Chapter 5 #2
There is a hint of makeup, so subtle I only notice because it makes her eyes look even darker. Blue. Not bright. Deep. The sort of blue that makes you realise colours have been underperforming elsewhere.
She is tall.
Not as tall as my six foot four, but tall enough that she enters a room without disappearing into it. Strong, too, in a way that has nothing to do with gym mirrors or vanity. Practical strength. Useful strength.
And she is, unhelpfully, cute.
No.
Not cute.
Cute is a dangerous word for a woman who could probably order me into a ditch and make it sound like policy.
Attractive, then.
Very attractive.
Possibly sexy, if I were a man with no instinct for self-preservation and a spectacularly poor grasp of recent professional history.
Which, given I am currently standing in her workplace because I wrote an article that made her life more difficult, is not a thought I will be allowing to develop. Absolutely not. Personal growth may be in its early stages, but I am trying to water it.
Her gaze moves from Josh to me.
Stops.
I stand straighter, because apparently my body has decided posture might help.
“AJ Hodgson,” Josh says. “Watch Manager Hart.”
She steps into the room.
“Mr Hodgson.”
“AJ is fine,” I say.
Something moves in her expression. Not quite amusement. Not quite dismissal.
“AJ,” she says, as if testing whether the two letters deserve professional status. “In that case, call me Pippa.”
It should not feel like progress.
It does.
“This is the point,” Josh says, “where I pretend I’m needed somewhere else.”
He takes his coffee and leaves us with Sean, who has suddenly become fascinated by his phone in the way people do when they are definitely listening.
Pippa's eyes are focused on me.
“I wanted to say, before we get into anything today, that I’m sorry.”
That gets her full attention.
Sean’s phone lowers by about half an inch.
Pippa folds her arms, but not defensively. More like she is settling in to hear whether I am about to make things worse.
“For the article?”
“Yes,” I say. “For not thinking on how people could misinterpret the piece.” I stop myself before I say it was not intentional, because Marie Louise has already dragged me through that hedge backwards and she was right to do it. “I should have seen it. I didn’t. That’s on me.”
Her expression stays measured.
She studies me for a moment.
Then she says, “That sounded practised.”
“It was,” I admit.
“What for?”
“So I wouldn’t make an apology worse by improvising.”
Sean makes a small sound that might be a laugh if anyone asks officially.
Pippa’s mouth almost moves.
Almost.
“Wise,” she says.
“I do occasionally visit the area.”
“Briefly?”
“Usually by accident.”
This time, she does let the corner of her mouth shift.
Tiny.
Gone almost immediately.
Still, I see it.
Tragic, really, the things a man will accept as encouragement when he is standing in a fire station with a guilty conscience.
“I appreciate the apology,” she says.
That surprises me enough that I have to remind my face to behave.
“But,” she continues, because of course there is a but, and it is probably wearing a high-vis vest, “I’m not interested in being part of a redemption piece.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Neither am I.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“I mean, not that I don’t need redeeming in some areas. Clearly.” I stop. Excellent. Wonderful. “What I mean is, this shouldn’t be about me learning a lesson at your expense. It should be about the work.”
Pippa watches me for a second.
Then she nods once.
“Good.”
Pippa looks at me for another second, then gestures towards the garage.
“Has Josh told you what the plan is?”
“Broadly.”
“What does broadly mean?”
“He told me where I can go, where I can’t go, what not to touch, and that if anyone gives me an instruction during a call, I follow it immediately.”
“That’ll do for a start.”
“He also told me not to ask follow-up questions while things are actively on fire.”
“That’s not exactly how I would phrase it, but yes.”
“I’m paraphrasing for tone.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
“I’ve built a career on it.”
Her look sharpens.
I lift a hand slightly. “Not like that.”
“As for the actual plan,” I say, moving on before I dig myself an even deeper hole, “I assume observing. Notes. Interviews when appropriate. Staying out of the way. Trying not to be a nuisance.”
Sean snorts behind us that suggests he considers the last item ambitious.
Pippa does not look away from me.
“Observing is part of it,” she says.
There is something in her tone I do not immediately enjoy.
“Part of it?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely. Always good when a sentence has a trapdoor.”
Her mouth almost moves. “You’re not just watching.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. I was giving you a chance to reconsider.”
She folds her arms, more like she is settling into a briefing than shutting me down.
“You’re here for two weeks,” she says. “If all you do is stand around taking notes, you’ll leave with a tidy notebook and no real understanding of what this job asks of people.”
“I’m very fond of tidy notebooks.”
“I can tell.”
“That felt personal.”
“It was observational.”
“Dangerously close to journalism.”
“Don’t insult me before I’ve got you into kit.”
That shuts me up for half a second.
Into kit sounds much less theoretical than observation.
Pippa pushes away from the table and gestures towards the door.
“Come on.”
I follow her out of the kitchen, through the corridor and back into the appliance bay. Sean’s quiet laugh follows us, which I choose to take as encouragement because the alternative is less useful.
Pippa stops by the kit racks. “You’ll observe, yes," she says. "You’ll also take part in controlled training exercises, station routines and equipment checks where it’s safe for you to do so.
You’ll learn what the kit weighs, how the hose handles, and how quickly simple tasks become difficult when you’re tired, hot or following instructions under pressure.
You’ll come out on calls if it’s appropriate, but only as an observer and only where you’re told to be. ”
Pippa reaches for a set of goldish, sandy coloured trousers and checks the label inside. “Try these.”
I take them from her.
They are heavier than I expect.
Not dramatically. Not enough to justify a facial expression. Just enough for my hands to register that everything here has a purpose and most of those purposes involve not dying.
Pippa notices anyway, because of course she does.
“They’re not pyjamas,” she says.
“I had gathered.”
“Excellent. That saves us another briefing.”
A small laugh comes from somewhere behind the engine.
Pippa hands me a jacket and boots next. “Changing room’s through there. Keep your trousers and shirt on underneath. Leave your shoes by the bench. Don’t force the boots if they’re wrong. I’d rather find another pair than have you rolling an ankle in the yard because you wanted to look agreeable.”
“I can be agreeable without injuring myself.”