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This is not what I had in mind when I accepted this job. I presumed I would be editing articles, not out on the road writing them.
I’ve worked for the Hearsay magazine for four weeks now. My first week was great. I had the task of editing a small cookery piece (how to make a lemon meringue tart) and I was also put in charge of postal deliveries. Now, I’m driving down the narrowest dirt track you could possibly imagine, with scarcely enough room for Beryl to manoeuvre through. And just to top off this hellish day, the lashing rain is impeding my view, and I can’t see where the hell I’m going.
I guess I did rush into taking this job, when I should have waited to hear back from PG publishing, and Lawson & Son Write House. They did explain it would take several weeks for them to make a decision. But when Mary Harper, the top editor interviewed me for the Hearsay Company, offered me the job right away, of course I said yes, very enthusiastically. She’s really nice, the down-to-earth hippy type, and made my interview a pleasant relaxed experience. Looking back, I should have been suspicious on my first day that my new job may be a little unorthodox. Especially when Mary had us all doing morning yoga at our desks.
My hands fight with the wheel, trying to keep Beryl on the straight and narrow as she bumps violently over rocks and mounds of mud. With my head shunting back and forth, I keep my eyes peeled open for the farm I was supposed to be at over an hour ago.
“Oh shit!” I shouldn’t have attempted to drive over that boulder. I’m not driving a damn tank here.
I shut down the engine and take out my frustration on the steering wheel. I know when I get out to have a look at the damage, it’s going to be bad enough to have me stuck out here in the wilderness for God knows how long. Fuck.
I grab my green raincoat from the backseat. I’m so not dressed for this. I should be wearing a frigging wetsuit and wellies. Not flats, black tights, and a grey wool skirt that will take forever to dry.
I swing open the door. The cold heavy rain lashes my face, and as soon as I put my flats down to stand up, they sink deep into the sludge. Dammit. I pull my foot out of the slop, wanting to scream in anger as I note the damage to Beryl.
“Give me a break!” The left front tyre is completely flat, and the bumper is badly scuffed.
I close my eyes and press my forehead down on the roof of Beryl. I just want to go home, crawl into my bed, and forget this day existed.
“You okay my love?” I nearly jump out of my skin as a heavy built man in a green poncho, waits for me to speak. “Bit of car trouble I see.” I hum, cautious of him. “I tell you what, I live just down the way there. Why don’t you come down, dry off, then we’ll fix that tyre of yours.”
Okay mister sinister, that’s not going to happen. You may not freak me out like Laurie did, but your still on the weirdo list.
“Thanks, but I’m late for an appointment at...” I pull my notepad out of my pocket with the address on. “Mayfield farm.”
His double chin and red veined cheeks jiggle as he laughs. “Well that’s us,” he says. “I spoke to you on the phone this morning. We were wondering where you got to.”
“Oh, Mr Dewhurst.” I shake the rain from my hand and offer it to him.
“Come on,” he says. “I’ve got a very excited wife who’s been preening Bacon and Hooch all morning.” He sets off, waving for me to follow.
Hmm, Bacon and Hooch. Jeez, maybe I should deny all knowledge and call a cab.
You see, my job today is to interview owners and pets who bare an uncanny resemblance to one another. It was a nightmare when I found out it was going to be my first real article. And now, well, it’s an awful reality.
My feet squelch through the thick mud and by an unused rusty tractor, as I follow Mr Dewhurst toward the farmhouse. It’s dilapidated: tiles missing from the roof, windows held together with masking tape, and I don’t see one cow or sheep, so it’s obviously not a working farm anymore.
Mr Dewhurst opens the door. “Come on in love. Mind the cage though, Boris has been a naughty boy today.”
Who the hell is Boris, and why is he in a cage? This is like some screwed up version of Animal Farm and Texas Chainsaw Massacre, combined.
I move reluctantly through the doorway, where I’m greeted by a bloody badger of all things. It’s snarling in a cage, trying to get to me. The smelly creature has me up against the wall, clutching my bag to my chest.
“Oh, never mind Boris. He’s harmless really. He loves his cuddles and kisses, don’t you Boris.” Mr Dewhurst waits before a door at the end of the hall. “Come through, come through.” He holds the door open for me.
Good god, it reeks in here. It smells like the zoo on a hot day.
