As dusk fell I roused myself from bed and went out, walking randomly through the back streets of Edinburgh.
My mobile weighed heavily in my pocket, a constant reminder of everything—everyone—that wasn’t in my life. I finally gave in and turned it on. Several voicemails immediately announced themselves.
First message: Jim’s voice, gruff but friendly, hoping I was having a good day, thanking me for the maltezers, challenging me to a toss-off in the New Year, and cackling at his creative vulgarity.
Second message: what was that racket? A yowling cat? I listened to the message again. It was a yowling cat. Jules. Oh no! What was Jim doing to my cat? Bastard.
Third message: Jim again, this time in cat falsetto, wishing me a Purry Christmas and hoping I was having a meow of a time because he sure wasn’t and he couldn’t believe I’d abandoned him with that psycho cat-killer Jim.
I smiled. Jim’s offbeat humour hadn’t changed. I’d routinely cursed his anti-social manner and slovenly habits for years, yet now I missed it. Our friendship, our daily companionship, our fun.
Fourth message: a tone-deaf rendition of We Wish You A Merry Christmas, unmistakeably Liz. I leaned against a brick wall and returned her call. “Liz?”
“Hey, Becs. Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, you too.” I could barely hear her. “Where are you? Sounds like you’re partying in the underground.”
“Similar,” she bellowed. “It’s a basement party.”
Liz at a party? “That’s so not your thing.”
“Tell me about it. I’ll escape soon. If I can find the exit,” she added. “It’s swarming with people, standing room only. You’d love it.”
“Yeah, until I got claustrophobic.”
She laughed. “True. Here’s Sal.”
“Hi, Sal.”
“Hi Luv.” I imagined her leaning in to Liz, best friends sharing the call. “Had a good day?”
“Quiet.” A fresh pang of homesickness hit me. “I wish I was down there with you guys. It’s pretty sad up here.”
“What did you expect?” Liz yelled.
I humpfed.
Liz shut a door, muffling the background din. “Becs, shifting cities is hard. I did warn you.”
And she thought I wanted an I-told-you-so lecture? I bit back my snarl. “I couldn’t stay in London, Liz. Not with things the way they were.”
“We’ll never agree on that. But you’re in Edinburgh now, so best you find a way to make it work.”
“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.”
It was okay for her: she was still in London doing a job she loved, and surrounded by friends and family and total familiarity. She had no idea what it was like up here, living out of a suitcase, eating cold meals and takeaways, spending Christmas alone, and not a single friend to my name.
“You know what?” Her voice sharpened. “You can’t have it both ways. Make the move and mean it, or come back home. Either way, stop whining and sort yourself out.”
Fuck.
I stared blindly ahead.
Fuck.
I blinked. Took a great shuddering breath and tried to make sense of what she’d said and how I felt. Couldn’t get past the fact that Liz, my greatest advocate, my rock, had just told me off like I was a pesky little kid.
“Fine,” I said into the silence. “I didn’t mean to bore you.”
“You didn’t bore me. I just—”
“Merry Christmas, then,” I said in a small voice.
“Stop it, Becs!”
“I’ve got to go, now.” And I meant it. If I didn’t hang up right now she’d hear me crying or vomiting or choking or whatever it was my body was about to do.
“I’ll ring you tomorrow. I miss you.”
Yeah, whatever.
Then my phone played its godforsaken over-cheerful you’ve-got-a-message music and a text from Charlie appeared on-screen. Xmas shag outa qestn? With a god-damn wide-mouthed smiley face.
As if. I should never have turned on my bloody phone. Everyone was so full of festive freaking cheer. And the one person I really wanted to hear from hadn’t even bothered to ring.
Not that I’d really expected him to.
Well, he could get fucked, too. I hurled my phone with venom. It flew across the street, hit a fence and dropped into the snow.
Good-bye.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Stop whining and sort out your life.”
Fine. I’d sort it. No problem, Liz. I’d just been through a major life crisis and spent the festive season alone and shifted to a completely new country—but not to worry, I had the message loud and clear. Loud and crystal clear. No holidays allowed. No R&R. No taking time out to mend an aching heart. Just get a job, fast.
