Chloe Sparrow

by Lesley Crewe

  We sip our coffee and eat Arrowroots. She puts down her mug. “How are you really doing?”

  “Not good.”

  “Oh, Chloe, don’t get upset. The series is better than people expected, and that’s down to you. I only came in at the end and tied things up.”

  “I’ve never failed at anything before.”

  “You didn’t fail. It was rotten luck. If you went to Mr. Gardner, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave you your job back. You are very talented and he knows that.”

  “I don’t want to work.”

  She gives my hand a little shake. “You don’t mean that.”

  I sit upright in the chair. “Don’t tell me what I don’t mean. I’m sick of hearing from other people about what I should do. I feel like everyone wants me to hurry up and get back to normal, but the way I was living wasn’t normal, so I have to find a new way to cope.”

  “I can help you! I read a great book—”

  “Amanda, stop being bossy.”

  “I’m not bossy.”

  I nod my head. “Yes, you are.”

  “But I’m older and wiser. You could benefit from my experience.”

  “I need to do this myself.”

  She gives a great big sigh. “Fine. I’m here if you need anything.”

  “I did need something, my lunch. Thank you.”

  When I arrive at my next appointment, the chairs are every which way, so I put them back where they’re supposed to be and sit on one of them. They’re perfect.

  Dexter opens the door and emerges with a large woman who’s obviously been crying. “See you in two months.”

  Once she’s gone, he turns to me with a goofy grin. “I love my new chairs. How much do I owe you?”

  The receipt is in my purse. I hand it to him. “We went to a used furniture place because everything was too expensive in a regular store. They were a hundred dollars for the four of them.”

  “Excellent job. Are you interested in finding me a desk for the receptionist?”

  “You hired one?”

  “Not yet. I should have a place for them to work first.”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to pay for delivery. I don’t have a big enough car.”

  “No problem. Thanks, Chloe. I’ll see you next week.”

  He heads for his office.

  “Aren’t I supposed to have an appointment?”

  He turns back and taps his forehead. “I completely forgot. Come in.”

  Once we’re settled he starts with his usual question. “So how was your week?”

  “I bought chairs.”

  “Anything else exciting?”

  “I discovered my grandfather is dating the female residents of an entire wing in an old folk’s home.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I miss him.”

  Scribbling.

  “I went to my friend’s house for lunch and told her I didn’t need her advice.”

  “Everyone needs a friend’s advice.”

  “I’m making this journey alone.”

  Scribble.

  “Do you notice any improvement in your mood?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t worry; it takes time to get into your system.”

  “Oh yeah, my Aunt Ollie’s new friend is bananas. Since my aunt is already odd, it’s like the blind leading the blind.”

  “Like attracts like. They might be just what the other needs.”

  That’s enough psychobabble for me. “Have to run.”

  “Okay. See ya.”

  It’s only when I’m driving home that I realize I left before he gave me my money. I’ve got to stop being so hasty. It’s not like I have anything to do.

  Nearing the end of February I’m sick of my own company. This hiding away from the world is great, up to a point. Today I asked the kittens a question and expected them to answer me. They did their best, turning their heads one way and then the other, but none of them had an opinion.

  Every so often, Amanda, Trey, or Brian will call me, but since I’m no fun to talk to the conversations are short and sweet. No one comes to the house and I don’t go out, unless it’s to buy a desk, which I did almost ten days ago. Dexter paid me for the chairs and the desk and asked if I’d pick up a filing cabinet for him. Why on earth doesn’t he give me a list of the stuff he wants and be done with it? Last time I stayed at my appointment for fifteen minutes but left because I don’t want him to think I need him.

  There is one errand I’ve been putting off, and I need to get it over with. It’s all I can think about.

  When I arrive at Austin’s mother’s door I have a big arrangement of flowers that are quickly withering in the cold. When Harriet opens her door she’s surprised, but I can’t tell if it’s in a good or bad way.

  “Chloe. Come in.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Hawke.”

  She doesn’t say, Call me Harriet.

  “These are for you.”

  She takes them. “That’s very nice. What’s the occasion?”

  I take a deep breath. “It was very thoughtful of you to send me flowers when I was recovering and I never sent you a thank-you note, which was terribly rude because I did appreciate it. So I’d like to apologize for that.”

  “Well, thank you, dear. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “Sure.”

  We sit at her kitchen table drinking tea and eating slices of cherry cake.

  “How are you feeling now?” she asks.

  “I’m okay.”

  She puts down her teacup. “I’m sorry, but the mother in me has to say that you look very sad. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Oh hell. Here come the waterworks.

  “I’m a complete mess! Austin hates me because I was mean to him, and he’s only ever been nice to me, and my grandfather and aunt are ignoring me, I have no job, I have fraying sheets, I love Amanda but I still resent the fact that she took over my job. I can’t stand watching my show, but I do anyway and I cry the entire time. I’m seeing a shrink, but I only stay for a few minutes because I’m afraid of what he’s going to say. I have no friends, no mom, my doctor tells me I have to eat healthy and I’m not. I have this guy who comes around, but I’m not sure why. I have a new car that I hardly use, my hair looks like a puppy chewed it, and now I can’t believe I just told you all this.”

