Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Joel
“ I ’m sorry. These are not the designs we discussed, Mr Fitzpatrick.”
I clench my jaw and give the woman in front of me my best ‘you’re-not-pissing-me-off’ smile when in fact she is pissing…me…off. She’s chopping and changing her mind every second and has already taken up too much of my time. She wants plans. I’ve given her the god damn plans, yet it’s still not enough.
“I can assure you, they are the designs we agreed on in our last meeting.” My days in the office are twice as long now as I’ve taken on more work than usual—hoping it drowns out all the pain—but whether I hide away or shout from the rooftops, the discomfort is still there regardless.
“But they don’t look like I expected.”
I roll my pen between my fingers, trying to control the irritation that is bubbling in my chest. “And what did you expect?”
“Something more modern and less… wooden.”
Seriously?
Sitting forward, I look directly at her, needing her to get on board with at least one of the five designs in front of us before I tell her to find herself another architect for her precious fucking mansion. “Miss Anderson, with all due respect, you can’t have a cabin-style home without it looking wooden.”
Looking over the top of her sunglasses, she gives me her famous glare as she sits back in my office chair, running her thumb over the tips of her fingernails before tilting her chin towards the ceiling.
The designs I’ve drawn up for her should be being developed into the finest cabin-style home with an open-plan kitchen, a large open fire and bedrooms you can fit an entire house in. It’ll be a shit hot looking piece—a home many people would kill to have—and in my professional opinion, one that needs to be built in Alaska, not on the outskirts of a city. The contrast is extreme and won’t mix—in the same way in which Miss Anderson doesn’t blend well with the market town of Skipton. She’s a woman of wealth, dressed to the nine’s with every designer label you can imagine covering her slim body one way or another. The only thing she is lacking is a fluffy little dog sitting in her handbag.
I’m surprised she’s come to me—a nobody from a small town in the countryside who is holding on by a thread—to design her house when she could have gone to some prick in a suit working on the top floor of a skyscraper.
I guess I should be honoured, but compliments and gratitude died inside me a long time ago, and where I once loved my job, I feel like I’m only doing it these days to keep my feet on the ground.
“No. I’m not happy. I think we need to rethink and redesign.”
Is she fucking kidding me?
“Redesign? Again?”
“Mr Fitzpatrick, I’m paying you good money, and I’d like a house I can call home.”
A home is lived in.
A home is where you have clothes on the floor and last night's dinner dishes still waiting to be washed because you are too tired to do them.
This woman boards in fucking hotels two hundred and ninety days of the year. She wouldn’t know a home if it hit her in the face.
I give her my most professional smile when secretly I’m killing for a shot of anything alcoholic. I need this meeting to be over.
“I appreciate that you are, Miss Anderson.” I sigh, squeezing my eyes closed and pinching the bridge of my nose. “Look, how about you give me a few more examples of what you’re after, and I’ll throw in some ideas of my own to compare them with. See how that suits you. That way you can bounce off different designs.”
She’s eyeing me again from over the top of her sunglasses, her long, blonde hair falling in curls over one shoulder while the buttons on her silk shirt pull against the fabric.
“That sounds perfect. How long do you need? I’m out of the country for a few weeks.”
Thank fuck.
“That should be plenty of time to draw up a few things.”
“Excellent.” Grabbing her handbag from the table, she stands, pushing her sunglasses further up her nose. “Is that all for today?”
“Yes. Once I’ve got the designs to go back over, I shall email you.” I stand, thankful the meeting is over and that I can breathe. Only her next words are like a blow to the gut—not because they’ve come from her red, painted lips but because of the intention they’re laced with.
“Shall we do it over dinner next time?”
My chest tightens and my jaw clenches. I’m not sure how to answer. Anything I say will make me feel I’ve done wrong for even taking part in this conversation to begin with. “I’m afraid I will have to pass. We can stick to having the appointments in my office.”
“That’s a shame. Dinner would have been good, but I see now that you’re otherwise committed.” She points to my hand, and I instantly run my thumb over the cool metal of my wedding band. My wife’s face invades my thoughts along with flashbacks of the argument—the fourth we’d had that day back then, and one of many we’d had prior.