Honestly, the way she went on, anyone would think I was an emotional wreck.
I’d show her.
I hauled on my coat and strode out. Internet access, that’s what I needed. And a new friend. I marched grimly along, watch-out-world-here-I-come, searching for an internet café.
Aha. Found one. I looked in through the steamed-up window. Excellent. A free table. I dived inside and sat down before anyone else could take it. Mmm. Those pancakes at the next table looked good. I ordered a stack and wolfed them down, defiant then greedy and, eventually, sick. Why, why, why did I always over-eat when I felt down?
I waddled to a computer, typed ‘Edinburgh jobs’ and waited for Google to do its thing. Stared wide-eyed as about thirty pages of results popped up. Gosh. Now what? I clicked on the first result and a fill-the-blanks page appeared. Oh dear. So many questions. What kind of work? What city? What suburb? Full-time or part-time? Permanent or temporary? Keywords to narrow my search? Other options?
I bit my lip. What did I want? Another lecturing job? No. Never again. It would be a constant reminder of how much I’d messed up back home. Everything I’d had, everything I’d lost. My great career . . . Matt . . .
Stop it! I stared at the screen, gritted my teeth and keyed in ‘immediate start’. Scrolled through the results.
Postie? No—needed to know Edinburgh.
Hairstylist? No—needed hairdressing qualifications.
Legal advisor? No—needed degree, qual’s, experience, and a fancy car, too, I bet.
Apprentice Baker? Hmm. But did I really want to be a) a baker, b) on apprenticeship wages, and c) starting that early each day? No, no and no.
I leaned back in my chair and fumed. I wasn’t fussy. I just wanted a job. Fast. Before Liz had another go at me.
Ooh! How about a Recruitment Agency? Let them find a job for me.
I headed back out into the chill, found a payphone and flicked through the Yellow Pages. There. Recruitment Agencies. With a furtive look left and right I ripped out the pages and pocketed them.
See? I really was a low-down criminal.
* * *
The woman, fifty-something and terrifyingly professional in her black no-nonsense suit, looked at me over the top of her black no-nonsense glasses. “Well. You’ve had a”—she coughed gently—“varied career path. ”
Was that a compliment or an insult? I made do with a faint smile. “I took a few . . . interim jobs while I waited for the right opening.”
“Hmm.”
She wasn’t buying it. I tried again. “When I was travelling I picked up work where and when I could. But my travels were critical training for the roles I took in travel and then lecturing. Without those short-term jobs funding my training, I couldn’t have achieved what I have in my career.”
And what had I achieved, exactly? I brushed the thought aside and gave her a confident smile.
This time she rewarded me with a slight inclination of her head. “I expect we’ll be able to place you. If you could fill in this form”—she passed it across the desk—“we’ll carry out our checks.”
“Fine.”
I glanced down at it. Date of birth. Current address. Prior address. Qualifications. Work references. Personal references. Drivers l
icence. Next of kin. Marital status. Number of dependents. Gosh, everything except the colour of my panties.
“You should hear from us by . . .” She paused to consult a desktop calendar. “. . . early in the New Year.”
“In the New Year?” By then I’d be down to my last quid.
“Yes. Processing takes longer over Christmas.”
“Can’t you just, you know, take me on spec?”
Her eyebrows shot up into her black no-nonsense fringe. “Oh dear me, no. Our clients rely on us to vet all personnel very carefully.” She cleared her throat. “Firstline Solutions prides itself on maintaining excellent standards at all times.”
My spirits plummeted.
“Oh. Of course.” I stood. “Well, I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Eventually.”
She compressed her lips at me, then dismissed me with a downward glance. “Indeed.”
Frosty bitch. I took the tiny lift downstairs, regretting it as soon as the doors closed. Lift. Claustrophobia. Matt. No! Think about something else. Um . . .
Jobs. One thing was sure: if I wanted a job through Firstline Solutions I’d be waiting a very long time.
