Seven Days Away

by Ruth Hay

  It was becoming more and more obvious that she would have to fund a desirable lifestyle for herself.

  She could not expect any financial help from her parents. They barely scraped by as it was. At home, arguments over money came second on the list after parental arguments about time and domestic responsibilities.

  She had surveyed the male students with whom she came in contact in her classes, looking for a partner with resources, but none of them seemed any better supplied with money than she was.

  A rich boyfriend would be a bonus right about now she thought, as her bus full of passengers roared past her stop sending a wave of frigid, filthy water cascading over her boots. In attempting to jump back she spilled her coffee down the front of her winter coat and stepped heavily on the feet of whoever was waiting in line behind her.

  “God! I am sorry!” she began. “What a shitty day! Pardon my French. I’m not usually so clumsy or so uncouth this early in the day but sometimes ………………..”

  A quiet, cultured voice interrupted, and a strong hand grasped her elbow, steadying her before she lost her balance.

  “Look, it’s an age before the next bus comes. Want to get out of here and find somewhere warmer? You look like you needed the hot coffee that’s presently decorating your coat.”

  Louise Beck felt like she had just found a knight on a white horse. His invitation was exactly the right thing at the right moment. She did not hesitate. She just gave him the best smile she could summon and let him steer her away from the bus stop. As far as she was concerned, he could take her anywhere as long as it was away from here. Caution be damned! This stranger appeared to be the opposite of dangerous. As if by magic, a delicatessen appeared out of the drifting snow and as soon as the front door was opened, a warm smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon buns enveloped her. Louise could have cried with relief just for the chance to catch her breath and feel human again. She shrugged off the offending coat and pulled the knit hat with earflaps off her head, running her fingers through her brown curls and forcing them back to life again.

  Her escort had disappeared. She looked around and spotted a likely candidate at the counter filling a tray with steaming mugs of coffee and a selection of what looked like cinnamon pastries. She watched as he headed back to their table. On the way to the delicatessen she had been huddled into her coat collar and had only a sketchy idea of what he looked like. Now she could see he was tall, well dressed and good looking in an intellectual way. Not that it mattered at all. He was her knight in shining armour come to save her.

  “I can’t thank you enough for this respite. I was working on my very last nerve when you rescued me. Let me pay my half of these delicious-looking treats.”

  “Not necessary. Help yourself and I’ll tell you why I know you.”

  “How could you know me? I’m sure we haven’t met.” Privately, she was thinking he was too good a prospect to have avoided her female radar senses, under any circumstances.

  “Well, we haven’t actually met before today. I’ve seen you in class.”

  “But you’re not a student. I would recognize you for sure if you were. Our group has been together since the fall.”

  He took a bite of a luscious donut then wiped crumbs from his mouth and took a sip of coffee to wash it down.

  “Let me explain. I have been monitoring your tech class for a week now. You won’t have seen me because I slip into a back seat after the class has started and leave before the end. Professor Talman is on leave next week and I am the substitute grad student. I’ve been checking in on his lectures so the transition will be smooth for everyone.”

  She looked him over more carefully. He wasn’t that much older than she was. He was obviously earning money, as shown by his clothes. His explanation was logical but there was still something she did not understand.

  “So, how did you know me from the back of the class?”

  He laughed. It was a low chuckle that rumbled up from his chest.

  “Still suspicious are we?”

  She was about to explain in detail just how suspicious a young woman was obliged to be in this day and age but he forestalled her with an upraised hand.

  “Sorry! That was an unnecessary question. Remember last week when you queried the professor about his calculation related to the roof pitch? He asked you to come up to the front of the class and demonstrate the error you claimed was there. That’s when I saw your face.”

  She remembered the embarrassing incident and her fear that she had challenged a professor unnecessarily. Every eye in the classroom was fixed on her as she corrected the math on the computer and the image on the wall screen immediately adjusted itself to the optimum angle. She had fled back to her seat amid wild applause and scrunched down for the rest of the period.

  “So, you admired my mathematical prowess?”

  “No. Actually it was your hair that caught my attention.”

  “What?” She reached up a hand to smooth the unruly curls, inherited from her mother, and often cursed, and found his hand on hers, gently pulling it down to table level again.

  “Don’t try to control your hair. It was the most lively thing in that entire classroom and now that I see it up close, it is even more full of life than I thought. A woman with hair like yours has to have a personality to match. I took the chance today to meet you and find out if that’s true.”

  Louise Beck was temporarily speechless. This was not a good example of the sparkling personality her companion was expecting, but she was overwhelmed. No one. Not any person in her whole life to date, had ever, ever, complimented her on her hair. Even close girlfriends commiserated with her when they were discussing hair styles. She had tried to tame her locks with conditioners and oils that promised ‘a smooth, shiny, crowning glory’ but nothing worked for more than ten minutes. The corkscrew curls just bounced back worse than before.

