Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume Seven Page 4

  The man lounged in the corner of the room, chatting to two young women, both of whom were clearly hanging off his every word. She judged him to be older than Josh, although with the same tan and laughter lines that suggested a life lived largely under the sun.

  I guess there must be hundreds of Aussies backpacking round the UK, particularly as it's winter over there.

  Putting the man, and the memories he dredged up, from her mind, she went to the bar.

  Claire sensed eyes on her and looked up. The man from earlier stood inches from her shoulder, looking down at the screen of her iPad. Claire bristled and flipped the case closed.

  “Thinking of a trip to New Zealand?” The man’s accent added several extra vowels to the words.

  “No, just researching a piece I'm writing.”

  “Really? I could help ya, whatcha wanna know?”

  He pulled up a stool without asking and sat next to her at the bar. Claire was torn between amusement and irritation. She glanced over her shoulder to where the man had been chatting up the girls, but they were gone.

  Picking up on her glance, the man laughed. “S'alright, they weren't with me. Just being friendly.”

  Claire stared at him, unsure how to react. On closer inspection she decided he wasn't all that attractive. On the shady side of thirty-five at least, although his skin was so weathered he could be anywhere between twenty and fifty. His relaxed air and easy confidence set up her British hackles, and her first thought was to tell him to get lost.

  But he reminded her of Josh and, with Kim still refusing her calls, her parents getting more action than she'd seen in six months, and the memory of Michael red-hot in her mind, she decided what the hell.

  With a glint in her eye she asked, “What part of Australia are you from?” She laughed at his disgruntled expression. “I'm kidding. You're a Kiwi, right?”

  “Ha Bloody Ha. If you're planning a trip down under you'll learn not to make that mistake.” His brow furrowed and she was surprised to see he really was put out by her joke.

  “Oh come on, it must happen all the time. Could you tell what part of the UK I'm from?”

  “Maybe not, but I don't think you're Scottish or Welsh and I wouldn't ask you if you were a yank.”

  “Australian is much closer to the Kiwi accent than English to American.” Claire was bored of the discussion but couldn’t think of a way to end it.

  “Not to me, chook.”

  “Fair enough. Sorry. What part of New Zealand are you from, then?” She wasn’t really interested, but politeness stopped her from turning back to her daydreaming.

  “Dunedin. It's in the south,” he added, “don't suppose you've heard of it.”

  “Between Christchurch and the Catlins?” Claire threw out the comment, before taking a drink of her gin.

  The man grinned. “You have done your research. What are you working on? I'm Mitch, by the way.”

  “Claire.” She nearly held out her hand but thought better of it. “I've been offered a writing job over there.” It felt good to finally tell someone. Mitch's eyebrows lifted in interest and Claire found herself pouring out the whole story.

  “But I've decided not to go,” she said at the end. “My sister's recovering from cancer, I need to somehow mend bridges with my best friend before she has her baby, and I don't want to give my boss the satisfaction of not having to sack me.” She took another gulp of her gin and tonic and wondered why she had spilled her guts to a stranger and, more to the point, why he hadn't legged it.

  He didn't even look bored. Instead he had a thoughtful frown on his face.

  “I see your dilemma. Crappy time to visit New Zealand anyway, unless you like skiing?”

  Claire laughed at his response. “Well, I do like to ski, but I hardly think I could afford it on what they'll be paying me.”

  “There's always work for those that need it. I can see you pulling pints in a backpackers bar.” He winked and Claire wasn't sure if it was an insult or a compliment.

  “What are you in the UK for, holiday?” She didn’t want to dwell on the potential of going to New Zealand, not now she had decided to stay.

  “Yeah, not much work in the winter. Thought I'd come see what all the fuss is about.”

  “What do you do, in New Zealand?”

  “I'm a bus driver for Magic.” Claire raised an eyebrow in enquiry. “Thought you'd done your research? It's one of the tour companies that take backpackers round to all the sights. Kiwi Experience is the other one, although we have a different name for it.” He told her and she blushed, much to his amusement.

  “That'd be the way to do your writing dead easy. Two or three weeks, everything booked and sorted for you. What do you Brits say, A doddle?”

  She laughed at his attempt at an English accent. A yawn caught her unawares, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

  “Sorry, I think I'm going to have to say good night. It was fun talking to you, Mitch. Enjoy your travels.” With another yawn, she picked up her iPad and headed to her room.

  ***

  SIXTEEN

  Claire hung up the phone and grinned. It had taken a dozen phone calls and not a small amount of patience, but she had managed it. Now for the difficult call. She stared at the piece of paper in front of her, with the all-important name and number on it, and resisted the urge to put the call off until later. Now. It has to be now, or I’ll chicken out.

  Tapping her pen against the table, she waited for the phone to connect, the contents of her stomach doing the hula.

  “Good morning, Ruth speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s me.” She heard the wobble in her voice, and wondered what was causing it. She was helping, wasn’t she?

  “Hello, why are you calling? Is everything okay? I thought you were on your travels again. Did you speak to Mum?”

