A Summer Fling

by Milly Johnson

  ‘But that’s not unusual,’ said Niki. ‘Do you remember that dental receptionist I had a few years ago – can’t even remember her bloody name now. That’s partly my point. She worked for me for three years and none of us knew she’d got married after a year until she told us that her name had changed. Julie spotted she was pregnant before she said anything to anyone. Five months’ pregnant and she hadn’t said a word about it.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Christie, ‘but she was a cold fish. My ladies aren’t like that, they’re very friendly. Not that I expect them to go off arm in arm to the coffee machine, but you would have thought that they would have . . . bonded a little more. It’s unnatural – especially for women.’

  ‘Christie, Christie, Christie,’ sighed Niki patiently. ‘That might just be the way they all like it. Not everyone thinks of work as a social occasion.’

  ‘True,’ said Christie. But still she wondered what was going on in their lives that kept them so tightly bound up in themselves.

  Malcolm left it until the end of the week before he swaggered over to Christie’s desk, draped his hand over the screen – which Maintenance would be removing within the hour – and introduced himself. He had seen the way McAskill had led her in, and he wasn’t an idiot. He knew Christie Somers was obviously someone important. Someone to have on side.

  ‘Charmed to meet you,’ he smiled and flicked his eyes quickly over her full-busted figure, thinking she hadn’t seen him doing it. He stuck his hand straight out confidently. ‘Malcolm Spatchcock, as in the game bird.’

  ‘Christie,’ she returned. ‘As in the serial killer.’

  He gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh, taken aback at her strange humour. It flitted through his mind that she was being sarcastic, but there was a wide, welcoming smile on her face and her handshake was firm and friendly.

  ‘Apologies, it’s my attempt at an ice-breaker,’ she explained.

  ‘Ah-ha. I see. Very amusing. Well, anything you want to know about Bakery, feel free to ask. I used to run the department.’ Malcolm’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Between you and me, the named Head wasn’t really interested once he’d got his retirement date. The department suffered, alas. I kept it afloat.’

  ‘Well, thank you. You’ve done a good job.’

  ‘Worked in Bakery before?’ he asked.

  ‘No, never a Bakery department,’ Christie replied without elaboration.

  Marvellous, thought Malcolm. Not only do they give the job to a stranger, but to someone who doesn’t have any experience in Bakery either! Very strange. Very suspicious.

  The other women were trying to work but the temptation to eavesdrop was just too hard to resist.

  ‘Where did you come from? Morrison’s? Handi-Save?’

  ‘Neither of those,’ Christie replied. My goodness he was nosey. If his head had been transparent, she had no doubt she would have seen a queue of questions lined up in his brain. She hoped he wasn’t the type who would try and undermine her at his earliest convenience. If he was, he was in for a shock. Confrontation excited her. She was good at it. Rather than kicking down the walls of her confidence, it drove up her adrenalin levels.

  Malcolm leaned further over the screen. Christie caught a waft of very liberally applied, pongy aftershave.

  ‘We should have lunch. I had some good ideas for the department that I never got the chance to implement. It would be a shame to see them go to waste.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. That would be lovely. Everyone here has been so friendly and supportive,’ said Christie, rising to her feet.

  ‘Good, good. We’ll get something arranged soon,’ said Malcolm with a wink before wending his way back to Cheese, safe in the knowledge that he had had a very successful first meeting with someone who could be a key figure at White Rose Stores.

  Christie mused for a few moments. Malcolm was friendly enough, she supposed. A bit forward. Maybe his brashness was over-compensation for nerves. Then her thoughts were hijacked by the sight of the clock. Once again it was 5 p.m. and no one was making a move towards the coat stand.

  ‘Haven’t you seen the time, ladies?’ said Christie.

  They all nodded.

  ‘And?’ Christie perched on the edge of Anna’s desk.

  ‘Well, we don’t usually finish until five-thirty,’ said Raychel.

  ‘Why? Are you gluttons for punishment?’

  ‘No, but . . .’ began Dawn, before clamming up.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Christie.

