make me homeless or throw me in prison.
I picked up the pile of clothes and took them downstairs to the laundry area, a cubbyhole beside the main door, which housed a washing machine and tumble dryer. As soon as I'd got the machine started, I noticed someone outside, pressing one of the buzzers for a bedsit. Pulling the robe tight around me, I padded over to open the door for them.
Andy McCarthy was on the doorstep holding what looked like a bag of takeaway. "Hi Sally. I came to help you sort out all the stuff we talked about earlier," he said brightly. "I brought Chinese too. Have you eaten yet?"
Dumbfounded, I shook my head. Politeness took over as I stood aside to let him in. He'd shed the suit and formal coat and was wearing navy chinos and a leather jacket. He followed me up the stairs to my room.
It's always a little awkward entertaining anyone in a bedsit, especially someone of the opposite sex, as the bed is always there, in the room. Thankfully, the landlord had also provided two armchairs with an Ikea coffee table between them. "Shall I hang your coat?" I asked. He shucked it off and handed it to me. It weighed a ton, being made of thick, luxurious leather. Underneath he was wearing a cable-knit sweater, one of those preppy-type ones. I could tell he had broad shoulders and slim hips. The man really had been blessed. Faced with such a good-looking man, I instinctually pulled at my fringe, checking it was in place, covering my scar.
"Shall we eat first?" Andy asked, pulling cartons out of one of the bags he was holding. He placed another bag containing papers on the floor and set about opening the takeaway boxes, laying them out on the table. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I got some choices," he said. "I've brought some wine too."
"Smells wonderful," I said, before I could think of anything snarky to say. I should've been annoyed at him turning up unannounced, but to be truthful, I was grateful. Not only had he saved my life, he would both help me and feed me. All the poor bloke needed was a white charger and a suit of armour, and I'd have fallen at his feet. I wondered if he expected sex in return. In my own mind, it would've been a fair trade for the help he'd given.
I pulled myself together and grabbed two forks. "I'm fine with chopsticks," he said, opening the plastic-wrapped ones that came with the takeaway. He then proceeded to use them expertly to pick up chow mein and rice, using the lid of the carton as a sort of plate. I chose some beef in black bean sauce, which was delicious, as was the wine he'd brought.
"I didn't realise how hungry I was," I remarked.
"You've had a difficult day. When I get stressed I'm always starving," he replied, before helping himself to some prawn toast.
"I normally can't eat when I'm worried," I confessed. I watched as he leaned over to refill my glass. He didn't seem to be drinking much wine himself. "Are you driving?" I asked.
"Yes. I'd better just stick to one small glass."
I marvelled at his self-control. Not being able to say no to a second, or third, glass was the reason I'd lost my licence. I kept that to myself though. He already knew I was a fuck-up; I didn't need to ram the point home.
With the TV on low in the background, I began to relax. It was the type of evening I'd craved. Having a nice meal and wine, with a good-looking man who seemed
comfortable in my company. I wondered if he had a girlfriend. If he did, then she was a lucky girl. I imagined he'd be with someone pretty, with long blonde hair and big boobs. He seemed the type of man who'd get the most popular girls eating out of his hand. I'd always been the skinny, shy one. Due to my lack of funds, I'd not had a haircut in well over a year. I wore leaky, cheap shoes and chose my clothes on the basis of whether or not they helped me to blend in.
I wanted to ask him questions about himself but wasn't sure how to phrase them. It wasn't as though we were friends. I wasn't entirely sure what we were, apart from hopeless fuck-up and the bloke who felt sorry for her. In the end, I decided I needed to make some small talk.
"How long have you been a lawyer?"
He took a sip of his wine. "Nine years. How long have you been a veterinary nurse?"
"I started when I was sixteen really, although I didn't become fully qualified till I was eighteen, so six years."
"Must be a very rewarding job?" He asked.
I smiled, probably for the first time that day. "I love it. I've always loved animals. There are parts of my job that can be sad, but on the whole, it's my dream job." I adored the animals I worked with, nursing them back to health after operations and looking after them when they were feeling poorly. It was probably the only thing I felt I did well. If the truth be told, I related better to animals than humans. "What about you, did you always want to do law?"
"Not really," he said, shocking me, "but it's a good, secure job. My dad was a lawyer, still is actually. It was kind of expected."
"What did you want to be?" I asked. I was curious.
"No idea," he admitted. "Apart from professional footballer, racing car driver, or astronaut, I was a bit clueless. Law seemed ideal. On the whole it's mainly paperwork. It's rare I have to attend court."
"Only when a stupid girl tries to challenge things, eh?"
He smiled, "something like that, yeah."
"Do many people try it?" I asked. I was genuinely interested. I'd read a lot online about people challenging debts.
He shook his head. "Not really. The credit agreements are pretty watertight. Unless it's a really old agreement, there's no chance. Even with the historical ones, you've got to know how to challenge them. I think people talk the talk online, then quietly accept the debt before it goes to court."
"But it all seemed so genuine," I exclaimed. Almost instantly feeling stupid at how easily I'd believed what I'd read online. "I'm such a sucker, aren't I?"
He nodded, his expression wary. He was probably terrified of upsetting me; worried I'd fling myself out of the window if he so much as said a wrong word. I really regretted the train incident. "I'm not generally unstable and suicidal," I told him, "You can tell me how stupid I've been."
"Good to know," he said gruffly. He seemed to be suppressing a smirk. "I thought we could go through all these papers. I did promise I'd help you, and this is all the practical stuff." He pulled some neat files from the bag beside him, and put them on the table. I quickly cleared away the cartons, surreptitiously saving the leftovers in the fridge for the following day. By the time I was finished, he had everything laid out and ready.
