“And look at Lydia, now! Wow. She’s beautiful.” He put the picture down and turned to me, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Just like her mother.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Shaun,” I turned round again and made as if to leave. He might be the Director of All That He Surveys in Medlock and his council might be key player contributing to the financial survival of Sisters’ Space. But he was no boss of mine. And he certainly had no right to start rifling around with personal items on my desk.
“You can either stay here and look at the family album, or you can come and meet some of the women who rely on this place. Or maybe you don’t get paid enough to spend time with real people these days. How much do you earn, now? I read that the salary scale that Medlock appointed you on is the highest ever achieved by a person who isn’t actually the chief executive of a council.”
He put Liddy’s photo back onto the desk, and followed me, muttering something along the lines of, “hormonal headquarters of Medlock, this place…”
Sisters’ Space was based in a small, 1960s primary-school building on the outskirts of Medlock town centre. The school itself had closed in 1998 and a few years later the council had decided that the premises could be used as a centre for local women who needed support and that there should be a special focus on tackling domestic violence. Funding had always been an issue for the centre – for its staff and for the building itself. The place was looking pretty shabby these days, and I had a list of charitable foundations as long as your arm to apply to. The council had made it quite clear that we couldn’t expect any more help from them than we already got.
Shaun followed me down the corridor and, to give him his credit, he seemed genuinely interested in the centre. He even stopped and began chatting to some of the service users, providing Gillian with the opportunity to beckon me away from him.
“Rachael, we need to keep him away from Dee. Bev says that she’s been necking the Tammies again this morning. And you know what she’s like at the best of times. What the hell is Shaun Elliot doing here, anyway? Will this be to do with the rumours I heard about funding cuts?”
“No,” I said. “He’s just having a nosey around, after all the publicity that we’ve been getting. But like I said before, Gillian – chill pill. Temazepam is on tap here today, by the sounds of it. So if he’s freaking you out that much, go and ask Dee if she’s got any spare.”
“I might bloody do that, Rach.”
I motioned for Shaun to follow me to the other end of the centre, where our new project was based. The initiative was all uncharted waters for us. A new and exciting opportunity for Sisters’ Space. But for me, it represented much more than simply the latest development at work. No one knew this, but the original idea for the Chocolate and Cafe enterprise had been sparked by Adam. We were on a family day out to Hebden Bridge and while we were in a cafe, Adam had told me:
“If there was a way of combining your love of coffee and chocolate with that mad work of yours … helping women out, I think that we’d be totally redundant in your life. Yeah. Now that’d be the dream Rachael Russell job!”
And I’ve always liked a challenge.
Adam had – unwittingly – hit upon a great idea. The location of Sisters’ Space was perfect. We were practically in the centre of town where there were very few (half-decent) cafes. Certainly no chocolatiers. We saw some heavy footfall to and from the nearby shopping centre. So, all in all, it was a fantastic way to build the women’s skills and confidence and ultimately to generate some much-needed income for Sisters’ Space.
Shaun and I skirted around the new cafe chairs and tables (donated by an unusually generous local furniture company – I was still a tad concerned that it had fallen off the back of a lorry), and I gestured towards the seating area.
“Right. Here’s Charlene’s Chocolate Factory and Cafe. Looks pretty unimpressive at the moment, I know, but you won’t believe the amount of interest that we’ve had so far. Come the opening day —”
Shaun interrupted me.
“Who the hell is Charlene, anyway? One of your teenage mums here, or something?” I gave him a best bitter-lemon smile and told him that our project had been named after Charlene Fullham. Charlene had been a young woman from the Manchester area who had died in a house fire, along with her one-year-old son, some eighteen months ago. The fire had been started by her violent partner as an act of revenge when she told him that she was leaving him. After getting drunk, he had beaten her to death and then set fire to the house. The toddler had died of smoke inhalation. Daddy was so smashed out of his face that he hadn’t realised his son was asleep upstairs.
I reminded Shaun that it had been all over the national news for days. But Shaun was unabashed. Shaun always was.
“Well, I’ve never heard of her.” I looked him square in the eye.
“Interesting,” I replied. “But no wonder, really. Because from my mental calculations, Charlene was killed shortly after Adam died. Meaning that you would have been doing much more important things like choosing table arrangements and sugared almonds for your big posh wedding in Harrogate. The pressure of all that must have affected your memory, Shaun. Post-traumatic stress disorder caused by shade of cravat choice.”
Shaun looked at his phone. Not listening. So I carried on.
“Yeah. The pressure of all that must have caused you to forget to tell me that you and Jess were about to get married. While you were still playing the car-park liaison game with muggins, here.”
(And if the lemons looked, sounded and tasted bitter. So what? They bloody well were.)
Shaun didn’t respond. He never did when I raised the subject of Jess. Which I rarely did.
By now it was time for the workshop. We made our way to the rear of the cafe’s kitchen, which we used as the base for the chocolatier side of the project. Shirley, a shy woman in her early seventies, was leading the session. She had been coming to the centre for two years now, having finally got rid of her thug of a husband after forty-five years of being knocked about. Unlike some of the women who came to Sisters’ Space, though – the more serious, tough and abrasive characters – Shirley was all sunshine. An air of innocence, like an old-fashioned Sunday School teacher. Andrea, another woman who we had supported to become a fully trained chocolatier, was assisting Shirley.