  And now, in this unlikely place, with a totally unlikely person of the male gender, she was hearing that her hair had attracted him? She felt like she was in a dream that had started as a nightmare.

  “Ah, I see I have shocked you. Too much information perhaps? Stepping over the personal boundary? I apologize. Forget I spoke and just enjoy the food.”

  “No. No! It’s just that I was trying to remember if anyone ever liked my hair before. It’s been the bane of my existence. I blame my mother for it. She has exactly the same problem. I don’t know why I couldn’t have inherited my father’s perfectly ordinary hair.”

  “It’s all a matter of perspective, I believe. If you have a trait that’s different from the rest of society you should celebrate it. Make it a feature.”

  “Honestly, I have never thought of it that way. You may have a point.” She badly wanted to get out a comb and tidy her mop but now felt he might complain. She blushed and changed the subject.

  “I’m Louise Beck, by the way.” She held out her hand over the plate of donuts and croissants and he immediately responded.

  “Jason Schuster. Pleased to meet you.”

  Suddenly, the dreary winter day had brightened remarkably. Snow was still falling outside the café windows but inside, as far as one slightly damp and bedraggled Louise Beck was concerned, it was as if the sun was shining brightly.

  * * *

  Portia Anderson had bought one of those small pocket calendars you can find in card stores. She did not want to make notes on her iPhone or any other of her devices in case someone might accidently notice them and guess her secret. She kept the calendar close to her at all times.

  Sitting at her work station, pretending to be drawing a new design for extravagant wallpaper, she silently congratulated herself. She had made it safely through Christmas Day at home three weeks ago. Her father had organized the whole day so as to get on the right side of her mother. She had not suspected why he did this unexpected thing until the gifts were handed out.

  Usually, on the 25th, they trekked out into the weather and struggled through Toronto streets to the gran
dparents’ place in Forest Hill where she endured a boring several hours with the horrible cousins who barely acknowledged her existence and never included her in any gossip. It seemed the three siblings were quite different from each other but capable of bonding together to exclude her.

  Her father kept very much in the background on these occasions. It was mother who was the object of admiration as the famous daughter of the house who had been so successful in establishing her legal firm. No one paid any attention to Portia or her father.

  This year, however, the pattern was altered completely. The grandparents had set the family free to celebrate on their own since everyone was expected to meet up for a week in February at the Nuevo Vallarta resort instead.

  This was both good and bad for Portia.

  Good, because she was able to relax at home. Bad, because she had come under the scrutiny of her mother who seemed eager to talk to her and ask questions. She preferred it when she was ignored by her parents, especially this year.

  More bad was to come.

  When her parents handed out their gifts, she saw the usual cheques in greeting cards had been replaced by actual boxes to be opened. Hers contained summer clothes; shorts and matching fitted tops. This was truly hilarious and she had to stop herself from laughing hysterically at the irony of it. She had made a few noises of appreciation so as not to invite any unwanted curiosity but as soon as she could, she went to the washroom and checked her little calendar again. With everything that was happening at work she had completely forgotten the proposed Mexican holiday. It would be impossible to get out of it, she now realized. Her father was very keen to make the holiday happen or he would not be behaving so agreeably. He was positively buzzing around her mother, seeing to her every need. This was not normal. He was up to something, she was sure, but she had enough of her own problems to worry about his.

  Less than a month to go.

  Could she make it? She would have to adjust her previous schedule. The big confrontation she had planned for the January meeting at work when the whole staff sat down to review samples and designs for the spring and summer markets, might need to be postponed. If the Mexican deal could be worked to her advantage, it could have an even more devastating effect. She pictured the faces of her mother and father. She imagined, with utter glee, the expressions on the horrible cousins’ faces. There would be no way any of them could ignore her after this. She would be, for the first time, the centre of attention.

  She positively wriggled with delight at this thought.

  * * *

  “Finished that revised design yet, Porshy? We need it ASAP.”

  Reality rushed back. That nasty manager Anthony would soon see she was no longer to be sidelined because she was female. How would he like to be called Tone? That would suit his pernickety work habits. Her design and colours had been perfect before he started picking them apart just for fun.

  Wait until he found out what his trusted colleague Simpson had been up to. Just wait.

  In her usual submissive manner she replied to his question. He must not suspect anything. Not yet.

  “Oh, I’ll have it in your office in five minutes, Anthony. Your ideas worked out very well.”

  Inside her head she was still debating which reveal should come first. Here in the meeting for maximum destructive effect or at a family event on holiday for sheer shock value?

  The only problem she could see was the possibility that news of her situation at work might leak to her family before she had the chance to surprise them. Probably better to wait until she returned from Mexico.