  ‘Well, Malcolm always made it really clear that we should be putting extra time in.’

  ‘What absolute tosh!’ said Christie. ‘I know for a fact that James leaves his office as often as he can before six, and he owns the bloody place. Anyway, I’m Head of this department now so we’ll have no more nonsense. If people can’t do their jobs in a thirty-five-hour week, then we need to look at getting extra staff or conducting time and motion studies.’

  ‘We’re perfectly up to date with everything,’ volunteered Grace.

  ‘There you are then. Now go – the lot of you. And I’ll see you at nine on Monday morning and not before. It’s Friday night, for goodness sake. Don’t you have men and social lives to go to?’

  They all rose nervously and slowly started to get their coats, unable to shake off the feeling that they were sneaking off illegally and some big blokes were going to burst through the doors and force them back into their seats again.

  Christie waved them off with a smile. What a lovely bunch of women. She hoped they all did have a smashing weekend. Life was too short to be miserable – as she knew only too well.

  Malcolm watched his ex-team file out. He had never left his desk before six and so he didn’t see why anyone else should either. In saying that, his extra devotion hadn’t exactly been rewarded. And really it was less about devotion and more about not going home to be nagged at by his wife. Whatever sway that Christie woman had with the big boss was huge. He wouldn’t rest until he found out what it was.

  Chapter 8

  One year ago exactly, Vladimir Darcescu, or Vladimir Darq, as he was more famously known in the world of couture, had stunned London by making his English base a house in Barnsley. For years his Business Manager had been buying up chunks of southern building land as investments, plus one very large expensive plot up north in a village called Higher Hoppleton on the outskirts of Barnsley, which the Internet informed him was an ex-pit town in very deepest Yorkshire.

  Two years ago, Vladimir decided to go up and see the extent of his Business Manager’s madness but instead was pleasantly surprised by the position of the land at the edge of a small but affluent village with its abundance of old stone cottages and shops.

  He stayed at the local pub, the Lord Spencer, for three days. Locals greeted him with a friendly ‘How do’ when he wandered around the shops or took tea in the café in the very beautiful Hoppleton Hall, an old square jewel in the middle of the lovely nearby park. He liked it very much in this village, in fact he felt at home. The people reminded him of those in Tiresti, his Romanian birthplace. He liked to listen to their banter and he basked in their friendliness.

  He particularly liked the ambience of the Lord Spencer. The landlady was a very attractive older lady with a droopy chest and sloping shoulders. Vladmir Darq knew that, with the right lingerie, she could look years younger and magnificent. It was there in the pub, in the company of the landlady, on that third night that he had his greatest epiphany.

  Within the week, Vladimir Darq had plans drawn up to erect a house on his land and within the year the gothic-type hall – Darq House – was completed. And he was to stun the fashion world again by announcing that he was branching out into the lingerie business with price labels accessible to all women. He wanted to be able to make any female feel fantastic and comfortable. He knew he could do that by dressing them in the right underwear.

  And so it was that Corona Productions got wind of his intended project and rang him to try and persuade him to st
ar in the flagship TV show Jane’s Dames, in which a member of the public was transformed without the need for plastic surgery.

  Vladimir, however, insisted he choose the woman. But shooting was scheduled to begin in four weeks and he still hadn’t found ‘the one’, though he had trawled supermarkets and shops for her. Then he wondered if he might find his unpolished jewel heading for home at the end of a hard week’s work. Which is why he ended up on a Barnsley railway station platform that second Friday in April.

  Anna realized that by leaving the office at just after five she could catch the earlier train home. She was probably the only woman in the world who wouldn’t have seen that as a treat. It just made the evening stretch even longer in front of her. Whichever idiot said ‘the only way is up’ didn’t have her life. Every day she discovered another record depth to plunge to: another abyss for her spirits to sink down into.

