by Julie Archer
“Do you want me to call the client and let them know we’ll be late?” I asked.
Uncle Col shook his head. “Not yet. Let’s see if we can get past this in the next ten minutes, then we should be fine.”
There was nothing to do but wait. Uncle Col had the radio on in the van, tuned to some sports talk show I wasn’t interested in. I wished I’d brought headphones so I could stream something on my phone. Still, I shouldn’t complain this early on in my new career.
I slouched in the passenger seat, staring down at the cars inching along the carriageway. “Who is your job for?” I asked.
“Our job, Tris. We’re working together on this.” He shot me a wide grin. “Some hot shot in the music business, you’ve probably heard of him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Can’t remember.” Col sniffed. “Probably should do really. Annie will kill me if she doesn’t know the details when it’s time for invoicing.”
“Sounds about right. Maybe I’ll recognise him when I see him.” My mind conjured up all kinds of potential celebrity clients, then I realised Uncle Col probably didn’t quite move in the same circles as Simon Cowell.
After about quarter of an hour, we passed the cause of the traffic and sped off towards Central London. When we headed into the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, I knew Uncle Col’s client would have to be absolutely minted. Properties in the area must be upwards of a million just for a one-bedroomed apartment. Maybe it was a job for Simon Cowell after all.
We pulled up in front of an unassuming, mid-terrace property, with peeling white paint on the walls and a shiny new olive-green front door. I had no doubt once we’d finished the renovations, it would look much more like its pristine neighbours instead of the odd house out.
“Phew.” Col let out a hard breath. “Made it with time to spare. We’ll go and introduce ourselves first, get the lay of the land and then come back for the tools.”
For some reason, I was nervous. It was like the first day of school all over again. But then again who was I? Col’s lackey. The hired help, nothing more. I was no-one and I had nothing to worry about.
I still shifted with nerves, despite what I told myself, as Col knocked sharply on the door and we waited for an answer. No one came and Col slipped his hand into his pocket to pull his phone out and call the owners when the sound of the door latch rattled from the other side.
Nothing short of a vision opened the door. Dressed in a white Nirvana t-shirt which barely hid her modesty; with long, shapely legs, a smattering of tattoos and pink/blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail; a woman about the same age as me stared at us.
“Yeah?” she snapped. “Who are you?”
“Morning, love, I’m Colin Judd. We’re here to start the renovation work on the house?”
“I’m not your love.” Her gaze slipped to me and I swear she gave me the once over. She turned back into the hallway. “Jonas! Your contractors are here.” Then she swung around and headed into the house, leaving me to catch glimpse of the curve of her buttocks.
This could get interesting.
3
Saff
Ugh. I resented the fact that Jonas had made me get up this early on a Monday morning, although the early start did have some benefits.
The guy at the front door had been somewhere between startled rabbit and demigod. While I hadn’t had enough time to ogle him properly; the dark hair, hazel eyes and honed, toned bod held promise. Maybe I could fulfil Jonas’ wish of finding a nice boy after all.
Talking of promises, I had assured Jonas I would meet up with Darren and Barney as soon as possible to get TheSB back on track. Following several rounds of frantic messaging late into the night, we were on to catch up at Monet’s at ten thirty. Which gave me approximately an hour and a half to get breakfast, have a shower and get over to Hammersmith.
But first, breakfast.
I headed into the kitchen and Jonas brought the builders a few minutes later. Without saying anything, I busied myself putting the kettle on for coffee and shoving some bread in the toaster. I could feel the younger guy’s eyes boring into me. When I went to the refrigerator for butter, I deliberately bent over to look at the lower shelves, knowing my t-shirt would ride up and give him an eyeful of my arse.
Unfortunately, it seemed Jonas also got the same view. “Saff! For Christ’s sake, cover yourself up. I’m getting a better view than your gynaecologist.”
Mission accomplished.
