Chapter 8A

Another one from Debbie's point of view...

The train down from Glasgow was only twenty minutes late when it got into Hartsholme, the journey giving me just enough time to package up some emotions and get back into Corporate Me mode, I thought. Phil was dead and buried, in the most literal sense of the words, and polite platitudes had been exchanged with his parents and gung-ho macho man brother. I knew – and so did they – that we would probably never meet again, nonetheless promises of meetings, cards, sentiments had been exchanged. With a guilty start, I felt a twinge of relief that Phil and I had never had kids. I loved him, to be sure – loved him more than anyone else I'd ever known, perhaps – but he was gone and now I was free of all the concomitants. It was a peculiarly comforting thought, in a bizarre and morally complex sort of way.

And it took me off the train and onto the platform in a vaguely positive frame of mind ... for the first time in some months, I realised ... and capable, once again, of appreciating the strange beauty of a nondescript railway station in late Autumn, the Victorian architecture clashing poignantly with the red plastic and plate glass of modernity.

OK, I was in a reverie, a little removed from the real world, rejoicing – there is really no other word – in this rediscovery of self. It was thus slightly disconcerting to note a voice calling "Deborah, Miss Jensen..." across from the other platform, more so when I recognised the caller as one of the architects from Hertford Square. Colin, my memory finally supplied, nice enough bloke – in a puppyish sort of way. Whenever we'd met before, he'd been pathetically eager to please, quite unlike his harder edged, more business like partners. Against that, I knew he was regarded as the most creative of the trio, so he was probably also the best choice for the job.

Shrugging, I put on my best business smile, waved acknowledgement and proceeded through the subway to meet him. The last trace of my previous distraction pointed out that said tunnel conspicuously did not smell of urine. Bloody hell, I thought, definitely not in London, then.

Emerging into daylight again – whence my, no our, connecting train would depart, Colin was obviously keen to get things off to a good start. "Deborah!", he exclaimed ... or maybe ejaculated ... he was that kind of bloke. Still a bit discomfited by his being around at all – I'd thought we'd meet at the hotel or something – I cut him off quite sharply.

"Its Debbie, as you well know – we've talked often enough before."

He looked crestfallen, possibly wondering if he'd blown it with a major client –from what Dave had told me over the weekend, possibly the only client – and for a brief moment I had a vision of me making everything right, recognising in an instant the old Debbie and deciding to stick with the new one.

"OK, we're working together. When's the train? Have you sorted out a taxi from Bowmere or are we busing it? I know Dave and the team booked hotels, not a lot more."

Again, that exultant realisation that it was OK not to know everything. Not sure that Colin saw it that way but –hey – it actually wasn't that complicated. In fact, we were in ensconced in Dave's choice of hotel within the hour. Again, I felt an empathy ... could see the charm. It was a good hotel, that was obvious, but eccentric. The building was ancient, convoluted, complicated, the staff friendly but ... distracted ... not always focused on the immediate priorities of their customers. I loved it, amused by the fact that Colin loved the fact that he was in a hotel. The joy on his face when someone brought us a coffee as we sat down to map out priorities and objectives ... oh, and a plan to achieve them ... was wonderful...

Next morning was time to implement the plan. Colin took a camera and some hi-tech measuring gear over to the old slate works –our intended new home –to meet with the agent and do a preliminary site review, while I took myself over to the time share complex to begin making arrangements for the interim accommodation.

This involved meeting Andy the owner – a guy Dave had singularly failed to bond with, I knew –and I began to appreciate quite why very rapidly. I'd worked with a lot of guys in the corporate world who flaunted the gold Rolex and the hand made suit, mentioned the Ferrari and the exclusive schools for the kids on a too frequent basis, generally oozed wealth and smugness, but somehow none of them had struck me as quite so reptilian as my new acquaintance. Possibly it was the fact that the corporate arseholes had had the advantage of actually being very seriously rich, while young Andy was clearly small time, a chancer, basically, with a minor empire and some major dreams ... or possibly delusions. He was a big man in only one way, at least on first sight, and that was mostly fat ... oh and he had stubble which he probably felt looked cool but ... well, it didn't do it for me.

What also didn't work at all, from my point of view, was the fact that he was so obviously checking me out right from the point when I first entered his office. I began to regret wearing a skirt – even a below the knee one felt exposed in the face of his leer –and what I now felt was a too tight jumper, given that he was openly fixating on my breasts. I took a deep breath, set my face to impassive and tried to keep things professional.

Back in the hotel for a lunchtime catch-up, Colin was clearly excited with what he'd found –it appeared that 'aspects' were good and 'foundings' advantageous, which I guessed must both (i) mean something to him and (ii) be something to be pleased about. So I was ... it was actually quite a relief to be away from would be loverboy Mr Timeshare, just spending some time without having my cleavage checked out on a regular basis. I felt I needed a shower, barely three hours since I'd last had one, and resolved to delegate the afternoon's follow up with Andy to young Colin. Well, we needed to sort out things like power and ICT connections to the proposed workspace over there and I sort of felt that this could be considered an architectural task. In a way. Colin, of course, agreed ... he'd probably have done nude handstands on the green if I'd asked him to ... even if I could tell he was mainly keen to get on with sketching ideas and doing oh so complicated structural calculations. Well, plenty of time for that, I felt ... and it was only a building, for gods sake –been standing for a hundred years or so, not all that likely to fall down now even if we did knock it about a bit.