I shuffle between a sideboard and a filthy green sofa. Well I think it’s green. Either that is the colour it’s intended to be, or it’s covered in mould.
“Take a seat, and I’ll go fetch the gang.” Mr Dewhurst leaves me among the mounds of crap, tat, and rubbish.
These people are clearly hoarders. There are newspapers everywhere. Bottles half full of curdled stinking milk. And a swarm of flies, buzzing around a dirty plate in the corner of the room. This, hands down, is the dirtiest house I’ve ever been in, and I can’t help but wonder if this is some joke. You know, like an initiation test to prove myself to the Hearsay team. I do recall when Mary was giving me the directions to this place, hearing the sound of sniggering at my back.
I sigh out my irritability and perch right on the very edge of the couch, when my phone begins to ring in my bag. I unzip and take it out. There’s voicemail messages from Adrien. I listen, peering up at the water stained ceiling:
‘Elizabeth, I’m just calling to ask why you didn’t return my call last night.’
I didn’t intentionally not call him, it just slipped my mind. You see, we met up yesterday for lunch. It was supposed to be so I could grab a quick sandwich, but turned out to be much better. I had to go to the little girl’s room at Ollies, a posh bistro two streets away from Hearsay headquarters. I’d just flushed the toilet, when he tapped on the cubicle door. He gave me that steely hot look, and I became the puppet on his strings. It wasn’t one bit romantic, but hell, I don’t need romance all the time.
I drop my phone back into my bag, hearing shuffling and heavy panting.
“Hold still Bacon,” Mr Dewhurst barks.
Oh god. There’s a huge black pig and a slavering monstrous dog, bounding over the mess to get to me. Now I don’t care about how much contact I have with the couch. I’m pressed right into the back cushions, hoping they will somehow protect me.
“Hooch, down boy,” Mr Dewhurst yells as Hooch’s tongue quivers near my face.
I try to push Hooch back, but he’s strong, and I don’t want to upset him in case he turns on me.
Mr Dewhurst grabs Hooch’s slobbering cheeks, telling him to be a good boy and sit. I thought he’d remove the monster from the room, but now he’s sitting next to me on the couch, panting in my ear. And Bacon, well, his wet snout is sniffing at my tights, leaving a trail of cold pig snot. Great.
I’m trying so hard not to gag right now. This is definitely good grounds to hand in my resignation. I must be crazy to still be sitting here.
“It’s Liz isn’t it?” Who I’m presuming to be Mrs Dewhurst, holds out her hand to me. “I’m Maggie.”
I smile nervously as Bacon sniffs a little too close to the hem of my skirt.
“Come on Bacon.” Maggie pulls on the pig’s neck, and sits down in the armchair across from me.
I slowly turn to face Hooch. He’s now drooling on my damn jacket for fuck sake.
“Before we start, would you like a cup of tea?” Maggie asks.
Wow, I can’t help but stare as she rubs Bacon’s back. She is a dead ringer for that pig: short black hair, round face, and a snout shaped nose.
“Would you like some tea?” she asks again, waking me from my daydream.
“Hmm, no thank you.” I snap out of it, pulling out a notepad and pen from my bag.
I squiggle down a few possible headers in shorthand, as the Dewhurst’s wait for me to begin. Any ordinary person would not want their face compared to a pig, or a dog. But each to their own I guess.
I look up, displaying my professional smile. “So Mr Dewhurst...”
“Call me Jack.”
“Jack, how long have you had Hooch now?” As soon as I mention his name, I see that flapping long tongue in my side view, nearly touching my cheek.
“Oh, since a pup. It was like destiny when we met. That’s why I think people say we look alike you know.”
Okay, you odd man. I jot those exact words down, but scribble them out straightaway. I know I’m in the foulest of moods, and I can’t let that spill out into my first article.
“And what about Bacon.” I look to Maggie, while dodging Hooch’s incessant need to lick me.
“Bacon here was the runt of the litter. Abandoned at birth on the neighbouring farm,” she replies. “I couldn’t leave him. So I hand reared him. And now he’s my special boy, aren’t you.” She pats Bacon’s backside.
“Oh, so did this used to be a working farm also?”
“Of course, many moons ago. Now that lazy shit would rather stay in bed with his dog all day.” She glares at Jack.
Oh hell, this is turning sourer by the second. Ask something nice Liz; something that will defuse a possible domestic.