I straightened up and turned, a saccharine sweet smile on my lips. “Sorry, guys. Can I get either of you a coffee? Milk and sugar?”
Jonas grabbed my arm and marched me out into the hallway. “I’m not joking. Remember the conversation we had yesterday about you not getting into anymore sticky situations?”
“Of course. I was only having a bit of fun.” I restrained myself from rolling my eyes.
“Why don’t you go and get dressed? Then you can come and make coffee for everyone,” he suggested.
“Fuck off, what did your last maid die of? You can make the coffee yourself.” With that I flounced up the stairs to my room.
Against my better judgement, I did as he asked. After my shower, I stood in front of my wardrobe — or was it floordrobe — and assessed the options. For some reason, I knew I wanted to make an impression on the hottie downstairs. If he was going to be around for a while, I guess he may as well enjoy it. Picking a short, tight, yellow and black houndstooth pinafore dress that stopped mid-thigh, I paired it with ripped fishnets, my biker boots and a cut-off denim jacket. I pushed the arms of the jacket up to reveal my tattoos and stacked my usual array of silver rings and bracelets on my fingers and wrists. My hair was loose and wavy, tumbling over my shoulders. Too sexy. Too obvious. I grabbed a hairband and a couple of pins and wound the hair up into a ponytail, then pinned it atop my head, pulling out a few strands to frame my face. The usual make-up was next, dark eyes and a nude lip. Intense, yet innocent. I almost laughed out loud.
My phone pinged with a message. Darren with a ‘Where are you?’ missive, despite the fact it was only twenty-five past ten.
Shit.
Where had the last hour gone?
There was no way I was going to make it on time. I stuffed my phone into my bag and barrelled down the stairs.
“Saff!” Jonas called from the kitchen as I reached for the front door. “Can you come in here before you go?”
It wasn’t like I had an option. Reluctantly, I went into the kitchen.
“I wanted to introduce you before you left. After all, these guys are going to be around for a while.”
My gaze drew like a magnet to the younger guy. Again. Despite hiding behind tatty jeans, work boots and a nondescript t-shirt, he was eye-achingly gorgeous. And if I had more time, I’d spend it trying to get to know him. Perhaps this was the sort of person Jonas had in mind when he said I needed a steady boyfriend. Someone with a good, solid, traditional job, rather than someone in the spotlight. But if it was someone Jonas had in mind - whoever it was - would likely be someone I’d run screaming from in the opposite direction.
“Sure.” I ground imaginary dirt into the floor with my boot, barely looking up.
“This is Colin Judd and his nephew, Tristan,” said Jonas, gesturing in turn to each of them even though it was obvious who was who.
“Tris,” the younger guy added.
“Right, cool.” I nodded. “I’m Saff. Jonas’ cousin.”
I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in Tris’ eyes as I said my name. Did he know who I was? I hadn’t pegged him as a punk loving rocker. He looked way too clean cut.
Intriguing.
“Nice to meet you,” Colin said. “And I’m Col for short.” He held out his hand and I shook it politely. I didn’t want to piss Jonas off that much.
For a split second, I wanted to stay and carry on chatting, particularly to Tris. But duty called and Darren and Barney were waiting.
“Gotta go, catch y
ou later.” I treated Tris to a megawatt grin and left the house.
Darren waited outside Monet’s, his hair covered by a scruffy beanie, as he dragged on a cigarette. He huddled inside his parka, almost hiding from view. If you’d walked past him, you’d probably have offered him some loose change, not knowing he could probably have bought the entire coffee house, not only the drinks on the menu.
“Why are you always late, Saff? We’ve been waiting fucking ages.” He ran a hand over his unshaven chin, the stubble making him look rough and ready, as usual.
I grabbed the cigarette from him and inhaled. “Jonas has got contractors round and he needed me to meet them.” Any mention of Jonas was usually enough to shut Darren up.
“And stop nicking my fags,” he grumbled as I dropped the butt to the ground and stomped my heel to put it out.