I clear my throat. “Sadly, yes. Dinner dates are off the cards.”
“Well, I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Mr Fitzpatrick. Good day to you. ”
With that, she’s out of the door, her heels clicking down the hall while her perfume lingers in the office.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, running my hand through my dark hair and pulling at the strands. That hour-long meeting had felt like an eternity and has rattled me in more ways than one.
Closing her account on the screen, I shut my laptop, not wanting to look at it anymore, and standing, I head over to the filing cabinet as if the whiskey is calling my name from inside the draw. After pouring myself a shot, I throw it back, welcoming the harsh burn and hoping it takes the edge off the ache that’s nothing but fucking permanent in my chest these days—an ache that feels like a bottomless pit. I can’t decipher which feeling it signifies the most.
We should do it over dinner.
The words rattle around in my head. They always want fucking dinner.
Not satisfied with the first one, I fill my glass once more and walk over to the window, resting against the wall to look out over the town, grateful that my upstairs office gives me the perfect view.
My love for this place runs deep. It’s market day, and the cobbled streets are covered with outdoor tents, locals and tourists. From fruit and veg stalls to rugs and handbags, there’s a wide selection for people looking for those bargains that the high street doesn’t provide. All of this is accompanied by a buzz that radiates around the stone walls like its music.
Appletreewick is my home: a tiny village twenty-minutes or so from this town. The quiet country life and endless greenery has been in my blood since the day I could walk amongst the grass.
Our family was born and bred here, and although the world is big, nothing compares to home, and I need the comfort only this place can give right now, more than anything else.
“Wow. Drinking Jack Daniel’s before lunch, Fitz. She must have been bad.”
I turn to find my best friend, Edith, strolling through my office without a care in the world. Instantly, everything I’ve been struggling with fades into the background, and I feel like I can finally breathe in her presence.
We’ve been friends longer than we haven’t, and she’s always had the ability to know when I need an out.
“Define bad,” I scoff.
“Did she shout orders this time?”
“It may have been better if she had. Instead, I’m now replanning her future home once more.”
“Again?” She looks at me with surprise before her crystal blue eyes turn to a scowl as she points at me with her finger. “You are too kind for your own good, Fitz. Maybe you need to learn to say no.”
“She’s a wealthy woman. The money will be good.”
“In the meantime, your blood pressure creeps up and your stress levels continue. But, hey, what does that matter when money is involved,” she deadpans.
My lips tug at the corners. The one thing I adore about Edith is her animosity towards wealth. Coming from a family that is drowning in properties and pounds sterling, she has built her business all on her own from scratch and works damn hard with it, too.
Wanting to change the subject, I down the last of my drink and nod to the two sandwich bags in her hand as she sits in the desk chair opposite mine.
“Whatcha buy me today?”
“A chicken salad and a cinnamon swirl. You’re welcome.”
I groan at the thought. This woman knows me inside out. “Now who is too kind?”
“Now sit down and eat. I’ve only got thirty minutes today until my next client.”
“Thank you.”
Taking the bag from her, I kiss her on the head before sitting down at my desk. And like a daily ritual, she kicks off her shoes, crossing her feet at the ankles on top of my desk, popping the buttons on her black tunic uniform to reveal a white camisole underneath.
Biting into her sandwich, she leans back in her chair and closes her eyes.
I smile as I watch her. She’s done the same ever since I can remember, and I like the fact she feels so relaxed in my company.
“So, what joys have you been working on today?” I ask, wanting to know everything about her morning because I love hearing her stories.
“The usual,” she says with a mouthful before swallowing. “Although, there seems to be a thing for Brazilian’s this week. I’ve done more than I usually do in a month.”
“They’re getting ready for summer,” I joke.
“Tell me about it. The client I had first thing was that bad I had no idea where to even start. I was tempted to get the hair clippers to it.”
“Jesus, thanks for that information.” I laugh, trying to eradicate the image from my mind.
She shrugs. “It’s good to share.”
“I’d prefer not to have the visual that’s currently in my head thanks.”
“Count yourself lucky. I had a full view. And you did ask. ”
“And now I wish I hadn’t.” I take another bite of my sandwich. “What time do you finish?”
