Construct A Couple

by Roland, Talli

The waiter pops the cork on a bottle of red, pouring crimson liquid into our glasses. Jeremy orders a seafood linguini (that’s my English translation; I’m not even going to try to murder the Italian), and I plump for a yummy risotto, smacking my lips in hunger as I picture moist rice and savoury sauce.

  Lifting his drink in the air, Jeremy’s eyes sparkle in the soft candlelight. “Cheers.”

  “To the charity!” I clink my glass against his.

  He smiles. “To you.”

  Warmth spreads inside as I sip the velvety wine. After all the recent stress, it feels like my boyfriend has finally returned to me. We chat and laugh as we munch our way through the meal, and finally, I sit back in the chair and pat my belly.

  “I can’t eat another bite.” Not that there’s anything left! Thank God I wore my stretchy trousers, otherwise I’d resort to undoing the top button. I have a heavy, contented feeling that comes from consuming too much starchy goodness.

  “Me, neither.” Jeremy pushes away his plate, and I’m surprised to see he’s barely made a dent.

  “Maybe you’d prefer pasta balls?” I joke. Thank goodness everything’s on track again, so he can take care of himself. He’d better, I think grimly, or I’ll tie him down and make him rest. A tiny spear of annoyance jabs my gut that he should stop testing his limits, then the familiar guilt at last year’s events sweeps over me. I didn’t force Jeremy to have the operation that went so wrong, but I played a role in encouraging him.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll let you know,” he says. “Fancy dessert?”

  My eyes bulge. “Dessert? You must be joking. I can hardly move!”

  “I was kind of hoping you could.” Jeremy gestures to the window behind me. “Because it’s turning out to be a beautiful evening.”

  “What?” I swivel, stunned to see the heavy clouds have cleared, leaving a soft blue sky tinged with pink as darkness falls. Streetlight glints off rain-washed streets and the moon is a slender crescent. It’s as if the city has taken a shower, returning fresh and ready to play.

  We pay the bill, then shrug on our still-damp jackets and head into the street. Jeremy grabs my hand, and we wander past the row of cafés and up the incline towards Primrose Hill.

  Inside the park, it smells undeniably of spring – damp earth, wet leaves, and the aroma of blossoming trees. I take a deep breath, remembering the scent of my parents’ back-yard in Maine, and how we’d fling off our shoes and race barefoot across the lawn on the first tender stalks. Here in London, the grass stays green pretty much all year round and walking barefoot isn’t for the faint of heart (or foot), but the sense of growth, newness, and better things to come remains.

  Moving slowly, we work our way up the hill to our bench. Jeremy lowers himself onto it, and I sink down beside him.

  “I’ll never get tired of this view,” he says when he’s caught his breath.

  I lay my head on his shoulder as the whole of the city spreads out before me. The BT Tower flashes red, and lights from the London Eye twinkle as it swoops through the air. Hope and love rush into me, and I can’t help smiling.

  Tonight, everything feels right. The charity will be okay; I’ve managed to pump up an article sure to impress Jonas and Helen . . . and isn’t it sweet I’m Jeremy’s safe haven? I totally get why he didn’t want to talk about his problems at work. It’s why I’m not keen on mentioning Julia, either.

  I swear, the key to a good relationship should be knowing when to keep your mouth shut. I bet lots of marriages would be saved if people stopped griping to each other and just enjoyed their time together.

  In fact, I think as I breathe in Jeremy’s heady scent, that’s exactly what we’ll do. Forget the outside world and all its troubles, and focus on what works: our relationship . . . our love.

  It can’t be too hard, can it?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My face stretches in a giant grin as I tube into work Thursday morning – in my post-sex glow, even dodging nail clippings from the girl beside me is mildly entertaining. My cheeks tinge red as I recall Jeremy’s eyes staring down and the solid weight of his body on mine, and another thrill of desire hits me. Given the energy expended in bed last night, I guess I shouldn’t be too concerned about his health!

