Harper's Fate

by F. C. Clark

  I follow him to the cutting table and watch him carefully remove the protective sheeting.

  ‘I bought this in Paris when I was in my early twenties. A friend and I toured for a month, visiting fashion boutiques, fashion houses and of course various fabric shops.’ He begins to unroll the fabric, to reveal the most beautiful vintage off-white lace.

  ‘Wow… This is stunning. Why have you never used it? I know you don’t have a huge demand for lace suits.’

  Mr Jones chuckles. ‘No, my dear, no lace suits.’

  I reach across and gently skim the fabric.

  ‘I have been saving it in the hope that one day it would be used, although that plan has never come to fruition. I would like you to have it. I will store it here, but when the time arrives – and I know it will – I would be honoured to make something for you.’ His eyes remain on the fabric. He looks wistful, as if he is thinking of a lost love.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ This man is full of surprises today, overwhelming me with his generosity.

  ‘Now then, I think you should get us some lunch, and I will continue with your shirt, and then we can make the tie for Prince Charming.’

  We sit at the cutting table and consume our last lunch.

  ‘I had a thought earlier whilst waiting for our sandwiches. If I come into some money we could go into business.’

  ‘Have you bought a lottery ticket?’ As ever, Mr Jones always provides the practical voice in my head.

  ‘Well, no… Just indulge me. I thought it would be fun – I was thinking Jones and Harper… or Harper Jones.’ I place the last remaining piece of sandwich in my mouth whilst pondering our future.

  ‘Harper Jones – I think it encapsulates style and flair.’ He chuckles.

  ‘Harper Jones it is. The only problem is the money.’ I giggle at the thought.

  ‘Now then, Miss Harper, let us complete the shirt and tie.’

  I slide my arms through the handmade shirt. Upon closer inspection, I notice that the underside of the collar and the inside of the cuffs have been embroidered with white cotton repeating the word Kate. It’s beautiful – a one-off.

  ‘Thank you – I love it.’ My hands skim the blue cloth.

  ‘You are welcome. So, the masterpiece for Prince Charming: what message shall we place on the label for the back of the tie?’

  ‘I was thinking “handmade by Kate, aka damsel in distress”.’

  ‘How very apt, my dear.’

  The box is ready for delivery. There’s one item outstanding, and that’s my leaving present for Mr Jones. I hand him a gift bag and watch closely as he removes a silk tie and handkerchief in navy blue with pink polka dots.

  ‘Kate, they are beautiful; thank you so much.’

  ‘I thought they would look lovely when you wear your navy suit… Although it doesn’t seem much compared to what you’ve given me today.’ I can’t help but feel a little embarrassed.

  ‘Nonsense. I have had the most delightful day, a day I shall treasure.’

  Here it comes: tears as we say goodbye, although we’ve made a firm agreement that we shall meet on the last Thursday of every month.

  After an emotional farewell I arrive at Sutton Global Industries, dry and stress-free. Yet, I know that as soon as I set foot through the revolving doors my self-control will elude me, knowing the pull to my core and my groin is about forty floors up, with dark enigmatic eyes. I call upon my strength and move towards the reception desk, with a balloon bobbing above my head. I get a sense of déjà vu as I make eye contact with the security guard who was on duty yesterday.

  ‘Excuse me, I need to leave this box for Sutton Global Industries.’

  The security guard raises his head. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’ He looks at the box on the reception desk, and returns his curious gaze to me. ‘Were you here yesterday?’

  This concerns me a little, as I looked like shit yesterday, and yet today I thought I looked OK. Worrying…

  ‘Yes, I was, and I have another delivery today,’ I respond curtly.

  He picks up the phone on his desk and dials a number, raising a finger in the air, indicating for me to wait.

  ‘Hello, sir, you have another delivery.’ I realise he is on the phone to Prince Charming.

  ‘No… no, that’s fine, please don’t bother anyone. The box just needs to go up to Sutton Global,’ I almost implore him.

