The last person Rob Hawker wanted to see was Harold-blooming-Marter. It was bad enough that the boys were expected to work on a Saturday, without the owner appearing unannounced at the building site to stick his oar in.
Just the sight of him put Rob’s back up. Marter had perfect clothes, perfect hair and perfect teeth, none of which stopped him being a perfect pain in the backside.
‘Well,’ Marter said, stomping into the house, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’
There was a lot Rob wanted to say. That they should be left to get on with their jobs. That the build wouldn’t be so far behind schedule if Marter didn’t keep changing his mind. That he could stick his new house where the sun didn’t shine.
But telling the man who paid the invoices where to go was never a clever idea, so Rob bit his tongue and told him that everything was going all right instead.
Matter looked at the foreman as if he was dirt, and particularly stupid dirt at that. ‘Is that what you call it? None of the windows are in and most of the rooms are still missing floorboards!’
‘We’ll get it done,’ Rob promised, willing to say anything if Marter would leave. The firm’s builders mate, Tim, would be back with the bacon butties any minute. Rob wanted to eat his breakfast in peace.
‘That’s what you said last week,’ Marter reminded him.
‘And we’re getting there. I had two men off with the flu last week—’
‘Not my problem,’ Marter interrupted.
‘But they’re back on the job now,’ Rob continued, gritting his teeth. ‘So we’ll make up the time, no worries.’
‘You’d better. The electrician is coming in on Monday.’
‘I know. I booked him.’
‘And the plasterer needs to get started by the end of the week.’
Rob forced himself to nod. It was either that or throttle the jumped-up little prat. ‘Trust me. The guys know what they’re doing.’
‘I promised Kate that we’ll be in for Christmas.’
‘And you will be,’ Rob assured him, imagining Christmas in the Marter household. Dinner parties with their posh mates, comparing log burners and holidays in the south of France. The Christmas tree would be pristine, of course, with colour-coded baubles carefully aligned. She’d probably already bought the decorations, ready to impress the new neighbours.
Rob had nothing against people with money. Why would he? People with money wanted large houses, and as long as Rob was the one building them, then everyone was happy. Everyone except idiots like Marter who thought that money in the bank was a licence to throw your weight around. He doubted Marter had ever done a proper day’s graft in his life. Pushing numbers around a computer before rushing to the gym to work off the carbs; what kind of life was that? Marter had it all. The looks, the cash, the soon-to-be-completed dream house, and yet the bloke never even cracked a smile.
At least he’d stopped arguing. ‘OK, if you say so.’
‘I do,’ Rob reassured him, putting on his best get-the-customer-out-the-door smile. ‘We’ll be back on track in no time. You’ll see.’
Marter didn’t look convinced, but turned to leave all the same, and just in time too. Tim was back from the café, swinging a plastic bag and whistling tunelessly.
‘Laters then,’ Rob said, cheerfully.
But Marter stopped at the door, fishing his phone out of his pocket. ‘There was just one more thing.’
Rob’s shoulders sagged. Of course there was.
Marter flicked through pictures on his screen. This was a bad sign. Pictures meant that Mrs Marter had spotted something in a magazine that she just had to have, no matter what the cost, or the delay to the project.
Sure enough, Marter walked back to him. ‘Kate wanted me to ask you about the patio doors.’
Oh no. Not that. Harold’s missus had changed her mind about them three times already.
‘They’re going in this morning,’ Rob told him.
‘Then you’d better let me see,’ Marter said, striding through to the room that would eventually be his living room.
‘Wait! You need a hard hat!’ Rob turned to Tim. ‘Chuck us one over, will you?’
Tim grabbed a yellow helmet from a pile near the front entrance and threw it across the hall.
‘Thanks,’ Rob said, catching it. ‘I’d hate for something to fall on his head.’
‘Yeah,’ the lad sniggered. ‘Nightmare.’
There was a flash of light from the living room. Marter must be taking photos.
‘Seriously though,’ Rob said, following the owner into the bare room, ‘if you want the wiring done on Monday …’
He trailed off. The lounge was empty. He peered out of the hole that had been left for the patio doors. Outside was a muddy patch of land that would one day be transformed into a beautiful garden.
Marter wasn’t out there either.
‘Mr Marter?’ Rob said, walking back into the hall, and checking in the similarly empty kitchen. ‘Harold?’
There was no sign of the man.
‘Where’d he go?’ he asked Tim.
The crater-faced lad shrugged and produced a sandwich from his plastic bag. ‘Did you want red or brown sauce?’