  He did still look exhausted this morning, though, barely opening his eyes as I crept around getting ready for work. That’s to be expected after everything he’s been through in the past few weeks, I guess. A little R&R and perhaps some more sexual healing (Dad’s favourite song, ergh), and Jeremy will be his old self in no time.

  In fact, he’s so keen to get back to normal we’ve even made plans to meet up with Kirsty and Tim tonight at our local pub, The Prince Regent. It’s been ages since we’ve all been out together, and with Kirsty taking off soon . . . Sighing, I tell myself not to think about that. I just want to enjoy the time we have left.

  Post-sex glow aside, it’s impossible not to be excited this morning: there’s only one more client to ring, and then I can present Jonas with my additional research! My smile widens as I trot through the quiet newsroom and over to Fact Check Row.

  “You need to finish that feature by five today,” Gregor says as I approach. “Shouldn’t be a problem, right? We’ve certainly given you plenty of time – you won’t have that luxury after this week.”

  His burst my bubble and I turn to face him reluctantly. God, does the man ever leave? Clad in the same beige ensemble he’s worn every day since I started, he’s gripping the usual steaming mug of foul-smelling coffee. I wrinkle my nose as he sets it down within breathing distance.

  Nodding in response, I flip through my notebook with all the quotes from yesterday, flagging up ones that will work best for the article. I roll my eyes as the project managers praise Top Class for its efficiency, dedication to the job, and low costs. Perfect Julia, of course.

  A shot of jealousy goes through me, and I can’t help wondering if Jeremy ever compares the two of us. I mean, she’s gorgeous: tall, blonde . . . beautiful in an icy Scandinavian way, not to mention a successful businesswoman everyone’s raving about. On the other hand, I still fit into Zara kids’ clothing, my hair is the colour of wet sand, and while I might be on the way up, I’m a lowly fact-checker. Jeremy and Julia – their names sound horrendously cute – were together for almost two years, while I’ve still got to beat that. Sure, Julia cheated on him, but. . . . well, my past isn’t glorious, either.

  I gulp, remembering my disastrous stint last year as an undercover reporter for Beauty Bits, a website run by The Daily Planet, Britain’s biggest tabloid. I’d been working as a cosmetic surgery receptionist at the time, pitching articles to anything with ink. When Jeremy walked in requesting a full-body makeover, I’d known right away I had a stellar story: a heartbroken man willing to go to such lengths to meet the woman of his dreams. The tabloid editor had jumped at the idea, requesting I go undercover to gain ‘intimate access’ to Jeremy. Unfortunately, everything came crashing down when Jeremy’s first operation resulted in a stroke . . . and he discovered I was the one writing the column.

  We managed to put all that behind us – somehow. In fact, it’s so far behind us we don’t even talk about it. Why would we? The past is supposed to be forgotten, right? What’s that saying . . . those who live in the past are destined to make the same mistakes – or something along those lines. The only way to really move forward is to focus on the present.

  And right now, my present means talking to the one remaining Top Class client.

  I glance at the clock: just past nine, and the start of business hours. Grabbing the PR’s list, I punch in the final number.

  “Bob Properties, Bob speaking.” A brusque voice comes through the receiver.

  What an original company name, I giggle to myself. “Hi, this is Serenity Holland from Seven Days. We’re doing an article on Top Class Construction. I understand they did some work for you?”

  “Oh, yeah, last year. I wanted to build a new block of flats down Liverpool way. They gave
me the cheapest quote and the shortest timeline, so I went with them.”

  “Did they deliver?”

  “They did. Good standard of work, within budget, and right on time. I tell you, you can’t buy that kind of efficiency. I’d hire them again.”

  I scribble down his words, almost exactly the same as all the other clients I’d spoken to yesterday. “So no complaints?”

  “No,” Bob says belligerently. “Look, I know there were rumours of funny business last year with the care home down London way, but Top Class assured me it was all talk and if I had any problems, they’d be onto it straight away. Bob Properties would never deal with them otherwise.”

  Funny business? Care home? My ears perk up. Is there something not positive about Top Class? Maybe they are too good to be true.