“All being well five-thirty, but Lorna is coming in to have her nails done. So, she will no doubt make me fall behind on my other appointments because she clearly doesn’t understand I have to work to timings when she visits.”
“She’s actually booked an appointment? Wow.”
“I know, right? As well as dreading it, I’m also waiting for the catch because there’s bound to be one.”
I nod, understanding the constant struggle Edith has with her stepmother and the evil of all evils.
Edith had known she wanted to be a beautician from the day she turned fourteen. Being the youngest in the group of us that all hung out, she had been the only—other than her sister—who knew her career path. We each had thrown ideas around with many options to choose from, but none of us had been as focused as Edith was.
I admire her for that.
I admire her for a lot of things: like how she’d put on a brave face and a beaming smile even when she was being constantly bullied at school. I admire that she sees the good even in a bad situation, and I’d fucking beamed with pride the day she’d stood up and told her parents—particularly Lorna—in front of everyone in the Craven Inn that she wouldn’t be following in their footsteps by choosing a career in Law or Property Development.
The evening had ended with her crying on my shoulder out of sight of everyone because of her stepmother’s wicked response, but that’s who Edith is: feisty but emotional.
“How are your parents anyway?” I ask.
“Good. Dad is counting down the weeks to retiring. And Lorna is… Well.”
“She’ll never be any different.”
“I know. I’ve given up on expecting her to ever find a new personality.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Can you imagine a nicer side to Lorna?”
“No. I think I would find that more distressing than the twisted one she has now.”
“Agreed.”
She finishes the rest of her sandwich before changing the subject. Edith doesn’t like to talk about Lorna for too long. “You down the Craven later?”
I nod. “Hopefully. Daniel has ordered me there as it’s been a while, but I will have to see how my workload is. I’ve been so busy.”
I’ve managed to have one beer with my brother in the past nine days, which is ridiculous seeing as we live in the same tiny village.
“Well, I might see you there. It depends when I get home,” she says, sitting herself up and brushing the breadcrumbs off her chest before standing to button up her uniform. “In the meantime, I need to shoot.”
“You leaving me already?”
“Sure am.”
“Why is lunch the fastest hour of the day?”
“Because I’ve only given you half of it.” Releasing her hair from her hair tie, she shakes her head and her dark locks fall around her shoulders for a second before she scoops it all back up and repositions it back into a ponytail. “I’ve got to run down to the market before I head back to the salon. Dad wants me to grab him some cheddar from Mr English’s stall.”
“Does his wife know he’s still eating cheese?”
“No. Hence why he’s asked me to get him some. His excuse to Lorna is that I accidentally left it in their fridge,” she says with air quotes before heading to the door. I’m hating the loss of her company already and she’s not even left the building. “Right, I’m out. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Me? I’m always such a good boy.”
“The lies you tell. I haven’t forgotten that time you looked up Mrs Bailey’s skirt. ”
I grin. “That was our secret.”
“It still makes you a naughty little perv.”
“Get out of here. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do this afternoon, and you’re putting me off.”
“Oh, well in that case, this will help you.” She leans back from behind the door frame. “That client with the big bush from this morning just happened to be a pensioner.”
“Seriously. Will you stop?”
“And it may also have been Mrs—”
“Get the fuck out, and don’t say anymore.” I chuckle, screwing my sandwich paper up and throwing it at her. Her laugh rattles in the empty hallway of the office building as she waves at me through the glass windows. I shake my head, still smiling at her.
This has always been who we are: jokers.
As teens, I’d often run up behind her and jump on her back, having us both fall to the ground laughing. She would hide behind corners and stick her foot out for me to fall over it as I passed. We joke and tease each other, and nothing fills me with more happiness than seeing her smile. I’ve always felt that way, even after marrying Sophia, her stepsister…
But the second the front door closes and silence filters around me, it instantly brings back the vice on my chest and the memories that overshadow me .
Running my hand down the thickness of my beard, I try to block out the haunts, knowing it’s not going to be that easy. These days it never is.
What I’m grateful for is having Edith. Today may have only been thirty minutes; tomorrow it may even be an hour, but whatever time we have, she’s the highlight of my dark days.