Seven Daze

by Charlie Wade

  He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She’d walked back to her island kitchen and was stirring chilli while delivering the rant.

  “Trying to get a replacement at this late stage won’t be easy. At least he wasn’t a big investor though. That’s the only saving grace.”

  His head was twisted almost one hundred and eighty degrees. Dressed in a knee-length skirt and blouse, she almost looked like she hadn’t changed since work. Her still damp hair gave the truth away. She’d had a shower and redressed before cooking. Jim wondered if she’d change again after cooking. She walked towards the fridge. As she bent over, he turned and looked at the huge television screen.

  “Put the telly on if you want,” she said. “I normally just have the stereo on when I’m cooking. I mean you can’t watch it and cook. It’s just asking to burn something, my ...”

  “No, I’m fine with the radio,” he interrupted.

  He briefly looked at the selection of magazines, papers and books on the coffee table. The business section from last weekend’s broadsheet caught his eye. Having a quick look at an article on GDP, just in case there was something he’d missed, his eyes were drawn to the Blaupunkt stereo. He didn’t recognise the music. A female solo singer. Quite relaxing and soothing. He thought it was Sade or someone else from the nineties. Mood music.

  “Tea, coffee? Or do you want something stronger?”

  “Tea please. Don’t want to get,” he paused and reworded, “Midweek isn’t it? Don’t want to drink too much.” He turned round and smiled. She smiled back.

  “Do you drink coffee at all?” She asked, almost accusingly.

  “Never really got on with it.” It occurred to him he was giving his class away. Everyone in London drunk some variety of coffee except the working class.

  “Bet you’re the only one at work who drinks tea.”

  “Yeah.”

  He should have thought that through more. Pistol Pete should have picked up on it too. She probably thought he was some heathen from the sticks. Too late to drink coffee now; she had his number.

  “They think I’m some heathen from the sticks,” he said.

  She laughed, finished making the drinks then brought them over. Sitting on the other sofa, legs together, shoulders back, she sipped her far too hot to drink coffee.

  “So, you need another investor then?”

  Her eyes briefly lit as she took another sip. “Yeah. You don’t know anyone do you?”

  He couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not. It was bordering on an actual question. Struggling for an answer, he shook his head.

  Sat forward, cramped against the sofa and with his arms folded over his knees, he hoped she had no formal psychology training. Mind you, given her own clamped-in posture, Jim was sure her body language was as defensive as his own. Any psychologist watching would have enough material for a few books.

  “Doing some homework are you?” She nodded towards the business section.

  “You know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to switch off, isn’t it?” He could feel his cheeks going red.

  “So, what’s the GDP news then?”

  He was surprised she’d asked so quickly. He’d planned to bring it up while they ate. He reckoned a mouthful of chilli was the best way of hiding his lack of knowledge should he get stuck.

  “It’s mad at work. Everyone’s going out of their minds. Obviously, making sure it is actually correct is the main problem.”

  Her eyes were following his every word. He found it off-putting. The butterflies had returned and were threatening to make his stomach rumble. He took a sip of tea. Though hot, it was just the right strength. He wondered how she’d learnt to make such a decent cuppa.

  “So you going to tell me or not?” As if on command, her dimples appeared. How could he say no?

  “I shouldn’t really.” He smiled and wished he was closer and two six feet sofas didn’t separate them.

  “I won’t tell anyone; honest Injun.” She held up her left hand, thumb and little finger together leaving the remaining three fingers upright. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen anyone do that.

  “Yeah. But ...” He paused, trying desperately to think of something to stall. This wasn’t going to plan. “Before that, you can tell me more about your deal.”

  “Tease.” She stood up. “I’ll just check the rice. She walked towards the kitchen, her apron flapping at her legs with each stride. “What do you want to know?”

  He thought for a second. “I was just thinking the other day. I mean I don’t know much about stocks and that, but the information you know must be worth money to the right people.” He’d finally got his long-winded and prepared way of approaching things back on track.