  He replaces the phone. ‘That may be so, young lady, but I have clear instructions: if the woman who arrived soaking wet yesterday turns up, I have to immediately contact Sutton Global Industries.’

  ‘Oh shit…’ Oh shit, I said that aloud.

  I place the box on the guard’s desk and rapidly turn before he has a chance to question me any further.

  ‘Excuse me – please wait, I have strict instructions. Miss… please wait…’ I can hear him calling after me. However, if I don’t turn around he will assume that I haven’t heard him – shouting, loudly.

  Keeping my head down, I make it out of the revolving door with my balloon intact and head straight to the kerb, desperate to hail a cab. What feels like an eternity is probably only a few minutes. As a black cab draws up, I clamber in, bellowing Pete’s address. Even though I’m not working tonight, it’s fair to say I need a drink.

  As the cab pulls away I can hear a familiar baritone voice calling out my name. Not turning my head is a decision I may regret…

  3

  The refreshing water gathers at the base of my body, and my fingers sink into the warm sand. I raise myself to my elbows, watching him move towards me. His body glistens from the salt water, whilst the sun reflects light on his defined torso. He pushes his hands through his wet hair, making droplets of water run down his chest. The gap between us closes. I tense. My heart rate rapidly increases as he walks towards me. A sexual groan escapes my throat…

  ‘Kate – Kate.’ Harry nudges my arm, stirring me from another delicious dream. She quizzically looks at me and points to the illuminated overhead seatbelt sign. ‘We’ll be landing shortly.’

  ‘Hmm, OK.’ I stretch, still relaxed and slumberous. Oh, what a dream – one of many.

  However, I have to admit that a week in France hasn’t sated my lingering feelings for him – the hot stranger who meets me in my dreams. I sit up and readjust my seat.

  ‘That went quickly.’

  ‘You slept most of it. I did hear a groan escape your mouth.’ Harry arches her brows. ‘Care to elaborate? Oh yes, I forgot you said you’re over Prince Charming.’

  ‘I am, but there was nothing to get over.’ I keep my eyes forward, shielding the truth.

  ‘Two little words for you – bullshit and denial. The “and” doesn’t count, before you get smart.’

  ‘Funny, ha ha … I can hear a stage beckoning for you, Harriet Harper the comedian.’

  ‘Where’s Molly?’ I realise one of us is missing.

  ‘She’s gone to the toilet, again. I’m convinced she has a bladder problem.’ We both laugh, but Harry has made a valid point.

  Molly returns with a questioning look; her ears have been burning.

  ‘We think you have a bladder problem.’ Harry’s tone is forthright. ‘I mean it – I’ve never known anyone to need the toilet as much as you.’

  The closeness of our friendship means nothing remains sacred.

  ‘You might bloody laugh, but I’ve been thinking the same thing. Danny is always taking the piss out of me – no pun intended.’

  Humorous banter such as this has been the core of our holiday. We did get time to relax – in between sunbathing, eating and drinking. Molly has returned with a deep olive tan, which accentuates her beautiful green eyes, and the streaks of natural highlights running through her mousey hair. Harry and I have our usual matching golden tans. As for Kiki, she always looks tanned, like a stereotypical beach babe, w
ith natural blonde hair and a lean figure. Kiki remained at the villa to spend some quality time with her dad.

  The villa was beautiful and luxurious. Henry Marlow – Kiki’s dad – is a property developer. For him to have such an opulent holiday hideaway is no surprise.

  We circle in the air for a while. A silence envelops us. The only sound is a sigh of normality waiting with our luggage.

  * * *

  Sitting at the kitchen table, eating our mandatory ‘home from holiday’ bacon sandwich, I hear the key in the door, followed by a familiar voice.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselles,’ Barney from next door bellows from the hallway.

  I can’t help but smile as the light of my life has arrived. ‘We’re in the kitchen,’ I shout.