We went inside and found Barney. He was on his phone at the table in the corner we usually claimed as ours when we went there. Monet’s was an independent coffee shop, off the main Hammersmith Road. Fairly popular during the week with employees from the various office buildings around, it served all types of tea and coffee along with various snacks and cakes. Rosie and I often came there as a post-hangover treat too.
“And to what do we owe this honour?” asked Barney as we approached the table.
I fixed him with a glare. “I’ll go and get the drinks in, then we can talk.”
Darren, Barney and I had known each other since university, where I’d also met Rosie. Somehow, I managed to still scrape a 2:2 in English, despite being on the verge of being kicked out each year. We’d formed a friendship group based on skiving lessons and hiding out in the library pretending to read, when in reality we were writing lyrics and melodies, and being seen at all the best parties. When we’d finally managed to put together some music, we were in even more demand at those parties. It didn’t hurt Jonas was already in the music business and had the right contacts. At that point, he’d pretty much have done anything to ensure I didn’t end up getting into more trouble. Him signing us to Numb Records shortly after we’d all left uni was the best thing that could have happened. TheSB had some moderate success and played low down the bill at a couple of festivals, as well as several gigs in various clubs and bars across the country. We always struggled to keep a drummer though, and the last one had left over a year ago. Which was also when we stopped creating new music, resting on the laurels of a reasonably successful first album.
According to Jonas, that had to change.
Impatiently, I stood in the queue and placed our order. Barney always had some skinny, lactose free latte thing - he had a milk intolerance apparently - Darren’s usual was a cappuccino and mine was Americano. Strong, no milk. I liked the bitterness of the coffee. In fact, I liked bitterness in a number of areas of my life.
The barista stamped my new loyalty card and smiled. “Not long until the next free one!” She grinned and held the machine out for me to tap my debit card.
If only she knew in the bottom of my handbag were more unfinished loyalty cards for Monet’s than she’d had hot lattes. I never remembered to bring them to the counter and they usually ended up either unstamped or used as roaches for joints.
Holding the tray as a barrier, I weaved my way back to our table and dished out the drinks.
“Jonas thinks we need to get a permanent drummer,” I announced. “And we need to get some new music out.”
The guys exchanged a glance, which I couldn’t fail to miss. It was one that smacked of surprise, disbelief and suspicion.
“You serious?”
“Why now?”
They both spoke at the same time.
I debated whether to tell them the truth about Jonas’ timing, but then decided against it. It was bad enough I knew they felt they got billed as ‘Saff Barnes’ backing group’, but admitting I was only doing it because Jonas was tired of me getting bad press wouldn’t help my cause.
Deciding to play the casual card, I shrugged. “Why not now? It would be great to get things back on track, get out and do some gigs again, even if we don’t have any new stuff. Yet.”
There was the look again.
“Come on, guys, what do you think?” I didn’t want to beg, but it might have to go that way.
“I might know a drummer who’s looking for a band.” Barney fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug. “Bumped into him in the pub a couple of weeks ago. Think I can probably find him on Facebook and see if he’s still around?”
Darren coughed and I wondered if the two of them had been scheming together to form a band without me and had started putting out feelers. Whatever.
“Sounds great, Barney. If you can find him, maybe we can get together later in the week for a jam session? I’d suggest coming over to mine, but it’s a bit of a building site at the moment.” Tris’ face appeared unbidden in my mind. Where had that come from?
There was mumbled acceptance from the pair of them. Satisfied, I drained the remains of my coffee. Jonas would be pleased, and it called for a celebration. I checked the time, shortly after midday. I wondered if Rosie would be up for a drink.
4
Tris
The image of Saffron Barnes bending over to look in the refrigerator and giving me a full on view of her, well, everything was burned into my retinas.