Well, they weren’t the only agency in town. The lift doors opened and I escaped out into fresh air. There, see? I was fine. No claustrophobia. Nothing major, anyway. I pulled the torn pages from my pocket, chose three other agencies at random, then started another payphone search. If only I’d just switched my mobile off instead of throwing it away. Talk about stupid.
Eventually I found a payphone and five minutes later had three appointments lined up. Stick that up your hoity-toity backside, Dragon Lady.
That called for a celebration. I headed back to the café and, cappuccino ordered, sat down to read one of their newspapers. Death, destruction and economic misery monopolised the front page. I opted for the horoscopes.
A waitress stopped at the next table. “Hey, Scott. What’s up?”
“The usual.” I liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Caffeine fix while I try to sort my life.”
Ditto at my table. I listened in, pretending to be absorbed in my horoscope.
“Poor you,” she said. “What is it this time?”
“Work. One of the girls has left us in the lurch. Gone. No notice. Not even so much as a phone call.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Today, of all days. How on earth do I find a replacement at such short notice?”
I straightened in my chair. Quickly re-read my horoscope in case I shouldn’t be tempted. Because this was fate at its best. All I had to do was speak up.
“Ring a temping agency?” she suggested.
He shrugged. “In our line of work we don’t get too many volunteers.”
What line of work was that? How bad could it be?
She grinned. “Yeah. Hardly surprising. And don’t look at me, Scott, ’cause the answer’s a big fat ‘No’.”
Okay, it must be bad. Exterminating rats? Unblocking sewerage pipes? Infiltrating drug rings?
He laughed. “Damn. You were my last shot.”
She moved to the next table. “Get to work. You’re late, you’re the boss, and you’re a man down.”
My heart beat faster. I’d watched Fear Factor countless times. I could kill rats. I could stick my arm in raw sewerage. Drug rings might be a bit intense but, hey, if the money was good . . .
Suddenly nervous, I stood and walked over to Scott’s table. “Er—excuse me.”
Then, when he looked up, “I’m looking for work. I’ll fill in for you.”
He opened his mobile phone, dialled a number, held it to his ear. “I don’t think so.”
What exactly was that supposed to mean? Cheeky bastard!
“Come on.” I disguised my irritation with a winning smile. “You need a worker, I need work. Everybody wins.”
He regarded me steadily, then closed his phone and looked out the window, rat-a-tatting his fingers on the table.
Long seconds went by.
Just as I decided I’d made a big enough fool of myself, his fingers stilled. “You’ll do anything?”
I shrugged. “If you pay me.”
Careful, Becs. What if he ran a massage parlour?
Abruptly he stood. “Fine, then. As of now you’re a window cleaner.” He took one last gulp of his coffee and stood. “Let’s go.”
He strode out of the café.
I scrambled for my things and followed him. Was that all he’d been stressing about? An AWOL window cleaner? Anyone could do windows. They were a doss compared with the Jim-ified bathroom and kitchen horrors I’d dealt with over the years.
Actually, I had a trick or two up my sleeve. Vinegar. And newspaper. Tips from Grandma. I’d show him. I’d be the best damn window cleaner he’d ever clapped eyes on.
Until I found another job, of course.
I trotted to keep up. “Should I go home and get changed?”
He shook his head. “We’ve got protective gear.”
“Protective gear?” It sounded like he was about to throw me down a mine shaft.
He saw my expression. “Get wet in this weather,” he clarified, “and you’ll freeze to death.”
Oh. True.
A few minutes later we stopped in front of a building.
Shops! Fantastic! To our left, a designer clothing store and, to our right, a jewellery shop. Both reeked of exclusive. I grinned. He wanted me to clean these shop windows? No problem-o. I could check out the latest catwalk creations. Maybe even spot someone famous.
“Right,” he said. “It’s this building. We’ll go out back and get organised while the boys set up the equipment.”
Equipment? Oh, right. Like buckets and hoses and stuff.
He unlocked the store-room and rifled through a filing cabinet. “Have you done window cleaning before?”
“Yep.”
“The full range?”