  He struts in wearing his usual low-waisted joggers, tight-fitting T-shirt, and a pair of worn trainers. He is, however, gay, which is unfortunate for the female species: to say he is good-looking is an understatement. He’s tall and lean, with dark shoulder-length hair. He’s a professional dancer – oh, and he is good. If we go out for a girlie night plus one – Barney being the plus one – I know we’re in for a dance-off, a sure-fire invite for my alter ego to arrive.

  ‘Hmm – smells good.’ As ever, he’s captivated by the food I cook. ‘Well, look at you girlies. I assume you have some white bits.’

  ‘Did you miss us?’ I pass him half my sandwich.

  ‘No, babe, just your food… That reminds me – your fridge is empty, unless your mum restocked it yesterday.’ He then drinks my tea. ‘I’m pleased you’re back. So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Current affairs,’ Harry says.

  ‘Good answer. As I’m a guest, my DVD goes first, ladies – Black Swan.’

  ‘Barney, you’re so bloody predictable.’

  He looks stunning, wearing light blue jeans and a white shirt. I know he’s going to walk straight past me. Stop – look at me… I can hear the taxi blowing its horn. I’m not in the way – stop making me lose sight of him. The horn blasts again. Now I’m seriously pissed off. All I can hear is the bloody horn, making me lose sight of the vision walking towards me…

  I open my eyes and frown at the noise. I reluctantly pick up my phone. The caller ID says it’s Harry.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I thought you would still be in the land of nod – you sound grumpy,’ says oh-so-chirpy Harry.

  ‘Someone has just woken me.’ Yes, I’m officially grumpy.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock. So, I thought I’d call my lazy arse sister. I knew you would still be in bed.’

  ‘I’m unemployed, therefore I’m allowed to sleep all day.’

  ‘Yes, but I think a rocket up your arse wouldn’t hurt the cause of potential employment.’

  ‘I can do as I please… Anyway, how’s life for you people in the professional world?’ I yawn and stretch.

  ‘Dull. I’m the one who needs the rocket launcher just to get motivated.’ Harry sounds weary.

  ‘Is that a euphemism? A code word for Raymond the sexy French artist?’ I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘No it’s not – besides, I haven’t spoken to him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve been in meetings all morning; the timing is pretty lousy.’ I can sense her need to catch up with the man of her dreams.

  ‘Make time – I know you like him. I’m going to fire my cupid’s arrow in your direction.’

  ‘I hope it bloody lands on me.’ She laughs. ‘Anyway, I was calling about something else. Meet me and Sarah at Café Rouge for lunch at twelve.’ Harry is back to professionalism. ‘Sarah knows of a part-time job … wait for it.’ She pauses. I am suspicious. ‘Cooking.’

  ‘Cooking? Are you bloody joking?’ I’m now completely conscious, with just one word catapulting me into the real world.

  ‘It’s not what you think – look, I’ll explain, or Sarah will, later.’

  ‘I was hoping for a little more than part-time. You know – maybe full-time.’ I try to appear grateful.

  ‘Look, the way I see it, nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Maybe Harry has a point. ‘Order our usual to save time.’

  ‘OK – see you at twelve.’

  I put the phone down and ponder. Cooking: I know I love cooking, but for a job?

  * * *

  After my shower I deal with Roller Girl’s reflection in the mirror. I apply natural tones to my face, complementing my tan. Rule one of the ‘home from holiday’ list of commandments is that you have to show off your tan, irrespective of the weather. Rummaging through my wardrobe, I decide on a knee-length red sundress, tan wedges and a bag to match. I grab my denim jacket – voilà, all set to go. A week in France and I’m speaking French like a native.

  * * *

  I hear the girls before I see them. At the same time, the waiter brings our lunch.

  ‘Perfect timing.’ Harry leans over and gives me a kiss.

  ‘Hiya, Kate, how was your holiday?’ Sarah leans in to kiss my cheek.

  ‘It was lovely, but seems like a long time ago now!’ I smile and take a bite of my panini.

  ‘I wish I was back there.’ Harry sounds lethargic, if that’s possible after a week away.

  I nod in agreement.

  ‘So do you want to know about the job?’ Sarah asks, getting straight to the point.