Three other women, including Bev, were perched on chairs surrounding the preparation area. Shirley had prepared the couveture over the last couple of days, and as Andrea wielded the thermometer her partner in chocolate demonstrated the different types of textures that the heat process could produce. All of this was accompanied by the usual Bev-style comments (“Half the stuff in this place is second hand – so I hope yer thermometer hasn’t been shoved up anyone’s arse in a former life.”)
Shirley explained about the most common spices and flavourings for chocolate, and Andrea – quiet but canny – noticed that Shaun had a low attention threshold. She cast several different types of chocolate in Shaun’s direction, and after licking his lips (“not bad at all …”) he guided me to one side again, away from the training session. Lots of searching senior managerial questions all ready for me. How much market research had we carried out? What were our expected financial projections? Had we produced a full business plan? What was our approach in terms of volunteers and opening hours? And finally:
“All of your women are more than a bit ‘on message’, though, aren’t they, Rachael? That’s got to be your doing, of course. Still, from what you’re saying, the figures stack up. Seems pretty much ready to go. So why aren’t you open yet?”
“We wanted to take the ‘slowly, slowly’ approach and get the online ordering system up and running first. With the publicity we’ve had after the MP’s visit, things are moving pretty well on that side of things. But we wanted to do a proper launch. And we don’t have the funding for that right now. In fact, I was going to approach Councillor Casey to see if there was any way that we could get
a small grant from Medlock to help us with the launch.”
Shaun gave a hollow laugh.
“You’d be barking up the wrong tree there, Rachael. Kathleen Casey isn’t exactly a fan of yours. She refers to Sisters’ Space as ‘a Feminist Coven’. Thinks you’re brainwashing women with a load of radical ideas.”
I considered this.
“Well, it’s news to me that the Leader of the Council seems to think that I’m running a Hogwarts for gullible local women. But I guess it makes sense, come to think of it. She’s always avoided my phone calls or emails.” Two-faced old bag. I carried on. “So Shaun, can you not sort us out with some kind of…”
He held his hand up at me, to shut me up while his phone buzzed and he tapped a one-liner to a faceless bureaucrat somewhere. And then he looked up at me.
“Overall, I like what you’re doing here. What gave you the idea? Was it that film Chocolat – you know – with the French woman and Johnny Depp? Ha. She was accused of being a witch, too, wasn’t she?”
I exhaled, impatiently. I wasn’t going to reveal that the initial idea had been inspired by Adam.
“No. Nothing like that. And the film came after the book. It was much better, actually. Darker. But then reading anything halfway intelligent has never been something you’re very good at, has it?”
He ignored the insult, pocketing his phone again and changing the subject.
“Anyway, there’s a few other things sloshing around in the world of local-government politics that you need to be aware of. Can we go and grab a drink?”
It was more or less lunchtime by now and I didn’t have any other appointments. I nodded. No doubt I’d bloody well have to brew up for him after all, even if Gillian had managed to get out of it. We walked back to the main part of the building and I headed for the kitchen.
“Tea, then?” I asked. Shaun’s had always been a builder’s brew: white, with no sugar. But instead he motioned to the front doors and to the reception area.
“No. I meant go out for a drink. Won’t keep you long. I’ve got loads on today.”
You are kidding.
(But, no he wasn’t.)
I came very close to inventing an elaborate story involving the need for me to supervise a lunchtime chlamydia-testing session. Talk of yucky women’s problems had always been a great way of putting Shaun on the back foot. But then I realised that the earlier, writhing nerves brought on by his arrival had gone. Dissipated.
Perhaps I could deal normally with him now. Without losing the plot completely.
And he clearly had something on his agenda that he wanted to discuss. And Shaun being Shaun, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Plus, he was director at the place that was keeping the centre afloat. And perhaps I could try to wheedle some funding out of him for the big launch day.
(These were not Excuses. These were Reasons, by the way …)
I shrugged my shoulders, trying to make it clear that I wasn’t that keen. But I followed him out of the doors.
We walked through the park and headed towards the A6, which ran through the centre of Medlock. Perhaps through force of habit (because it wasn’t the shortest route to reach the main road) we made our way through an area of the park that I always thought of as the ‘Secret Glade’. Dense rhododendrons lurked in the shade of oak and ash trees, and this little pocket of privacy was overlooked neither by my workplace, the New Banks (former council-owned) housing estate or the shoppers tottering along the A6. A discreet little meeting place for loved-up Asian couples from the local sixth-form college, who were embarking on early, illicit affairs. Shaun and I had met there ourselves on plenty of occasions until about a year ago. But I wasn’t going to remind him of that.
I trotted along, trying to keep up with him. Shaun as always, was unaware that most normal-sized people couldn’t keep up with him. I exaggerated my efforts and threw in a dramatic huff, causing him to comment, “Sorry, Stan. Forgot about you being such a short-arse.”
(Ignore the ‘Stan’. Ignore it.)