“So what about you two?” I smile, trying not to breathe in Hooch’s warm stale doggy breath. “Twenty years of marriage. That’s some going.” I press my pen on the paper and wait.
“Too long,” Jack grumbles.
“You shut your mouth and be nice to our guest, Jack Dewhurst. Or so help me god, I’ll swing for you I will.” Maggie points her finger, moving to the edge of her seat.
Okay, I think it’s time to wrap this up and get the hell out of here, before all hell breaks loose. I need to get home and wash the contamination of this place off me. I need a large alcoholic drink.
I sigh out as a slimy drop of dog drool lands on my hand. “Right, nearly finished,” I cringe, wiping the slobber from the back of my hand onto the couch. “And what breeds are Hooch and Bacon?”
“Well Hooch, he’s a Bullmastiff,” Jack says.
“My Bacon.” Maggie scratches the pig’s back. “He’s a Cornwall Black, aren’t you my sweetheart.”
I quickly stand up from the couch. “Well, that just about does it.” I put my notebook away, not having really wrote much at all. “I will call you in the morning, and set up a time for our photographer to come and take some shots.”
“Oh, I thought you’d be doing it.” Maggie curls over her bottom lip. “I’ve oiled Bacon up real good for the pictures.”
“Sorry, our photographer is out all day.” Bit-by-bit, I make my way to the door. “We’ll contact you with a time slot.” I grab the door handle. “Thank you for your time. And you’ll receive a copy before publication.” I step out into the hall, taking note of Boris waiting for me.
“Miss Liz,” Jack calls. “Do you need some help with that tyre of yours? You’re not going to get very far in this weather with a flat now, are you?”
I freeze between Boris and the lounge door, squeezing my eyelids shut because I have no choice. I wanted to get out of here so bad, the reason I actually found this place, eluded me.
“Yes...please.” I shudder inside.
It only took Jack ten minutes to change the flat on Beryl, and I can tell you, that was long enough. He was bent over, revealing ninety percent of his enormous backside, as he wittered on about how much he hated his wife. I think he was implying he and I would make a good couple. So as I stood in the downpour keeping my distance, I did nothing other than hum in reply to each word he spoke, praying he wouldn’t ask me out on a date.
***
IT’S NOW NEARLY 6P.m., and everyone who works at the Hearsay office has gone home for the weekend. I blow out a pissed-off breath, dropping my notebook into my desk drawer, deciding to call it a day.
“Liz.” Mary pops her head out of her corner office door. “Did you get everything you need on the Dewhurst’s?” She’s looking at me as though I’ve just crawled out of a swamp. “What happened to you?”
“Bacon and Hooch happened,” I say, holding back a snarl.
“Oh, sorry about that.” She fiddles with her mood stone pendant. “I did send Jenny last week. She walked in and out of the place,” she admits, as I try not to get angry. “I could have pulled the article, but the readers are suckers for pet stories.”
I’m so mad about this. But I guess it’s to be expected. I’m going to end up with the scraps that nobody else wants, being the new girl.
“Before you leave,” she says, making her way over to my desk, her eyes telling me she wants something. I’m hoping it’s not another weird assignment. “A little birdy told me you are engaged to Adrien Knight.”
Shit, I think I would rather have some outlandish article to write now.
“Yes,” I murmur, pointlessly picking up random items on my desk to put them in my bag.
“Why didn’t you say?” She beams.
I know where this is going. She wants a piece on him. Adrien never gives interviews, for obvious reasons. Though I guess him being so mysterious is bound to intrigue the press. I feel like my career and personal life are about to crash and explode into each other.
“I don’t see how my personal life, and this job, are connected. He’s a very private man.” I can feel a protective anger heating up my skin.
“I’ve tried countless times to get an interview with him, each time I’ve been completely shunned.”
“Look Mary, I really appreciate you giving me a job here. But...” I stand up, sliding my bag over my forearm. “But I also need privacy. I don’t like the idea of people snooping around in my personal life. I know how this works.”
I sigh, expecting her to tell me to pack up my belongings, but she doesn’t. She smiles, removing her red framed glasses to leave them hanging from the chain around her neck.
“You did well today. Get yourself home, and enjoy the weekend.” She heads back into her office.