  ‘Yeah – but I really want to get a permanent position. I just finished with Mr Jones and if I take another part-time job I’ll be back to square one in a few months.’ I look to Harry, hoping she will agree with me.

  ‘I totally understand, but Harry thought it would be ideal for you since it’s only temporary.’

  ‘Kate, this is perfect whilst you try to find your dream job.’ Harry says sarcastically.

  ‘OK. Go on, let me have it.’ I admit defeat. How bad can it be?

  ‘Well… My mum’s neighbour Margaret cooks for a man. He works in the City – I don’t know, maybe he’s a stockbroker or banker. I know he’s loaded and lives somewhere in South Kensington, so not that far from you… Anyway, Margaret’s dad lives in Cornwall and he’s seriously ill.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Margaret is devastated; she’s already left for Cornwall. As I said, she cooks for this man, also I think she does his dry-cleaning.’ Sarah reaches into her bag and passes me a piece of paper. ‘When I heard about Margaret I thought of you. I know you’re good at cooking – besides, the money will be handy until you get a job.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Harry is waiting for a response. I know what she wants to hear.

  ‘Cooking… I’m not sure.’ I can’t help but feel apprehensive about a job that involves feeding someone.

  ‘You have to be kidding me. You’re cooking all the bloody time. You practically feed Barney every day, and the girls are always over for dinner. This is perfect for you… Anyway, you’ll only be cooking for one.’ Harry looks sternly at me.

  I look at the piece of paper and read the name Stella Trevant.

  ‘Mum told Margaret about you. Give it a go,’ Sarah says.

  ‘Call her – go on.’ Harry glares at me.

  ‘Fine – if it gets you off my back.’ I offer Harry a look. You’re being a pain in the arse.

  I begrudgingly walk off to the corner of the café, finding a spot where the noise is slightly muted. I dial the number. Instantly it’s answered.

  ‘Stella Trevant speaking.’

  ‘Oh… Yes… Hello, I was given your number by Sarah Brown, she’s a friend of Margaret – sorry, I don’t know her surname.’ I don’t even know the woman’s bloody name – clearly I’m not making the best first impression.

  ‘Are you calling about Margaret Bishop’s position? She did say that someone may contact me.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Very
well; can I take some details from you?’ Straight to the point.

  I answer all her questions. It seems a little bizarre and quick.

  ‘Right, Kate Harper, I’ll contact you shortly. Until then, goodbye.’ Short and sweet is an understatement.

  I return to the table feeling a little dumbfounded.

  ‘Well?’ Harry nudges my arm.

  ‘I told her my name and some other details. I’m not sure what to make of it.’ I shrug my shoulders in bewilderment. ‘I guess I’ll have to wait.’

  Within a few minutes, my phone rings, causing all three of us to jump. I retrieve it from the table.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, am I speaking to Kate Harper? It’s Stella Trevant.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Sorry about the rushed questions a moment ago – I had to run your name through our security protocol.’ At least that explains the clipped conversation.

  ‘Oh! Did I pass?’ I think she can sense my surprise.

  ‘Yes, of course – that’s why I’m returning your call. I would like to offer you the position. It would be easier to meet you now as I have various documents for you to sign.’

  This feels a bit sudden. An hour ago I was unemployed and now I have a woman running security checks to confirm I’m not a psychopath in order to cook for an old codger.

  I gaze across to Harry. ‘Yes, I would like the job. Shall I come to your office, or…?’

  ‘No, that will not be necessary. Tell me where you are and I’ll meet you there.’ I sense this woman doesn’t take any bullshit, so already I like her.

  I give her the address, thinking it seems a little odd to meet me here, but who am I to judge? The girls finish their lunch and head back to work.

  Half an hour passes. I look up and a woman catches my eye. I would say she’s in her late fifties, slightly rounded, not very tall, with shoulder-length grey hair. She’s dressed immaculately. She looks directly at me.

  ‘Stella Trevant.’ She holds her hand out to me.