Sure, I knew who she was. I knew she was in a band, but most recently she appeared on those gossip websites in the sidebar of shame. She was also close friends with a high-profile fashion model and there were pictures of the two of them partying into the night with their famous buddies.
When she’d come back downstairs in that minidress, fishnets and biker boots, I’d almost had to hide behind one of the kitchen counters, such was the hard-on growing in my jeans. It had been a long time since I’d had any action.
In a whirlwind, she left the house and I thought I saw Jonas heave a sigh of relief.
Jonas took us on a guided tour. Arranged over four floors, it was a pretty spectacular house, if a little tired looking, which was where we came in. On the ground floor was a large dining room and reception room which led out onto a terrace, stairs led to the lower ground floor which housed the massive kitchen, with Jonas’ office off to one side and another room that appeared to be a combination of a snug and a spare bedroom. The two upper floors had a bedroom and bathroom each. Although Jonas stopped shy of actually showing us into Saff’s room, I could imagine what lay behind the closed wood-panelled door. All of the rooms looked like they needed a good lick of paint to bring them back to life.
We ended up back in the kitchen where Jonas made us more coffee. I was going to be more jittery than I already was if I carried on mainlining caffeine like this.
The three of us sat around the table and Col pulled out a sheaf of papers from his folder and started to flick through them.
“You want us to start in the kitchen still?” he clarified.
I looked around the room, which had all the boxes for the units to be assembled stacked to one side. Everything else appeared makeshift; how they’d managed to live here and function was a mystery.
As if sensing my question, Jonas spoke. “We’ve lived on takeout and microwave meals this past week. The guys who installed the cooker told us to leave it until everything else was finished before using it.” He gave us a sheepish smile. “I guess I didn’t really think this through.”
Uncle Col made a sympathetic face. “It’s not a problem. We should get this sorted in around a week. You should be all ready to cook Sunday dinner next weekend.”
Jonas laughed. “You saw Saff, right? Neither of us is really the cooking at home type.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. My Annie’s a whizz in the kitchen, loves to cook. She ought to go on one of those cooking programmes, she’d blow everyone out of the water,” said Col proudly.
He wasn’t wrong about Auntie Annie’s cooking skills. In the short time I’d been there, she’d whipped up pies and cakes from scratch, created stews and fi
sh dishes and even made her own truffles. I was already looking forward to what I was going to find in my lunch box.
While Col and Jonas chatted and agreed on the plans, my mind drifted. After everything that had happened to me in the past year, I was truly grateful to my uncle and aunt for taking me in. Unable to have children of their own, they dedicated themselves to helping others and had even fostered a couple of kids when I was younger. Col, my mum’s older brother, doted on me as if I was one of his own. When he turned up on my doorstep after my dad had done a runner, I almost broke down. Sat amongst bills I had no idea how I was going to pay, with a tin of baked beans in the cupboard and half a pint of milk in the refrigerator, dark thoughts had run through my head. Who would care if I wasn’t there anymore? I had seriously considered finding the nearest motorway bridge until that knock on the door. I’d never told Uncle Col. He’d be devastated to think I could even entertain suicide as a solution. Even I was still coming to terms with it.
My uncle kicked my ankle under the table, clearly noticing I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should be.
“You’re happy for us to have a key? Means we can come and go as we please,” he said.
Jonas stood up and went over to the one clear area on the counter. “Sure. Though I’d suggest ringing the bell first anyway, because I can’t guarantee the state you might find Saff in.” He gave us a rueful smile.
If Saff greeted me every morning in the Nirvana t-shirt, I’d be more than happy. I shook the thought away. I was here to work and pay my way in the world, not lust after the client. More’s the pity.
After a further discussion and confirmation of what needed to happen next, Jonas left for work, leaving us alone to get on with the job.
“We’ve got a great bit of work here, Tris. And if we do a decent job, then maybe Jonas will pass my details on.” Uncle Col stuffed all his paperwork back in his folder. “Before we start, shall we have one more coffee?”