  White Rose Stores HQ was a couple of minutes’ walk away from the train stop. Five minutes later she was in the main Barnsley Interchange and from there it was two stops to her home village of Dartley. She preferred to travel that way rather than get snagged up in traffic, especially in a car that badly needed replacing and wasn’t the most reliable vehicle. But she didn’t want to go home so early and have an even longer miserable night to fill, so instead of turning left onto the platform, she took a right and ended up window-shopping in town for an hour first to kill some time.

  She caught sight of her reflection in a glass window. The image it threw back at her was that of the ugliest woman in the world: tired, dull eyes with ghoulish circles, cracked, dry lips and a skin tone that was somewhere between corpse and old dishcloth. It was the face of a woman whom no one in the world valued, not even herself. No wonder her fiancé Tony had run off to the fresh-faced Lynette Bottom with her puppy-plump cheeks and a smile that didn’t crease up her face like a contour map of Everest.

  She might as well buy a shapeless coat and flat shoes and morph into the Young Granny club that some of the girls from school had joined. As soon as they made it to forty, they dressed like pensioners, left off the make-up, their figures blown and puffed into cheap clothes as they pushed their teenage daughters’ children around the market. Not that Anna would even have that pleasure. There would be no grandchildren to wheel about because there would never be any children to wheel about. Still, at least there would be no kids to be embarrassed by a mother with a big, ugly face like this. Her lips stung. No point in moisturising them – no one would ever kiss her lips again, she was sure of it. She was days away from being forty and her life was over. There was nothing to look forward to but more crap.

  She waited on the spring-chilly platform, hands stuffed deep into her coat pockets as the breeze coursing down the train track played mischievously with her hair, blowing it annoyingly.

  On the opposite platform, other passengers waited for the Sheffield train going south. A man stood apart from them. He was tall, dressed in a long, generously cut, cape-like black coat and a black hat with a wide brim that threw his face into shade. Anna glanced at him to find him staring over at her. She moved her eyes away, flicking them back to see he was still transfixed on her. She folded her arms protectively over her chest. But then, why would he be staring at me? I’m hardly Gwyneth Paltrow! she mused. The alarm sounded to warn that the barriers were dropping across the nearby road, for her train was coming. No, he is definitely staring at me. He wasn’t dressed like a normal commuting passenger from Barnsley. He had no briefcase or laptop bag. It was almost as if he was just hanging out on the platform like a loony. Come on train, willed Anna, uncomfortable now. She tried not to look over, but the temptation to see if he was still watching was too much. She found that he was.

  The train pulled along the track, blocking his view of her. Anna climbed aboard and slotted into a seat, picking up a discarded Sun newspaper to read for her short journey. As the train started up, Anna stole a last glance from her position of safety. The man was still looking at her. Her last view was of him doffing his hat at her in a dated, gallant gesture and pulling his lips into an open smile. What’s more, she could have sworn she saw the glint of fangs as he did so.

  Chapter 9

  Grace pushed open the door of the garden centre café. Maltstone was a pretty little village with this lovely café at the side of a country stream. People outside the area – offcumdens – wouldn’t have believed it was a stone’s throw from Barnsley centre. She loved it here because it was the special place where she met her boy. She looked around and caught sight of the strapping young man standing and waving to her and she grinned and walked briskly over to the table he occupied.

  ‘Hello, my darling,’ she said, and was enfolded in her son’s tight and long embrace.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ She cupped his face in her hand. A strong face, a fine jaw. He had a few premature grey hairs in amongst the dark brown. She hadn’t seen those before. He let her go and they sat facing each other at the window table.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s been too long,’ he said.

  ‘You’re busy, darling, I know,’ said Grace with a smile as warm as a lit winter fireplace.

  ‘It’s no excuse,’ he said. ‘You’re too nice. I got a bollocking from big sis Laura.’

  ‘Well, we’re here now,’ she said and touched his arm. ‘You’re looking well.’

  ‘So are you. But then you always do. I ordered us tea already,’ he said, pouring from a waiting teapot. ‘How’s Dad?’