  She gets up from the table, gets a tissue box and plunks it in front of me. “There now, don’t you feel better?”

  Amazingly, I do.

  “You’re adrift at the moment, but that will change, I promise you.”

  “Austin hates me.”

  “Austin doesn’t hate you.”

  “I don’t even know who he picked in the end or if they’re still together.”

  “I don’t know either. He won’t tell me.”

  “You see! He’s such a good guy. He never cheats and he fixed my kittens and I don’t know what to do because he doesn’t want to see me anymore. He told me to go to another vet!”

  “Austin doesn’t divulge much of his personal life to me, but as his mother I can see that this experience has been a difficult one for him. I’d say he regrets it, but being the man he is, he saw it through until the end. Give him and yourself some time to get over this. You’ll be friends again.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “My mother instincts say yes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hawke.”

  “Call me Harriet.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  March comes in like a lamb. The weather is surprisingly warm and the snow we had is now melting, making huge puddles that could be two inches deep or twenty. I never know, I just take my chances and sometimes I win—but not often. The dirty slush covering the sidewalks reminds me of colourless margaritas
. When I walk down the street, big drops fall on my head from power lines or rooftops. It’s that time of year when I’m not sure if I should wear my boots or running shoes and I always make the wrong choice.

  Canadian weather is known for lulling citizens into a false sense of security. Just when you think spring is around the corner, the biggest blizzard of the year comes screaming down from the north, burying everyone in lost optimism and snow.

  So I’m walking in this mixed bag of weather conditions when it occurs to me I’m outside, walking. When was the last time that happened? I didn’t even notice when I made the decision to get some fresh air instead of watching Scared Straight. Could I be feeling better? I’m afraid to ask myself this question in case I get slammed by some unforeseen miserable moment, the kind that creeps up on me and flattens me against a wall.

  I clearly have to stop thinking about it or I’ll drive myself bonkers, so when Agatha and Aunt Ollie ask me if I can drive them to a stakeout while Agatha’s car is being fixed, I agree.

  Agatha sits in front with me. Aunt Ollie has the cooler in the back seat with her.

  “What’s that for?”

  “In case we get hungry.”

  “How long do these stakeouts last?”

  “What a ridiculous question,” Agatha says. “Each case is different. Now drive.”

  “Where am I going? I’ll punch it into the GPS.”

  Agatha looks suspicious. “What’s that?”

  “It shows you your destination. Give me the address.”

  I can tell Agatha’s very interested in what this little gadget does, but she doesn’t want to admit it. We set off.

  “What’s the job today?”

  Aunt Ollie leans forward in her seat and grabs my headrest. In the rear-view mirror I can see she’s excited. “We have a woman who thinks her ex is seeing someone else.”

  “Isn’t he allowed to if he’s her ex-husband?”

  “We don’t judge.”

  That couldn’t be further from the truth.

  “And then we have a woman who’s sure her husband is pretending he’s in a wheelchair to get out of household chores.”

  “What a sleaze.”

  “We might not get them both done today, but there’s always tomorrow,” Agatha says.

  “How long will your car be in the garage?”

  “It could be a week. Why, is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem.” I’m still slightly leery of Agatha.

  After an hour I’m wishing I’d brought a magazine. The other two are telling each other knock-knock jokes and cracking themselves up. Thankfully Aunt Ollie passes around a bag of nuts.

  So fitting.

  As I sit here staring at a nondescript apartment building, a thought occurs to me. “You know, there’s no reason why Gramps can’t do the occasional stakeout for you. He loves to drive his babes around. If you share the work, you guys could get twice as much done in a day and make even more money.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Agatha frowns. “Your grandfather is a bit of a jerk.”

  My mind is whirling. “For that matter, I could use my car and do a few jobs on occasion. We need to create a logo of some kind and make business cards if we’re going to be serious about this career.”

  Aunt Ollie bites her lip. “I don’t know if I want it to be a career. That sounds like work. Right now it’s just fun.”

  “We could run seminars on how to snoop properly. We could have satellite groups all over the city. We’d have workshops on how to follow a car or how to talk yourself out of a situation if the suspect suspects you. There are endless things to learn. This could be a little goldmine…”

  “There she is,” Agatha interrupts, pointing her finger at the windshield. “That’s the woman in our picture. There’s no reason for her to be at this apartment except that the ex lives here, so the wife is right about her suspicions.”

  “The nasty ex-wife, you mean.”

  Agatha takes a few pictures of the woman going into the building and then we crack open the Thermoses and nibble on cheese and crackers and grapes. Aunt Ollie even had the good sense to bring bars of chocolate.