"I'm gonna need your last six payslips," he said. I quickly found them and cringing, handed them to him. He read through them quickly. "This isn't minimum wage."
The words hung between us. I didn't really know what to say. Eventually I found my voice. "Isn't it?" I asked weakly. "My hours were cut two years ago, that's why it's so low."
He frowned, before pulling out his iPhone and doing some calculations. "According to this, you've been being paid the under twenty-one rate. You're twenty four….right?"
I nodded.
"We need to tackle that. Are you only working twenty hours a week now?"
"Paid hours, yes."
"Are you doing unpaid?"
I nodded. I'd known I was being taken advantage of, but I hadn't been able to let the animals suffer. The head of the practice had cut staffing to the bone during the recession. Even as things had improved, and we were busier again, she'd not increased either the staff, or our wages, content that we were breaking our necks to ensure that the work was done.
"I love the animals, I couldn't just leave them just because I wasn't being paid..." I'd been taken advantage of, but had been so scared of losing my job that I'd never complained. "You must think I'm beyond stupid."
He didn't answer straight away, just filled in form after form with my pay details. Eventually he looked up. "That's not my place to say. I do think you've been taken advantage of though."
"Story of my life," I muttered, before standing to fill the kettle. "Is tea OK? I don't have any coffee."
"Fine thanks," he said, sounding distracted. "How much is your rent and rates, electric, water, that kind of thing?"
I knew the numbers by heart. It's what comes of living close to the edge of a salary. I'd spent many evenings poring over the figures, trying to work out ways of making my meagre wages stretch just a little bit further. I reeled them off, answering his questions easily, without having to find papers or past bills. He filled in the forms as he went.
I sat quietly as he totted up all the columns of figures, frowning at the end result. "Are you only spending thirty quid a week on food and clothing?" He asked eventually.
"Something like that, yeah," I admitted.
"How?"
That single word was loaded, like a bullet. It pierced through my bravado, straight through the defensive walls I'd built around myself, and hit me square. I wasn't living like a normal person. I was the twenty-first century equivalent of a peasant.
"I don't know," I whispered, avoiding his eyes. “I’m just... careful."
"How on Earth are you feeding yourself on thirty bloody quid a week? Our takeaway just cost more than that." His voice had raised; his anger on show. I stared at the floor, fighting the urge to apologise for being poor and exploited. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you. I don't mean to judge."
"Now do you understand?" I mumbled, referencing my feelings of complete and utter hopelessness earlier that afternoon. I glanced up at him, expecting to see disdain or pity. Instead his lovely face belied a compassion that had been missing in the coffee shop. He knew all the facts, and I hadn't held anything back.
"I'll help you," he said. "First of all, I'll sort MVDI. You'll be paying a token one-pound a month. There'll be no more interest added either. It may well be worth declaring you bankrupt. I'll look into it for you, but I think you’re just under the threshold for it to be allowed. Second, I'll send off these forms to get you the benefits that you're entitled to."
"I don't want to be on benefits."
"Tough. You can't live on what you've got. Third, I'll see about your wages. I'll enlist HMRC to do a payroll check, so that they uncover it and force your boss to pay you what's owed. Better than you having to confront them yourself."
I hadn't thought of that. To be truthful, it hadn't occurred to me that the taxman would be bothered that someone was being paid less than minimum wage. "Will they really tell her to pay me more?"
He eyed me strangely. "Yes," he said slowly, as if talking to a child. "It's why it's called minimum wage, it's the law."
"I didn't know."
"Well you do now." He sorted through the papers, clipping piles together. "I need you to read through these and sign them. I've done some stamped, addressed envelopes already. I can drop them in the postbox on my way home."
I did as he asked and watched as he prepared the envelopes, mesmerised by his tongue licking the gum to seal them. I wasn't sure if he realised the effect he was having on me. He was probably used to women staring at his pretty face.
"I'll ring you when I've sorted HMRC," he said. "What's your number?"
I shook my head. "I don't have one, sorry." My elderly pay-as-you-go had given up the ghost a month earlier, probably worn out from all the MVDI calls. They'd been ringing me several times a day, so it'd been a bit of
a relief when it broke. I watched as Andy rolled his eyes at yet another example of my sorry state. "You can email me though. I still have my computer." I scribbled my email address down and handed it to him. He shoved it into his pocket and placed a business card down on the coffee table.
"Thank you," I blurted, "for all this. You have no idea how much you've helped."
He stared at me a little strangely. "No problem. It's the least I can do." With that, he stood to leave. I retrieved his jacket from its little peg and handed it to him. "I'll be in touch. Any problems, ring me. My number's on my card."
"Will do."
With that, he was gone. I wondered if I’d ever see him again.
There's a lot to be said for facing one's demons head-on. Since the court case, and subsequent help from the man I'd thought was my nemesis, I'd felt a lightness I hadn't experienced for a very long time. Just knowing that at some point, life could change for the better, made my immediate situation easier to bear. Just that morning, I'd had a letter from Alpha, accepting my offer of payment set at one pound a month. I'd dutifully filled in the direct debit form and sent it straight back, relieved of the burden of fear that they'd suddenly decide they wanted my entire salary. The next few days passed by without event.
A week later, I'd agreed to stay behind at work for an extra couple of hours to care for a particularly poorly spaniel who'd been operated on earlier that morning for a strangulated hernia, which was a serious op. Poor Bessie's life was touch-and-go, and she really needed intensive nursing. I was just nipping to the loo when I saw a suited man at the desk. My stomach leapt, thinking it was Andy, but on closer inspection, I could see that it was just someone who looked a bit like him. As I came back through, I saw the practice manager speaking to him, and heard the words “HMRC inspection.”