  “I’m sure,” I say, mind spinning as I ponder how to get him to elaborate. “I had to ask, you understand, with all the gossip floating around. . .” I let my voice trail, praying he’ll pick up where I left off.

  The smell of stale sweat and sour coffee hits my nostrils, and I grimace as Gregor edges closer.

  “Tell you what, you can’t believe everything you hear in this industry,” Bob says, a defensive note creeping into his voice like I’ve accused him of ‘funny business’. “People like to make problems for their competitors, innit. Even if it was true, I reckon it’s not such a big deal. Them residents are all old codgers anyway. Be dead within a couple years. No point fixing things up to a better standard, is there?”

  Wow. Has Top Class done a shoddy job at some retirement home? Must have been one of those projects with more societal relevance Julia was banging on about yesterday. Her phrase ‘construction with heart’ floats into my head, and a little pang of glee hits me. If only I could find the care home . . .

  “But don’t quote me on that,” Bob adds hastily. “Anyway, Top Class has been a real gem to work with.”

  “It would help if you could tell me the name of this care home,” I say, trying to ignore Gregor, who’s now almost on my lap. “I’d like to make sure to refute the story accurately.” The explanation sounds weak even to my ears, and I cross my fingers Bob falls for it.

  He’s silent for a minute. “Something to do with flowers or trees . . . I dunno. Best ask Top Class,” he says hesitantly, as if realising he might have revealed too much.

  “Of course.” I swear under my breath.

  “When will I be in the paper? The missus is going to want a copy. You’re calling from where again?”

  Yikes, I’d better cut the conversation short before Julia gets wind of this and sics her lawyers on me. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. Bye!”

  I slam down the phone, my heart galloping ten miles a minute. Well, how about that! Top Class, the darling of the construction world, has apparently done a below-par job at a care home for old folks – if Bob can be believed. Perhaps Julia isn’t so perfect, after all.

  This isn’t about Julia, of course. This is about holding a company accountable for their actions, and about me showing Helen and Jonas I’m cut out for more than fact-checking. Forget extra quotes! I might have a whole new story.

  “Who was that?” Gregor is so close to me now I can feel him quivering. In one sharp movement, I spin my swivel chair so the back of it ploughs into him.

  “Ouf!” He grunts and I hear the unmistakeable sound of liquid splattering.

  “Oh, sorry!” I say, trying to keep a straight face as coffee seeps into his keyboard. “I had no idea you were right beside me.”

  Gregor narrows his eyes to snake-like slits, then shakes his head and marches off down the corridor.

  Finally, room to think. I breathe in, trying to contain the hope building inside. Have I uncovered a new angle? It could be rumours, like this Bob dude said. I’ll take my time, investigate properly, and then present Jonas with facts. The last thing I want is to go off half-cocked and get it wrong. Hey, if it is true, they’ll have to give me a by-line now, right? Dad will be so proud, and I won’t need to hide the corporate rah-rah story from him. This is the kind of feature my parents love.

  Don’t get carried away, I remind myself sternly. First things first, I need to find this care home, speak to the owners, and get a great quote. Once I have that, then I can talk to Jonas.

  “Morning!” Lizzie swings into her chair, cheeks flushed. “What happened? I passed Gregor in the corridor and he looked like he was about to have a fit.”

  I gesture to the brown liquid now trailing across the scarred tabletop. “Coffee spillage.”

  “Oh, Christ. That’s going to put him in a good mood for the rest of the day.” Jabbing at a chopstick in her hair, Lizzie makes a face. “Bloody thing won’t stay still. Right. Best get started before Jonas comes by.”

  I nod, staring at the notepad as my mind flips through how on earth I’m going to find this care home. Flowers or trees, my scribble reads, and somewhere around London. Well, that narrows it down. After typing ‘London care homes’ into Google, my heart drops as result after result filters onto the screen. I click onto a directory of homes, divided by borough. There must be hundreds of them!

  Okay. I’ll flag up anything to do with plants, then work my way through the list. It’s after nine now, and I’ve got until five to turn in copy. But can I find the right care home and get a quote, too?