  Seven days wouldn’t make all that much of a difference after all but now that she had savoured the thought of both opportunities she was reluctant to choose one over the other.

  No, she would have both her days in the spotlight at last.

  Full measure.

  Family and work.

  Total revenge.

  This was going to be great. She could hardly wait. She pulled out the calendar and crouched over her desk realigning her plan.

  * * *

  There were times when Abigail Beck wondered if it was all worth the trouble she took. Looking at the female anchors on television, she often thought they must have a team of workers dedicated to their appearance. Of course, they were chosen for their good looks to start with. Journalistic skills were never the first criterion, that was obvious to her.

  Her skills with interviews and trendy articles were accepted as ‘useful’ even in the high-powered newspaper office where men constantly struggled for prominence over each other. But she wanted more. Much more.

  She spent hours on her appearance. Hair appointments at a famous salon, nail treatments to counteract the constant pounding on computer keys, facials, professional make-up for special occasions when she would be on show; all geared toward upward mobility. Her clothes were considered cutting edge and in this, and many respects, she soon surpassed the other females in the company. What none of her competitors knew was that it took a significant portion of her earnings to keep up this standard.

  If a celebrity or a managing director was visiting her bosses, she was the most likely employee to be introduced. It was a good sign that her exterior efforts were noticed but progress toward a byline of her own with accompanying photograph was much too slow. She forged on, concealing her eventual aim of that prestigious TV anchor position.

  She knew how to make a good impression yet the one man she most wanted to impress was seemingly impervious to her charms despite everything she had tried. Curtis Soames was the assignments editor, her immediate superior. He chose what, where and who, when the paper needed a new direction.

  He was charismatic and dramatic from his icy blue eyes and black two-day growth of beard to the casual jeans and expensive sweater thrown over his shoulders and tied loosely to ward off the chill air. She was fascinated by his aura of pure power and found him unbearably sexy. There were no photographs on his untidy desk but a quick review of his online bio told her he was married with two boys at school or college. She chose not to let this information distract her from her ambition to play a larger role in his life, at work, and also outside of work.

  So far she had been a model of patience. Her chance would come and everything she desired would fall into place. This belief kept her focused.

  Her opportunity came late in January when a Canadian couple were killed while on a resort holiday in Mexico. An enquiry was underway but Canadian authorities expressed dissatisfaction with the slow progress and cast doubt on the objective nature of the eventual results.

  Abigail immediately saw the potential. She wrote out a proposal and sent it to Curtis Soames’ desk.

  Her points were brief but demanded attention.

  Many Canadians went to Mexican resorts to escape the winter.

  An unofficial, on-the-spot investigation of safety measures would be welcomed by the public.

  She was in a position to do a series of undercover reports.

  There would be no cost to the newspaper and she could do her own photography.

  If this didn’t get her boss’ attention she didn’t know what would. This was her big chance.

  She went about her day in a state of high tension glancing frequently into Soames’ office to see if he was checking his computer.

  The summons came before the end of the day. He wanted to know how she could offer this service without charging the newspaper. She told him about her grandparents’ Family Week holiday plans in February.

  “What commitments do you have to the family stuff?”

  “None at all! There is no agenda other than fun in the sun. I would be free to carry out an investigation and send the reports back.”

  “Could you keep this under wraps?”

  “Of course, there’s no need to tell anyone what I would be doing. As far as the resort is concerned, I would be an interested holidaymaker.”

  He rocked back in his swivel chair and gave her his most piercing blue-eyed lo
ok. She met his gaze without blinking and waited with bated breath. If he went for this he would owe her big. Very big.

  It would be the breakthrough she needed.

  “Right! You’d better start packing, Beck!”

  Chapter 7

  Day One; Friday.

  Following her husband’s instructions, Marian Beck had done everything possible to make the journey to Puerto Vallarta as smooth and stress-free as could be managed.

  She watched Aylward like a hawk. It had been several years since they had made the trip south and he was much older in body, if not in mind.

  The first stage was a pre-paid limousine ride to Toronto. They had booked the drive for the early afternoon in order to avoid the daily 401 congestion during rush hours. This went smoothly. There had been no serious snow accumulation for three days prior to their departure. Both fell asleep in the comfortable rear seats and woke refreshed. So far; so good.

  The driver found a luggage trolley, and escorted them into the airport leaving them at priority boarding with nothing to do other than present their documents and get boarding passes.

  As was their custom, they wasted no time in the main hall but made their way to the departures area where they shuffled along with their one multi-wheeled carry-on case until they passed safely through security and immediately sought out the First Class Lounge facility.

  Here, they took deep breaths, settled into comfortable chairs by the windows and made forays to the buffet display when they felt hungry or thirsty. A fortifying glass of red wine perked Aylward up nicely and they could relax in secluded comfort for three hours before the next part of the journey.