  She stirred the rice with a long-handled stainless steel spoon that Jim reckoned cost over a hundred pounds. “Inside information is the biggest problem if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Jim nodded. It wasn’t what he was getting at, but it would do.

  “When the deal happens, such a large volume of buying will push the share price up. The FSA regularly investigate these movements. You know, see if anyone related had bought before the deal. They’re really quite thorough.” She replaced the lid and stirred the chilli. “I hope I haven’t made it too hot.”

  “So,” said Jim, “you personally couldn’t buy shares?”

  “God no. But ...” She paused. “The thing about this kind of work is you’re remunerated in other ways, so you don’t have too. Getting small investors into the fold is part of the way around it. They don’t know exactly what they’re buying until it’s bought. Paper trails, everything’s signed, trustee accounts, everything’s documented.”

  Jim nodded, though with her back to him, she’d never have known.

  “I wasn’t sure whether to ask,” she said, “but hey, I’ll come right out with it. If you’re interested, you could be part of it. Strictly professional obviously.”

  Jim’s head raced. This wasn’t going to plan. He needed money, and this was going the opposite way. Could he change the plan at this late stage? How about if he introduced Charlotte to the thug he owed money to? No, bad idea. He wouldn’t let that evil bastard within a mile of her.

  “What, er, kind of money are we talking about?”

  “Usually it’s minimum fifty thou. But there are a few who’ve invested ten. The one who’s dropped out was fifty.” Finished stirring, she walked back to the sofas wiping her hands on her apron. Sitting this time in the middle chair, she was now only ten feet away.

  “I er, oh God.” He paused trying to get his head round this. “Erm, I didn’t realise it was that kind of amount.” He noticed her face drop. “Problem is, you see, I’m still paying for the house. Not been sure whether to sell it or not.”

  “Not a good time to sell. I’ve got a friend in negative equity. Even if anyone wanted to buy she wouldn’t be able to sell.”

  He nodded. He’d no idea what negative equity was, but it sounded painful. “To be honest ...” This was crunch time. He’d decided to go full-on with plan A, the only plan he had. “Money’s very tight. It’s London, you see. Work are paying for the hotel, but my wages aren’t enough to cover everything.” If he’d thought this through he’d have realised it was rubbish. Free food and board, they even paid part of his tube fares. He’d be much better off than back home.

  The look of sympathy returned, the one he’d seen that first day, nearly a week ago. The butterflies made another attack on his stomach.

  “Can’t you rent your house out?”

  “Urm.” He paused while trying to think. “It’s work you see. Only a temporary move at first. If I rent my place out and it goes wrong I’m homeless.”

  She nodded, the force of the nod causing her lump of hair to become detached. He watched it droop down, past her eyes and onto her nose. Her hand flicked it back up. They both knew it would only be a temporary fix.

  “Sounds like you need a pay rise. I imagine in the public sector th
ese days that’s a swear word.” She stood up and nodded towards the kitchen area.

  As she walked he noticed the table. Set for dinner with a tablecloth, candles ready to be lit and napkins folded. This was another first. No plate on your lap in front of Eastenders.

  “I need more than a pay rise.” He tried to mumble but made sure it was audible. He was sowing seeds. Seeds that he hoped would root quickly and grow an idea in her head.

  “So what’s the GDP news then?” she called over while stirring the rice.

  He was trying to hold out until the seedling had grown a bit. Currently, it had not even germinated.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” he tried to sound nervous and thought his real nerves helped.

  She stopped stirring and looked over. The lump of hair had dropped back down. “I’m selling it to the highest bidder.” Though a joke she didn’t look particularly amused.

  He tried to smile. “It was only, you know.” He stopped, took a deep breath then started. “We’re pretty sure it’s fallen by half a percent.”

  “Really?” She forgot about the chilli and rice. For a moment she just stared at him. “Recession then.”