Range? Grandma’s windows had been the bane of my life. Leadlights, fanlights, louver windows . . . even that awful, impossible-to-clean, bubbly bathroom glass. Yep, I’d cleaned the full range, all right. I nodded.
He pulled out a form. “Low-rise and high-rise?”
Oh. Different range. He meant technique. Side-to-side versus up-and-down. Thank goodness for Grandma and her housekeeping lessons.
I smiled. “Yep. Been there, done that.”
He raised both eyebrows. “Really? Guess it’s my lucky day. You’ll need to sign this.” He handed me the form.
I scanned the pages. Gosh. A full-on questionnaire. High blood pressure? Seizures? Dizziness? I ticked all the ‘no’ boxes, signed at the bottom and gave it back to him.
He took his time checking over my responses then nodded. Grinned at me then tossed a pair of waterproof overalls my way. Glanced at my high street boots then selected some wellies.
“Get those on,” he said.
A moment later a pair of gloves landed at my feet. Then protective glasses. “Some of the lads use them, some won’t touch them. Up to you.”
Overalls half on, I gaped at the glasses. Laughter bubbled up inside me. Did he think we were on a sci-fi movie set? A giggle escaped.
Scott eyeballed me and I quickly looked down, stifling my mirth. Zipped up my overalls.
“Come on.” He marched out.
I grabbed the gloves and hurried after him, leaving the glasses on the ground. No way was I wearing them, especially in front of those high-end window displays.
As we reached the street an Arctic blast sliced at me, so cold it brought tears to my eyes. I shivered, glad of the overalls. He turned to face the gorgeous windows. I did the same.
“So,” I said, business-like. “Inside and out?”
“Yep. Inside and out. Eighty windows.”
Eighty? Eighty?
“O-kaaay. Where are the oth—”
He looked skywards and I stopped. Followed his gaze. Felt the colour drain from my cheeks. Oh crap. Crappety crappety crap.
Suspended in mid-air, h
anging by a couple of lengths of string, swung a rectangular bucket-type arrangement. In the bucket stood an overalled figure, scrubbing at the window as if it were at ground level.
At Scott’s yell the figure turned, looked down at us, waved. The bucket swayed.
My stomach turned. This was my window cleaning job?
Eighty windows, and only four of them could be cleaned with my feet on the ground.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Scott waved back and beckoned him down, then turned to me with a knowing grin, a grin that knew precisely what sort of window cleaning I’d done, a grin that dared me to do my usual and run away.
I gulped and tried to steady my breathing. The bucket slowly descended until it reached the ground beside us.
Scott stepped forward. “Danny, great news. I found us a replacement. This is . . .” He checked my form. “. . . Becky.”
Danny took off a glove and held out his hand. “Hi, Becky. Gid tae hae ye wi’ us.”
Huh? It sounded like another language. I shook his hand and smiled weakly. “Hi. I’m just filling in.”
“Yes,” said Scott. “We’re grateful. Danny will show you the ropes. So to speak.” His lips twitched. Mine trembled. “Still keen?”
“Of course.” I refused to be scared. This was like a theme park ride, only I didn’t have to pay and I got to ride all day. Thousands of people would leap at the chance.
Though probably not until mid-summer.
And probably not dressed like a circus sideshow.
I clambered into the bucket and Danny steadied me. “Ready?”
Whatever. I nodded. If we plummeted to the earth in a bone-shattering mess, at least it’d be quick.
This probably counted as a good alternative to that high-wire activity at the Kinetix Centre. From where I stood, the high-wires suddenly seemed rather appealing.
We started gliding upwards. Would Matt attend my funeral? Would he grieve over my mushed-beyond-recognition body? Would he wonder ‘what if’ for the rest of his life?
I suddenly realised Danny was speaking. “Sorry?”
He repeated something in gobbledegook and I squinted at him, frowning. “Could you say that again please, slowly?”
He chuckled. “Sorry, hen. I’m from Dundee,” he said in perfect English. “Up the road a ways. How long have you been doing high-rises?”
A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 27