So I finished my coffee and sandwich, despatched Colin off to do the necessary and went back to my room. Where I did have that shower ... and phoned a Jane Whitaker at the local college, a biology teacher Dave had met the previous week, and arranged to meet her that very afternoon. Must be the rural ethos, I thought ... everyone seemed to have a lot of free time.

Which, I had to admit, was a lifestyle I could buy into.

In fact, I knew that Ms Whitaker had given up a 'free' period – which is to say, time scheduled for marking and lesson planning, not sitting around chatting – to meet me. Which I might have felt slightly guilty about if she hadn't sounded so obviously enthusiastic on the phone, been quite so bubbly in person. Even as I was extracting myself from the taxi I'd taken down the valley I could see her haring out of the college building, running towards me with a huge smile and some incoherent cry of welcome. Teachers, I felt, had not behaved like this when I was at school.

Up close, I discovered that she was, well, tiny, as Dave had said – couldn't have been more than five foot, I thought, and not a raised heel in sight –but also quite classically beautiful ... almost like a Greek sculpture, if you could imagine such a thing with bright red hair ... and an Arran jumper over a knee length denim skirt. She was also smiling broadly as she grabbed my hand and, talking excitedly the while, more or less dragged me into the building and, eventually, into a lab prep room ... apparently the nearest thing to a meeting room she had available.

OK, so the locust cages were a bit disconcerting, the cockroaches more so when I finally noticed them, but we talked ... and talked to some purpose, given the tsunami of exuberance she was sending my way. Jane told me she'd already done a 'guerilla' survey of our site, doing some initial basic mapping by – umm – simply breaking in one weekend. (I laughed, impressed with both the honesty and the initiative) and had a group of students primed and ready to go ... avid bug collectors and weed spotters to a man. Or to a boy and girl, at least. In fact, it became clear, all she really needed from me was the key to the gate padlock ... and clearly she was quite capable of managing even without that. So I gave her the key, my blessing and – Dave's suggestion – quite a large cheque for the college's development fund. And then we talked about other things ... lots of other things.

Actually, we talked through the rest of the afternoon, both of us surprised to find ourselves disturbed by the sounds of the last lessons of the day ending, a few hundred or so students making their way home in a cacophony of trampling feet and excited voices. That, at least, reminded me of the schooldays I'd known ... but they'd had nothing in them to compare to Jane. I hoped her students knew just how lucky they were.

I declined the offer of a lift back up the valley – by that time I knew she lived in Bowmere and didn't feel I could take her so far out of her way, given the amount of her time I'd already taken up – but we agreed to meet up on site at the weekend, or sooner if she could swing it with her head of department and get the students up there in the week. So I left Jane at the college reception, giving her a brief hug on parting and made my way over to the bus stop, thankfully by now mostly clear of students ... and, of course, with no more buses for an hour or so. Oh, well, I thought ... best just walk back into Bowmere and find another taxi. I was, in fact, just checking my mobile for messages – while I had a signal and all that, when a mud encrusted landrover growled its way out of the staff car park ... and drew to a halt beside me. A large smiling woman leaned over to the passenger side window.

"You wouldn't happen to be Debbie, by any chance?" she said. Well ... Dave was right, I thought ... their bloody grapevine is good.

"Got it in one", I said with a smile of my own. "And given the vehicle, and the location, I'd guess that you must be Kath, the IT teacher that Dave told me about."

"Touché. Hop in ... if you're going up the valley ... I have a sister to check up on. And there won't be a bus for ages, incidentally."

Which, of course, I already knew ... so I clambered in with her, giving her hand a brief shake and asking how she'd recognised me.

"Well, I just had Jane – Whitaker – going on about this fantastic person she's been talking to all afternoon and ... well, we don't get a lot of tall beautiful blondes hanging around the bus stop of an evening, so it seemed to be worth a go. Anyway ... your colleague Dave – you know he talked to some of my students when he was up? – mentioned a bit about you and I've been dying to meet you ever since."

I smiled at this, wondered if she knew just how much he'd told me about her, then settled back to enjoy the ride, Kath given me a running commentary on all the farms – and the farmers - that we passed. Apparently there wasn't a sane person in the valley ... at least if you took Kath's word for it.

I decided to keep an open mind.

Back in the village, Kath dropped me at the hotel after making me promise that I would meet her and her sister Rosie in the bar later on ... and that I would bring Colin, along ... or "the fresh meat", as she actually put it. I stood and watched her drive off with a silly grin on my face, quite overwhelmed by the welcome I'd received from two such different women ... and in such an unexpected way. It almost made up for that creep Andy, I thought with a shudder, before shaking myself down and heading into the hotel.