  Jim nodded. “They’re keeping a lid on it while they recheck. It’s absolute chaos.”

  “I bet the government are all over you. Do you get all those spin doctors coming in?”

  Jim nodded. He reckoned the ONS probably did have the government sticking its nose in.

  “That’s going to freak the markets.” She looked back to her rice, deep in thought. “This could blow the whole deal,” she mumbled.

  “It’s not final,” he said, trying to reassure. “These things do change; fluctuate.” He’d read that word earlier; remembered it sounded impressive.

  She walked back to the sofas. The clump of hair had been joined by another. “If you were a betting man,” she sat down, “what chance that’s the final figure?”

  Zero, he didn’t say. “More than eighty.”

  She nodded. Her head seemed in a world Jim didn’t understand. He thought he understood that a fall in GDP would mean a share price fall and hence would have an effect on her deal, but he didn’t get the significance. “Would that not be good for you then?”

  “No. People will start pulling out. Could be back to square one.”

  “It’s not definite, don’t forget that.” He’d really messed this up. This should have just been dinner, heavy flirting and hopefully something more. He’d turned it into depression and everything off the menu.

  “I suppose. It’s about ready. Shall we eat now?”

  “Yeah. Can I just use the bathroom?”

  “Course. Just through the door on the left.” She pointed to the back of the kitchen.

  Besides everything else that had gone wrong at least he was going to see what was behind the door. Opening into a small hallway, a door on the left was obviously the bathroom. Another door on the right contained God knows what. He nodded to himself on seeing the door at the end opened onto a roof terrace.

  The bathroom was small. Just a shower, small sink and toilet. He was pretty sure a bath would be upstairs in one of the larger rooms. Smelling sweetly of pot pourri, it was recently decorated, almost new. He felt guilty using it. Mind, he felt guilty of the whole way this evening was turning out. It was time for plan B.

  It was just a shame there was no plan B.

  Part Two

  Chapter 23

  Charlotte’s head reeled as she gave the chilli another stir. She’d put so much into this evening, not just effort, but so much of herself. The chilli had dried out, and the rice had bloated, but that wasn’t the problem. What did food matter now? He’d blown her head away, not for the first time this week, but this way was bad. The worst.

  If trying to get enough people on board hadn’t been hard enough, the spanner he’d just lobbed in the works would take her right back to the start. If he was right, of course. She wondered just how much information an ONS junior could actually get his hands on.

  Apart from that she supposed it wasn’t going too bad. Not the evening she’d planned, but that was life. One thing struck her more than anything else, and it even distracted from her own problems: he had money problems. She’d always had him down as well off. Not rich, just in good finances. He obviously wasn’t. That had been a surprise. Hearing the toilet flush through the wall she started dishing up.

  Pulling a metal colander from the stand, she drained the rice into the sink. She sighed as it fell in a lump to the bottom. Starchy white water dripped out, a sludge forming beneath. Rinsing with fresh water helped speed up the sludge, but the now cold rice didn’t look appetising.

  “Too late to ring for a takeaway,” she whispered as the door opened.

  He smiled as he walked back in. She smiled back and couldn’t help but notice he’d washed his hands. The tap was powerful. He had that telltale splash of water on his shirt. She should have warned him. She meant too, but it had slipped her mind.

  “Nice, erm, roof garden thing,” he said.

  “Terrace. Yeah. It overlooks a courtyard. Not private, but it’s south facing so it catches the sun.” She watched him as he loitered by the sink. Aware he was trying to look at the rice sludge she was hiding, she pointed at the table. “Sit down. I’ll be two seconds.”

  He did as he was told. Should she come clean about dinner? It’d been ruined long before he’d arrived. Possibly from the moment she said, “I’ll cook.” The chilli was going to blow his head off. It was far too hot. How was she supposed to know tsp meant teaspoon. Surely it meant tablespoon.

  “Nice picture,” he called over.