“And I can’t remember the last time I saw you in shoes with heels. Not that I’m complaining, like. Wouldn’t have thought that your flat-footed feminist mates at your centre would have approved, though. Mind you, that Gillian probably likes the look of you in them. So. Have you got a big meeting on this afternoon or something?”
“No.”
“Just that you’re looking dressier than usual. And I like that top, too. Though it looked even better when it was nearly falling off you. In the office just before …”
“You know what, Shaun?” Giving it back to him, as snottily as I could. “People have been up for sexual harassment charges for saying a lot less than that.”
He glanced sideways at me, raising his eyebrows and deliberately slowing his pace. We had arrived at the front gates of the park, on the A6.
“Yeah, well, given our history, I don’t think a case of sexual harassment would be that straightforward in a court of law, now, would it?”
I was going to smart-mouth him back, but then my phone began to ring. It was Kate. I took the call, gesturing for Shaun to walk ahead of me. He frowned, putting his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, at long bloody last, Rachael! Sorry about the noise here, petal. In the staff room. But look here, you. Are you avoiding me? I’ve left you three messages now. I couldn’t get hold of you at all on Saturday night to see if me and the kids could pop over to see you all.”
“Yeah, sorry, Kate. I was out,” I answered abstractly. Shaun wasn’t even pretending not to listen. I scowled at him, turning my back.
“Out? Of an evening? That’s not like you. You never go out. Where? Who with?”
“Just out.”
“Rachael. Was this a man? Are you seeing someone?”
“Yes to the first. Not sure to the second.”
“You cow! And you’ve not told me yet!” My God … did you …? Was this why no one was home when we dropped by on Sunday morning? I saw that your car wasn’t there and the Sunday newspaper was still in the letter box …” I cut her off.
“Well. You’re a nosey bugger. And I can’t talk right now. Work.”
“Oh, sorry. Bad time, mate?”
Shaun was busying himself with his phone again. But still earwigging. I decided to have a dig.
“Yeah. The Big Cheese just dropped in to see us. You know what these people are like. Every second of their precious time is like gold dust …”
He pulled a face at me. Talk about petulant behaviour. I very nearly added an extra dollop of immaturity to the pot by adding, “And he smells like sick!” But I didn’t.
“Well. OK. Let’s speak later. But don’t avoid me, chicken. Or else.”
I put my phone back into my bag. Shaun carried on peering at his. “Sounded interesting,” he commented.
“Yes,” I replied, breezily.
“Clearly something that you didn’t want me to overhear.”
“Well, you can think what you like, Shaun,” I said, dismissively. “So, are we going to the Coffee Wagon?”
“Nah. A proper drink. Thought the Masons’ Arms would be better. Nearer, too.”
He gestured to the pub, just a few hundred yards away. We walked on, in an awkward silence, for the next couple of minutes. Over the last year, I had rehearsed in my head so many times what I would say to Shaun if the chance ever arose again. When he had got his big new job at the council, I knew our paths would cross again at some point. But now that the occasion had arisen, all the carefully constructed witticisms and criticisms had vanished. And, after all, Michael had been on my mind for most of that morning. So perhaps this meant that the Shaun Effect no longer existed.
But either way, I stepped along beside him. A small but furious clockwork doll, once again at the beck and call of Shaun Elliot.
Chapter 12
CHAOS, THE TITANS
By now it was the middle of the lunch hour and the Masons’ Arms was bustling. Shaun strode purposefully past the punters in the
bar area and through to the tap room, finding us an unoccupied table. Tucked away and out of view of everyone else in the pub.
Some things never change.
I perched myself behind the wobbly table and bristled. Shaun went to get the drinks, returning with my mineral water and half a pint of bitter for himself. He sat down, took a sip and then announced, “I like this place. Proper working men’s pub. Reminds me of home.”
I laughed, cynically.
“Oh, give over, Shaun. You grew up in Harrogate. Not Bradford or Brighouse. And this is me, remember? You don’t impress me with the big rough Yorkshire man bravado.”
In the past, such a comment from me would have rolled off Shaun like water off a duck’s back. But I noticed the tiny twitch of a muscle just under his left eye. Gotcha. He knocked back half of his drink, putting the glass back down on the table. Hard.
“Look – what is your problem, Rachael? I’ve tried being nice to you for the last couple of hours, but you’re just not having it, are you? You’re not normally this arsey. What’s up?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.
Lacking emotional intelligence, or what? But I didn't want to get into any conversational sparring. And there was no point in being too rude to him, too obstreperous. At the end of the day it was the cash from his council that had been keeping Sisters’ Space open. And Shaun was the bloke now in a position to be able to pull strings for people. For us.
“Oh, forget it. Doesn’t matter.” I took a swig of my water. “Like you said – just me. I’m in a mood, that's all. I’m allowed my off-days you know. Now, what was it that you wanted to talk about?”
My answer seemed to reassure him. He moved slightly closer to me, cocking his head to one side and trying to stare me out with deep-set eyes. Almost irisless pupils. He rubbed his chin, the stubble showing, as always. He had never been one for the clean-shaven look at work.
Mind Games and Ministers Page 17