  Claire swallowed. She’d forgotten about her conversation the previous evening. “Ah, yes. She and Dad are away, at a spa or something.” She prayed her sister wouldn’t ask any more questions. There were mental images that were best forgotten.

  “What? She didn’t tell me she was going away. Who is going to collect Sky from school? It was all I could do to get her there this morning.”

  Ignoring the stab of irritation at her sister’s attitude, Claire reminded herself that she was sick and needed all the help she could get.

  “That’s why I’m ringing, actually. I’ve been thinking about it since I left. Mum and Dad need some time to rebuild their bridges-” She heard her sister’s intake of breath, and rushed on, “-Not that Mum minds helping you, but it must be frustrating for you, to always have to ask her for help. I thought about what you said – about needing a child-minder – and I’ve found one.” The words came out in a rush.

  “I told you, I can’t afford childcare.” Ruth’s tone made it clear what she felt about Claire’s interference.

  “You don’t have to. It’s my gift to you. I should be helping, but I’m stuck doing this stupid challenge. The least I can do is let Carl fund a child-minder for you. They’re still paying me, and my outgoings are minimal. Anyway, it’s all arranged. It might be a bit make-do this term, but Jenny assures me she’ll have plenty of space next term.”

  “That’s September, Claire. Four months away. I can’t make-do for all that time.”

  Claire inhaled and tried not to react. She’d known it wouldn’t be easy to help her sister.

  “All Jenny means is she will have to share the childcare with Mum, as she doesn’t have space every day. But she lives near you, so bringing Sky home won’t be a problem. Even if all she does is walk her home from school, that will help. Won’t it?”

  Silence followed her words. Sensing it would be a concession too far from Ruth to admit that, Claire shrugged and let it go. “I’ll text you the details. I’ve asked Jenny to call you about collecting Sky from school today. I’m guessing you’ll have to get it authorised. And Ruth,” she hesitated, then decided nothing ventured. “Try and accept the help, o
kay. Think of it as recompense for me still doing this awful challenge when I’d rather be playing with my niece.”

  She hung up the phone before her sister could respond. Realising she was breathing hard, Claire was about to head down to reception to check out and continue to the next hostel, when the phone rang. Oh, Ruth, don’t be a dummy. Take the help.

  Glancing at the phone, she realised it wasn’t her sister calling back, but a withheld number. Hoping against reason that it was Kim, Claire answered the call.

  “Hello, is that Claire Carleton?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Ah, Claire. My name is Linda Small, I work for a recruitment agency. I have a position that might interest you, if you’re in the market for a change of role.”

  Claire sank back onto the bunk bed, and listened with wide eyes to what Linda had to say.

  ***

  SEVENTEEN

  Claire climbed out of the Skoda and stretched, cricking her neck left and right to release the tension. Driving north on a Monday had been a crazy thing to do, but she’d followed the impulse without questioning it too closely. That might be a mistake. She shrugged. It didn’t feel wrong.

  Reaching in to the passenger seat, Claire grabbed her bag, then – checking she had the keys in her hand – she locked the car door from the inside and shut it with a slam. Time to get to work.

  Two hours later, Claire left the salon and shook her head, feeling her tamed bob skimming her shoulders. It seemed frivolous to pay someone to wash and straighten her hair, but it hadn’t been done since she’d had it cut. Pushing away an unwelcome memory, she brushed her hands down her new dress, admiring the way it clung to curves she hadn’t realised had developed with her travelling regime of climbing hills and forgetting meals.

  There was one stop left. Claire entered the department store and headed for the beauty department.

  “Good afternoon, can I help you?” The face beaming at her looked ready for a stage performance rather than a day behind a cosmetics counter. Claire hoped she wasn’t the woman she was after.

  “Yes please. I’m trying to choose a new foundation, I wonder if you can assist me?”

  “Of course. Would you like our make-up specialist to give you a demonstration?”

  Forbearing to suggest she wasn’t the only one who needed some hints and tips, Claire nodded. Mission accomplished.

  Claire pushed through the glass doors, ignoring the pinch of her new heels and the stab of guilt when she thought of the thirty pairs locked in storage not too far away.

  Oh well. This is important. And you can never have too many shoes. The thought was automatic, but felt alien in Claire’s mind. It had been months since she’d worn anything other than hiking boots or pumps. Her calves ached with the unaccustomed stretch of four-inch heels. No pain, no gain. The additional height was important.

  Claire approached the steel structure of the reception desk. Designed to intimidate, Claire refused to let it do so.

  Smiling down at the seated receptionist, she forced her face to relax. “Hello, I would like to see Mr Thurman, please?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” The woman wore her expression like a steel mask.

  Claire swallowed. “Can you tell him that Claire Carleton is here to see him?”

  Without unbending her features, the receptionist reached for the phone, while Claire tried not to fidget. She watched the receptionist’s face, but her inscrutable expression defied interpretation.

  Receptionists must make good poker players.

  Claire’s stomach churned and she wished she’d had lunch. Gurgling was not going to add to her presence.

  After a short wait and a terse conversation, the receptionist replaced her handset and looked up at Claire. A faint hint of surprise registered in her lifted brows. “Mr Thurman has asked you to go straight up.”