  Looking up, she saw him admiring the picture on the wall. “It’s a copy, not the original.” She wondered if he knew who the artist was. “Do you mind opening the wine? My hands are a bit full. I meant to do it earlier.”

  He stood up. “Of course not.” Walking past her towards the small glass-plated wine fridge, she caught him looking at the chilli. “Looks nice.”

  She smiled and wondered just how polite he would be after a mouthful. “Bottle opener’s next to the fridge.” Pouring the lump of rice into a serving bowl, she turned her attention to the chilli.

  Jim had seen people open wine bottles before. He wasn’t that much of a pleb. The only problem was the cheap fizzy wine he always bought had a screw cap. The current bottle in his hands had not only a seal but a cork beneath it. Scratching at the seal with the end of the opener he realised just how hard it was.

  The smell of dinner was making his stomach rumble. It was just a shame it was vegetarian. She’d gone to great trouble, he knew that. Not only kidney beans, but black-eyed beans, small corn on the cobs, French beans. It looked great. At least she hadn’t noticed the wet patch on his trousers. That was the last, and possibly also the first, time he’d wash his hands after having a wee. She could have warned him about the tap.

  Most of the foil off, he twisted the corkscrew inside. He favoured strength over technique and screwed the thing as hard as he could. He pulled at it and half the cork came out. “Damn.”

  Charlotte turned and looked at him. “Dodgy cork?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, half’s stuck inside.”

  Pouring chilli into another serving bowl, she said, “Just push it in if it’s stuck.”

  Jim was not having that. He’d just spent money on a medium-high quality bottle. The cork was coming out. Twisting the corkscrew into the remainder of the cork it shredded into twenty pieces, each settling on top of the wine. “Erm. Bit of a cork situation.”

  Carrying some dips and a bag of corn chips to the table, she replied, “Doesn’t matter.”

  It did though, it did matter. What kind of useless statistician was he? Unable even to open a bottle of wine. She sat down waiting for him to join her with his bottle of cork-flavoured wine. Pouring the wine, he said, “Got a sieve?”

  Her laugh broke the tension slightly. He hadn’t fully been joking.

  “This
looks great.” He sat down and placed the napkin on his trousers.

  “Dig in then.” She sat back with half a smile. Jim thought it was probably polite for him to serve her then himself. This etiquette thing wasn’t so hard after all.

  “Rice?” he offered, wiggling the bowl over her plate.

  “Just a little, thanks.”

  It was only when he tried to serve that he realised what a stodgy lump it was. The scoop he placed on her plate resembled a tennis ball.

  “Think I may have overcooked it.”

  “No, it looks fine.” He helped himself to a lump then picked up the chilli pot.

  Charlotte was surprised he’d kept a straight face when he ladled out the lump of rice. Her domestic goddess act was unravelling line by line. He didn’t look particularly bothered though which was good. Plus, the way he’d ruined that wine bottle hardly put him in the top league of culinary experts.

  He seemed distracted. She couldn’t put her finger on what, but something was on his mind. Though she barely knew him, over the last week he’d seemed more distracted and stressed each day. It had to be work. Tomorrow was a big day for him. It’d prove to be a big day for her as well if he was right. He was definitely on edge though, far too much to be healthy.

  As he spooned some chilli onto his plate then took a bite, she was waiting for steam to come out of his nose. She’d poured sour cream on her own plate, and even then the small bite she’d just had proved the chilli hadn’t decreased in ferocity. He nodded his head as he looked at her.

  “Nice,” he croaked. “Very hot.”

  “Don’t eat it if it’s too hot.”

  “No, it’s fine. I like hot food. We used to have a really hot chilli inside.”

  She nodded, then did a double take. What did he mean inside? Inside what?

  “What do you mean inside?”

  She couldn’t fail but notice his face drop. He seemed to cringe like he’d been caught out or was hiding something. He’d done that a few times before. She kept putting it down to nerves, but something inside her, just a little something, knew there was more.