  Two hours later, I’ve reviewed the list, jotting down names and numbers of anything remotely botanical. The Pines, Daisy Care Home, Petunia Palace . . . God, when I get old, I’m going to start my own care home and christen it ‘Den of Iniquity’ or something. Who wants to live their last years in a flowery-sounding pseudo-home?

  “Lizzie, where can I make a private phone call?” I’m not going to ring these places with Gregor ear-wigging beside me.

  Lizzie glances up from the screen. “There’s a meeting room just off the kitchen you can use, if it’s not already busy.”

  “Great, thanks.” I grab my notebook, just about to head there when Gregor returns with the bathroom’s entire supply of toilet paper.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, jabbing a spindly finger to push up his glasses.

  “The loo.” To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m keen to keep him in the dark. We’re on the same team, right? But something about the way he pokes his nose into every bit of business sets my teeth on edge. Anyway, I’m better off staying mum until I know for sure what I’m dealing with.

  The small meeting room is dark, cold, and – thankfully – empty. Reaching to the phone in the centre of the table, I punch in the first number on my list, hoping this won’t take long.

  An hour later, though, I’m only half-way through and I still haven’t reached the right care home. Since I’ve exceeded the two point five minutes allowed for the loo, Gregor pops in and out several times. I’ve resorted to pretending I’m suffering a medical crisis of the female variety so he leaves as quickly as possible. Last time he poked his snout in, I’d just picked up the receiver to dial. One mention of ‘vulva’, and Gregor’s cheeks went scarlet before slamming the door behind him. Some men need to get a grip – figuratively, of course.

  Sighing, I dial the next number on the list.

  “Rose House,” a nasal voice answers. “We put the bloom back into life.”

  Oh, God. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Hi, could I speak to the manager?” I repeat the same question I’ve asked countless times already.

  “One moment, please.”

  I tap my fingers on the table as she transfers the call, praying this will be it. God knows where I can go from ‘vulva’.

  “Hello, Ryan Johnson here.”

  “Oh, hello, I’m calling from Seven Days magazine. We’re doing an article on Top Class Construction. Have they completed any work for you recently?”

  Ryan snorts. “I’m not sure I’d call it ‘work’. Whatever it was, it was absolute rubbish.”

  Score! I almost do my Rocky punch in the air before remembering I’m a s
erious journalist now. Serious journalists don’t do victory punches. And it’s not like I want old people to be at risk, of course. It’s just such a great story.

  “Can you elaborate a bit?” I ask.

  “Can I ever!” Ryan responds fiercely. “I’m sure that company thinks they can get away with it because we’re a little old care home out in Surrey. Top Class was fairly new at the time, looking for a way to expand their business. They promised personal attention.” His voice is bitter. “Anyway, they gave us a great estimate for our building refurbishment, so we went with them.”

  “And?” I scribble his comments in my notebook, making sure to get them word for word.

  “Well, things started off fine. But one day all the workmen left when they were only about half-way through the job. Windows not put in, wires hanging out everywhere – I tell you, it was a mess.”

  “Where were the residents at this time?”

  “We’d moved them into another part of the home not being worked on,” Ryan says. “They were comfortable enough, but it wasn’t meant to be long-term. Unfortunately, it was longer than we’d planned.”

  “How long?”

  “I called Top Class every day, trying to find out when they’d return to finish the job. Turned out they’d been awarded a major contract, working on a new development somewhere near Brighton. A development that obviously had a lot more profitability than our care home,” he spits out. “Anyway, after a month of me pestering them to come back, they finally did. Threw in the windows, did a shoddy job with the plumbing and electrics, and disappeared again.”

  “You weren’t happy with their work?”

  Ryan laughs. “Happy? Would you be happy if you had to move residents from an area that’s supposed to be newly refurbished because of damp issues? These are elderly people – we even had one woman suffering from pneumonia before we knew what was happening.”

  Shit.

  “And it wasn’t just the damp. We’ve had chipped tiles in bathrooms, carpets not fitted properly, flammable materials . . . the list goes on.”