  Heart hammering like a night club beat, Claire walked to the lift and resisted the urge to check her hair or makeup in the reflective surface to her left. The lift doors opened with a hiss and she walked in, back straight, head high. As the doors closed behind her, she slumped against the glass and inhaled deeply.

  Come on, you can do this.

  All too soon, the lift deposited her at her destination. Squaring her shoulders once more, Claire strode from the metal box and walked across the office floor. She felt eyes tracking her progress, and heard the susurration that followed her, as heads bent together and speculation ran rife.

  Outside the office, Claire paused, before lifting her hand to knock at the door. Damn. Forgot the manicure. Bugger.

  Dropping her hands, she curled her fingers in to hide the plain, short nails that jarred with her otherwise immaculate image.

  “Come in.”

  The terse voice called from behind the door. It sent shudders through Claire, emotions fizzing along her nerve endings.

  Claire pulled the door open and walked unhurriedly inwards to take a chair. When she had positioned herself, knees together, hands clasped in her lap, back rigid, she looked up. Pouring three months of hard life lessons into her glittering smile, Claire met the eyes staring at her from behind the desk.

  “Hello, Carl.”

  ***

  EIGHTEEN

  Despite quivering limbs, Claire felt happiness bubble deep inside. The look in Carl’s eyes, as he gazed at her across the desk, reminded her of a hunted animal finally cornered and aware there is nowhere left to run. It strengthened her resolve and calmed some of the jitters.

  “Hello, Claire. This is an unexpected pleasure.” Carl’s mouth worked silently, as if more words wanted to be spoken but were under restraint.

  “Yes, isn’t it. How are you? Are you well?”

  Carl’s eyebrows flickered up almost imperceptibly, flummoxed by Claire’s affable conversation.

  “Yes, very well. The Birds Eye account renewed, and we’ve secured three new clients this month already.” He sat back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms of the large leather seat that diminished his stature rather than enlarging it as intended.

  Sitting forward, Claire glanced sideways at the door. A flicker only, but Carl detected it, and shifted uncomfortably. Claire watched him squirm with indecision. If he called Julia in to take a drinks order, he would be treating Claire as a welcome visitor, despite her impromptu visit. On the other hand, if he didn’t follow normal protocol, he would communicate to the rest of the office that she was not there at his bidding. Claire nearly laughed out loud as the thoughts waged war across his face.

  You should take some lessons from your receptionist; she’s a much better poker player than you are.

  After a moment that stretched to eternity, Carl leant forwards and pressed the intercom on his desk.

  “Julia, can you come in, please?”

  The door opened immediately, and Claire suspected Carl’s PA had been hovering with her fingers already round the handle.

  “There you are, Julia. Coffee for me, if you will.” He tilted his head in question at Claire, and she turned to face her erstwhile tormenter.

  “Hello, Julia. Earl Grey, thank you.” She smiled sweetly, keeping her expression neutral.

  Julia’s mouth dropped open and she shut it with a snap, before spinning away. Claire took the opportunity to inhale deeply and rub her sweaty hands down her dress, while Carl was distracted.

  “So.” Carl turned, resting his arms on the desk. “To business.”

  “It’s always business, isn’t it.”

  Claire reached into the bag at her side, before Carl could answer, and retrieved a pristine white envelope, which she slid across the desk.

  “I think you’ll find this self-explanatory.”

  Carl looked at it and the colour drained from his face. A sheen of sweat made his brow sparkle in the office lights.

  “You’re resigning?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.” Claire frowned, her poise slipping for the first time. “Isn’t that what you’ve been striving for since
February?” She closed her lips, unwilling to give any more away.

  “Yes, well, no. Of course not.” Flustered, Carl stumbled over his words.

  “Oh, come on, Carl. There’s no need to play the game any longer. Not with me. You’ve won. That should make you happy.”

  “Why? Why now, I mean.”

  “I’ve had a better offer.” No need to mention she hadn’t even had an interview for the new role Linda had called her about. The potential had been enough to convince her of her next move.

  “How much?”

  Claire felt the heat rise in her cheeks at the audacity of Carl’s question. Refusing to rise to the bait, she crossed her legs, gazing coolly at him. “That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Money. I pity you.”

  Carl sat back as if she had spat at him. “If it’s not the money, why are you leaving?”

  “Need you ask? You sent me on some fool’s errand, fit only for a manager at best, to force me to leave. No, don’t tell me that bullshit story of proving myself fit to the directors. We both know that was tosh.”

  Carl shrugged. “The deal was real.”

  “But the idea to send me was yours? Was I treading on your toes? Making you nervous? Well, you can relax. I wouldn’t have your job if you paid me double whatever exorbitant salary you’re on.” She paused, as Julia re-entered with their drinks.

  The PA hovered, sensing the atmosphere and desperate to leave with some gossip. She glanced at the white envelope untouched on Carl’s desk, and Claire knew that was fuel enough for the rumour machine.

  “Thank you, Julia, you may go.” Julia flinched at the icy tones, and scuttled from the room.

  “What do you want, then, if not money? Prestige? A new car?”