Where I found Colin sitting on a couch in reception ... looking so relieved to see me that he must have thought I'd been in danger of being kidnapped by aliens or something. Either that or Mr Timeshare's tastes were broader than I'd thought.

In fact, the latter wasn't too far off –apparently the guy had talked about me pretty much constantly, seemingly assuming a rather greater intimacy between Colin and myself than existed (or was ever likely to exist) ... even asking him what my bra size was at one point ... and how the hell would he know that, even if we were sleeping together – check my laundry basket? All of which must have been rather disconcerting to a well brought up young man, who, I suspected, did have a slight, schoolboyish, crush on me, but wasn't quite enough to explain his distraught appearance. That, it turned out was more to do with our friends at PCW. Arriving back at the hotel, he'd found a message asking him – not us – to phone some head honcho there ... which he did. And promptly got told that he needed to submit all his plans, cost estimates, timescales, etc etc to them in advance, for approval. The bastards had even reminded him that they were his practice's landlords.

Which, of course, had more than slightly upset Colin ... but it made me absolutely livid. I reminded him, as reassuringly as possible, that he was actually working for us – that is, Bronstein Associates (Europe) – and that we'd signed actual legal contracts guaranteeing him payment ... and our 'ownership' of the work to be undertaken. I did manage to keep a lid on my anger long enough to get him calmed down a bit, then sent him to the bar for a drink – which he looked like he badly needed – before retiring briefly to my room to make a few phone calls of my own.

I didn't get very far, to be honest, but at least the folks back at base knew what was happening – Colin's partners had also reported a similar approach to them, so it wasn't a shock – and at least one PCW executive had his vocabulary enhanced by a few of my choicer words. Ultimately, I felt that we needed Carla on board and overtly supporting us – if nothing else she was rich and successful, and PCW liked rich and successful people, even female ones – and had strongly suggested to Dave that he get hold of her pronto. Which was about all I could do, from here, but I was still worried.

Dave, I thought, didn't seem to realise that just because what he was doing was, to him, obviously morally right - fair in his terms – it didn't actually make it legal, in the sense of according with our funders legitimate contractual expectations. I'd had more experience in this game than he had – hell, Mickey bloody Mouse had more experience than Dave – and whilst I also knew that the figures really did stack up, that we really could make lots of people lots of money, I was ... unsettled. I knew Dave, I trusted him, I was in ... I was not exactly a dispassionate observer. Nonetheless, it seemed to me that he was blithely sailing into stormy corporate waters, assuming that people would trust him because he was, in fact, trustworthy. What he didn't seem to realise – or maybe just bloody mindedly chose to ignore – was that, in the absence of the old school tie, his backers really needed those overt signs of corporate governance – the committees, the protocols, the procedures ... all the shit he hated. Hell, I knew whose side I was on –whose world I would prefer to live in – but ... There it was. I felt storm clouds gathering, had to live with the fact that even knowing that, I couldn't face going back to London, working that closely with him. Not yet, anyway.

And, of course, I had a job to do up here. Currently, ensuring that a boy wonder architect ate a decent dinner ... and then having a drink with a mad ICT teacher.

The absurdity of it all made me laugh out loud.

Actually, getting Colin to eat wasn't a challenge – a half of bitter had relaxed him slightly and the food was absolutely excellent – and Kath turned out to be comparatively sane. If only by comparison with her sister ... who wasn't sane at all.

Both of them were sitting at a small table in the corner of the bar when we came through from the dining room. Kath had changed out of her work clothes and was now wearing jeans and a baggy fleece sweatshirt, her hair untied and falling around her face as she shared a joke with her sister. Rosie, I thought ... who might actually be on the payroll, given that Dave had apparently offered her a job without bothering to sort out any of the details – like what she was actually supposed to do, how much we would pay her, that sort of stuff. She didn't look anything like her sister, who was a large woman with a lot of curves and a sort of outdoors appearance. Rosie, by contrast, was a much slighter figure, her darker hair cut short and her body showing angles beneath the grey smock type dress she was wearing. Both waved a friendly greeting as they saw us come in and I sat down with them as Colin politely headed to the bar to get drinks in for the four of us.

When he got back – taking a couple of trips to shift the four pints, much to Rosie's disdain – and we'd got the introductions out of the way, it was Rosie who made the conversational running. I think it took her maybe ten minutes to get both Colin and my life stories out of us, followed by a swift canter through our current emotional entanglements ... and our histories in that regard, too. I think Colin was a little taken aback by all this and Kath – who, of course, knew something of my recent bereavement, given that Dave had been staying with her (sleeping with her, actually) when I'd phoned to let him know – looked more than slightly uncomfortable. I, though, felt perfectly OK talking about my life – school, university, PCW, Dave –and loves – a few early liaisons, Phil and ... Dave? I think it was simply that there was no subterfuge, no malice, in the inquiry ... or maybe it was just a relief to be talking about it all openly, almost for the first time.