  ‘Oh, you know, the same,’ said Grace. She didn’t say he sent his love, they would both know that would have been a lie, but it was a lie she wished she could have got away with. ‘Anyway, Happy Birthday.’ Grace handed over a sturdy paper carrier bag. ‘If you don’t like it, I’ve left the receipt in—’

  ‘Mum, you have great taste and I’ve never had to change a thing you’ve given me.’ He squeezed her hand and Grace hung onto his fingers for a few sad moments. It shouldn’t be like this, skulking around seeing her boy. He should be spending his twenty-eighth birthday embraced in his family home, blowing out silly candles on a cake, even at his age. She had always made a big fuss of them all on their birthdays, the way she wished she had been fussed over by a family.

  ‘So, what do you have to tell me?’ she said, sniffing back a threatening cloudburst of sudden tears. She didn’t want to spoil this happy occasion with a silly crying fit.

  ‘Well . . .’ He reached down, fiddled in a briefcase and brought up a file which he opened. He handed over some photos. ‘I’ve bought it, Mum. That is, myself and my business partner, Charles.’

  ‘You haven’t!’ said Grace, her mouth wide open with excitement. ‘This is the house you were telling me about, presumably?’

  ‘Yep. Which is mostly the reason for the radio silence, Mum. I’ve been a busy lad.’

  Grace looked down at the old manor house set in its own grounds, the one which her talented, caring boy was going to turn into an old people’s home.

  ‘It’s going to be gorgeous, Mum. Every room ensuite – fourteen, the architect reckons; a fifty-foot conservatory facing east for breakfasts, a library, Internet, webcams, a pool, a cinema . . .’

  ‘Slow down and take a breath,’ said Grace, but loving his enthusiasm.

  ‘It will be the most beautiful residential home I can make it. The place is a mess at the moment, which is why I got it for such a good price – and of course add the recession to the mix. But you should see how many of the original features are still there. And the garden will be lovely with a bit . . . sorry, a lot of work. I can’t afford to fail at it, that’s for sure. Oh Mum, we can’t wait to get started. Everything was finalized yesterday so now we can. It’s mine, Mum. It’s all mine. God, we should both have taken taxis and had champagne instead of tea!’

  His face was radiant with excitement. As long as she had known him, she had been convinced Paul would enter a caring profession and on a grand scale too. This was a deal he had been working towards for years. She had no doubt h
e would be successful at it. He was a fighter, though some of his energies were taken up with fighting things he shouldn’t be and that saddened her so very much.

  ‘I’m going to call it Rose Manor, after Granny,’ he beamed.

  Grace nodded. ‘That’s a lovely idea. She would have been so proud of you, Paul. And so would your mother.’

  ‘Really? Do you think they would have been bothered by my sexual proclivity as much as Dad is? I often wonder.’

  ‘They would have loved you for being you and been proud as Punch of you,’ said Grace definitely. She might not have been able to grow children in her body, but she had grown them in her heart and she felt every bit their mother. But, even though she had never known Gordon’s first wife, Rita, Grace had always been careful never to usurp her position as true mother. Rose had once told her that Rita was a feisty little thing who adored her babies, and when she suddenly and tragically died, she left a space that Grace had been proud to fill, but she did so with reverence to the woman who had borne the children she loved as her own. Pictures of Rita still sat in frames in the house and every Mother’s Day and on Rita’s birthday, Grace had taken the children to her grave in Maltstone churchyard to lay flowers. It was only right she should have the deepest respect for the woman who had given her the greatest gift ever. She had the feeling that Rita would have been her friend had their lives overlapped.

  ‘Your Nana Rose would have laughed her head off to be told she was having a mansion named after her,’ said Grace.

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I know so,’ said Grace. She had fallen in love with Rose Beamish on their very first meeting. She oozed life and love and laughter despite the asthma that crippled her. She never once moaned, taking her illness in her stride. ‘Still breathing, aren’t I, pet? That’s more than them poor buggers in the ground,’ she had laughed in her thick Tyneside accent. Grace had been broken-hearted when she died. Gordon had been of the ‘it’s a blessing’ school of sentiment. He wasn’t a man for much emotion. But Grace felt the emptiness in the house for a long time after Rose’s passing.