  We wait for three hours. By now my ass and legs have gone numb, and worst of all they won’t let me listen to my music CDs.

  “I’m sorry, but are you seriously suggesting Conway Twitty is better than Adele?”

  “You know it,” Agatha shouts.

  “You can forget about me helping you with this business stuff. You guys do your little thing and I’ll stay out of it.”

  “Good! Who asked you to be involved anyway?” Agatha says.

  Then we have a fight about turning the car off for the sake of the environment.

  “When you get old, you get cold,” Aunt Ollie pouts.

  Mercifully, the woman finally emerges. After we take ten pictures of the woman walking to her car, Agatha calls the ex-wife and gives her our report before she hangs up.

  “She was very thankful and says the cheque will be in the mail.”

  “Okay, hold it,” I say. “You didn’t get paid up front?”

  “She asked if she could put if off for a few days until she got her pay.”

  “We sat here all afternoon, and I can tell you with certainty that this lunatic will never send that cheque. Is this what you’ve been doing all along?”

  The Nosy Parkers look guilty.

  “From now on, you quote them a price from the price list I’ll make up for you and get the money in your hot little hand first or tell them you won’t do the job. Got it?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to get involved?” Aunt Ollie pipes up.

  “I don’t, but you shouldn’t be taken advantage of either. Agatha, I’m surprised at you. You made me pay for babysitting while I was hiding in the bathroom. Why so lax with everyone else?”

  “I know you.”

  I’m not sure what she means by that.

  The wheelchair caper is a rousing success. We track the guy down in a parking lot, and while Agatha and Aunt Ollie man the video camera in the car, I sashay over to him and drop a bag of groceries in the slushy muck. I stand there, helpless and forlorn. The guy gets out of his wheelchair and helps me pick up the food items. I thank him very much and tell him he’s a wonderful man before running back to the car.

  “Did you get it?”

  “Perfect!” Agatha says. “You’re a natural.”

  For some reason this pleases me to no end.

  “How was your week?”

  “I went on a few stakeouts and I took a walk.”

  Dexter writes something on his pad and then looks up smiling. “Good job. I’m not sure what the stakeouts entail, but if they get you out of the house, wonderful. Dare I ask if you notice a change in your mood?”

  “I’m brighter, I think—when I’m not feeling lousy about how I have no job and ruined my career. Being confused about Austin makes me miserable, and it’s depressing to know that he’s probably in love with someone I picked.”

  “Austin’s opinion means a great deal to you. That usually means something.”

  “Okay, gotta run.”

  I stand up, but he waves me back into my chair. “I want to ask you something. Would you be my receptionist?”

  “Me?”

  “I realize you’re a big-time television producer and this job is dead boring, but I need someone to organize my life here in the office and I think you’d be perfect for the job. I like you.”

  “Would you still be my shrink? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “I can refer you to someone else, but I’d miss you. You’re one of my favourites.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t go on and on and on.”

  “Okay.”

  When I call Amanda to ask her to meet me for l
unch, she’s thrilled.

  “Where should we go? I heard about this great little place close to work…”

  “I don’t want to be within fifteen miles of the CBC building.”

  “I can’t meet you otherwise. I’m swamped. You need to get out of your comfort zone.”

  “Fine.”

  So here I sit in my casual attire while all around me business types hobnob over lunch. Amanda whirls in looking every inch the professional woman, with her black suit and bow-collared white blouse underneath her wool poncho. She’s wearing high heels, something I’ve forgotten the feel of. She waves and comes towards me, saying hello to a few people at other tables before she kisses my cheek and sits down opposite me.

  “It’s so good to see you, Chloe. I’m thrilled you called me.”

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  She shrugs off her poncho, drops her elegant gold-chained bag in the chair beside her, and leans towards me. “We need wine.”

  “Not for me, I’m on drugs. You look wonderful.”

  “Believe me, this look doesn’t come easy. I’ve had to up my game since they hired that little bastard—oh…sorry.”

  “My replacement?”

  She nods. “He’s one of those kids who think the world owes him a living. Honest to God, if my boys grow up to be like him I’ll be heartbroken. I asked him to go to the editing room for me today and he said, Why should I? You’ve got legs. I nearly knocked his teeth out.”

  The waiter comes by with the menus and glasses of water. Amanda takes a sip. “So what have you been up to?”

  “I’m going to be a secretary for a young psychiatrist just starting out.”

  She screams. Literally. Everyone in our section looks at her. “Sorry! Sorry about that!” Then she gets low to the table and thrusts her head at me. “You’re joking. A secretary?”

  “Excuse me. What is wrong with being a secretary? The origins of the word go back to 1350 Middle English. The word secretarie is medieval Latin. A person who keeps records and writes letters, originally for a king. Someone trusted with private or secret matters; a confidant. I’ll take the word secretary any day over receptionist or office manager.”

  “You’re right. What was I thinking?”

  Now I take a drag of my water. “Stop it. I have to take baby steps here.”