I’ve got the feeling this isn’t over. Maybe I can’t stay on this career path. How can I keep my relationship with Adrien a secret in this line of work?
***
I’VE FINALLY MADE IT home. I slam the car door and glance at the damage on Beryl. I can’t even be bothered to explain to Cate what happened. She probably won’t even notice anyhow. A week ago, she drove all the way to Essex with a flat, and I had to send Adrien to rescue her. She drives in a world of her own, her mind full of unimportant issues, such as her hair, men, and other girly thoughts.
I trudge up what feels like the millionth step, open the door, and struggle not to fall flat on my face.
“You’re going to be late,” Cate calls from the sofa as soon as I walk through the door.
I don’t respond; I’m too tired to. I plod into the kitchen and pull half a bottle of wine out from the fridge.
“Is your phone off, because your mum’s been calling,” Cate hollers over the sound of the television.
I gulp down half a glass of chardonnay. Hmm, that’s better. I pour another as Cate comes in, holding the cordless house phone.
“Here. It’s your mum, for the fifteenth time.” She shoves the phone in my face.
I snatch it and place it against my ear, scowling as Cate steals my wine.
“Yeah Mum, what is it now?” I grumble.
“Lizzy, I’ve been calling you all bloody day. You’re supposed to be some big-shot journalist now aren’t you; do you not answer your phone?” I’m going to hang-up any second. “Lizzy, what do I wear tonight? I’ve only got one hour to get ready.”
“Mother,” I drone. “I have no energy to be giving you fashion tips for a night out at the local pub. I’m going to hang-up now. Bye Mum.”
“Lizzy!” she screams.
I never swear at my mum, but I’m going to tell her to fuck-off any second.
“Bye Mum.” I stab my finger on the end call button, and drop the phone on the kitchen worktop.
I yank my coat sleeves down over my damp jumper, when the house phone rings again.
I growl out as I answer, “Mum!”
“Lizzy, have you forgot?”
“Forgot what Mum?”
Her frustrated long sigh travels through the receiver. “We have a table booked for eight at Le Gavroche. Do you think I’m going to wear a bin bag to one of the classiest restaurants in London?”
“Fuck!” I hang-up, sliding the phone across the work surface like it has just scorched my hand.
Adrien book this two weeks ago, so before our party at The Mill, he could meet my Mum and Geoff more formally. It’s a way to water down my mum’s excitement I guess. I swear I’m going to rip my own hair out I’m so cross. I can’t believe I forgot.
I dash through the lounge. Adrien is picking me up in thirty minutes. I have pig snot on me, my hair’s a damp frizzy mess, and I stink of that farm.
There’s a knock on the door, and I know it very well. He’s early. Too goddamn early.
Cate peeks over the sofa, realising I need a miracle makeover. I see that excitement flash across her eyes at the thought of the challenge.
“You get the door; I’ll go get my stuff,” she orders, springing up off the sofa.
I open the door hyperventilating, as a rampant heat takes my body. Wow, he’s stunning, looking so fine in his charcoal suit and pale blue shirt. His fitted trousers make his thighs and backside so smooth on the eye. His eyes grow wide and lips pucker at the sight of me.
“You forgot.” He marches by me, and like a mouse to the pied piper, his beautiful scent makes me follow. “Have you been mud wrestling or something? Not that I have a thing against mud wrestling, but you won’t be allowed within ten feet of Le Gavroche dressed like that.”
This day is just about as bad as it gets, and it’s not going to get much better.
I storm by him, seizing the last drop of wine Cate left in the glass. He steps in front of me, and looks down with that obliging thoughtful gaze of his.
“I have had the most horrendous day. If you give me half an hour, I’ll be ready,” I whisper in exhaustion.
“Well I did tell you, you should come and work for me.” His brow creases as he eyes me up and down. “At least it’s clean work.”
“I don’t mind getting dirty from time to time.” That was supposed to be my argument, but sounded more like a come on.
He bends to my ear, his soft sweet smelling cheek brushing against mine. I hold in a breath, struggling not to be distracted by his lethal scent.
“I’m well aware of that,” he says in a gruff naughty tone. “But we would not be having this problem right now if you took my offer, would we?”
“Adrien, thirty minutes,” I say in a fluster.
“Fine. Go wash that stink off you.”
I rush into my half boxed up bedroom, and pull my little black dress out of the wardrobe.