Construct a Couple (8 page)

We managed to put all that behind us – somehow. In fact, it’s so far behind us we don’t even talk about it. Why would we? The past is supposed to be forgotten, right? What’s that saying . . . those who live in the past are destined to make the same mistakes – or something along those lines. The only way to really move forward is to focus on the present.

And right now, my present means talking to the one remaining Top Class client.

I glance at the clock: just past nine, and the start of business hours. Grabbing the PR’s list, I punch in the final number.

“Bob Properties, Bob speaking.” A brusque voice comes through the receiver.

What an original company name, I giggle to myself. “Hi, this is Serenity Holland from
Seven Days
. We’re doing an article on Top Class Construction. I understand they did some work for you?”

“Oh, yeah, last year. I wanted to build a new block of flats down Liverpool way. They gave me the cheapest quote and the shortest timeline, so I went with them.”

“Did they deliver?”

“They did. Good standard of work, within budget, and right on time. I tell you, you can’t buy that kind of efficiency. I’d hire them again.”

I scribble down his words, almost exactly the same as all the other clients I’d spoken to yesterday. “So no complaints?”

“No,” Bob says belligerently. “Look, I know there were rumours of funny business last year with the care home down London way, but Top Class assured me it was all talk and if I had any problems, they’d be onto it straight away. Bob Properties would never deal with them otherwise.”

Funny business? Care home? My ears perk up. Is there something not positive about Top Class? Maybe they
are
too good to be true.

“I’m sure,” I say, mind spinning as I ponder how to get him to elaborate. “I had to ask, you understand, with all the gossip floating around. . .” I let my voice trail, praying he’ll pick up where I left off.

The smell of stale sweat and sour coffee hits my nostrils, and I grimace as Gregor edges closer.

“Tell you what, you can’t believe everything you hear in this industry,” Bob says, a defensive note creeping into his voice like I’ve accused
him
of ‘funny business’. “People like to make problems for their competitors, innit. Even if it was true, I reckon it’s not such a big deal. Them residents are all old codgers anyway. Be dead within a couple years. No point fixing things up to a better standard, is there?”

Wow. Has Top Class done a shoddy job at some retirement home? Must have been one of those projects with more societal relevance Julia was banging on about yesterday. Her phrase ‘construction with heart’ floats into my head, and a little pang of glee hits me. If only I could find the care home . . .

“But don’t quote me on that,” Bob adds hastily. “Anyway, Top Class has been a real gem to work with.”

 “It would help if you could tell me the name of this care home,” I say, trying to ignore Gregor, who’s now almost on my lap. “I’d like to make sure to refute the story accurately.” The explanation sounds weak even to my ears, and I cross my fingers Bob falls for it.

He’s silent for a minute. “Something to do with flowers or trees . . . I dunno. Best ask Top Class,” he says hesitantly, as if realising he might have revealed too much.

“Of course.” I swear under my breath.

“When will I be in the paper? The missus is going to want a copy. You’re calling from where again?”

Yikes, I’d better cut the conversation short before Julia gets wind of this and sics her lawyers on me. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. Bye!”

I slam down the phone, my heart galloping ten miles a minute. Well, how about that! Top Class, the darling of the construction world, has apparently done a below-par job at a care home for old folks – if Bob can be believed. Perhaps Julia isn’t so perfect, after all.

This isn’t about Julia, of course. This is about holding a company accountable for their actions, and about me showing Helen and Jonas I’m cut out for more than fact-checking. Forget extra quotes! I might have a whole new story.

“Who was that?” Gregor is so close to me now I can feel him quivering. In one sharp movement, I spin my swivel chair so the back of it ploughs into him.

“Ouf!” He grunts and I hear the unmistakeable sound of liquid splattering.

“Oh, sorry!” I say, trying to keep a straight face as coffee seeps into his keyboard. “I had no idea you were right beside me.”

Gregor narrows his eyes to snake-like slits, then shakes his head and marches off down the corridor.

Finally, room to think. I breathe in, trying to contain the hope building inside. Have I uncovered a new angle? It
could
be rumours, like this Bob dude said. I’ll take my time, investigate properly, and then present Jonas with facts. The last thing I want is to go off half-cocked and get it wrong. Hey, if it is true, they’ll have to give me a by-line now, right? Dad will be so proud, and I won’t need to hide the corporate rah-rah story from him. This is the kind of feature my parents love.

Don’t get carried away, I remind myself sternly. First things first, I need to find this care home, speak to the owners, and get a great quote. Once I have that,
then
I can talk to Jonas.

“Morning!” Lizzie swings into her chair, cheeks flushed. “What happened? I passed Gregor in the corridor and he looked like he was about to have a fit.”

I gesture to the brown liquid now trailing across the scarred tabletop. “Coffee spillage.”

“Oh, Christ. That’s going to put him in a good mood for the rest of the day.”  Jabbing at a chopstick in her hair, Lizzie makes a face. “Bloody thing won’t stay still. Right. Best get started before Jonas comes by.”

I nod, staring at the notepad as my mind flips through how on earth I’m going to find this care home. Flowers or trees, my scribble reads, and somewhere around London. Well, that narrows it down.  After typing ‘London care homes’ into Google, my heart drops as result after result filters onto the screen. I click onto a directory of homes, divided by borough. There must be hundreds of them!

Okay. I’ll flag up anything to do with plants, then work my way through the list. It’s after nine now, and I’ve got until five to turn in copy. But can I find the right care home and get a quote, too?

Two hours later, I’ve reviewed the list, jotting down names and numbers of anything remotely botanical. The Pines, Daisy Care Home, Petunia Palace . . . God, when I get old, I’m going to start my own care home and christen it ‘Den of Iniquity’ or something. Who wants to live their last years in a flowery-sounding pseudo-home?

“Lizzie, where can I make a private phone call?” I’m not going to ring these places with Gregor ear-wigging beside me.

Lizzie glances up from the screen. “There’s a meeting room just off the kitchen you can use, if it’s not already busy.”

“Great, thanks.” I grab my notebook, just about to head there when Gregor returns with the bathroom’s entire supply of toilet paper.

“Where are you going?” he asks, jabbing a spindly finger to push up his glasses.

“The loo.” To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m keen to keep him in the dark. We’re on the same team, right? But something about the way he pokes his nose into every bit of business sets my teeth on edge. Anyway, I’m better off staying mum until I know for sure what I’m dealing with.

 The small meeting room is dark, cold, and – thankfully – empty. Reaching to the phone in the centre of the table, I punch in the first number on my list, hoping this won’t take long.

An hour later, though, I’m only half-way through and I still haven’t reached the right care home. Since I’ve exceeded the two point five minutes allowed for the loo, Gregor pops in and out several times. I’ve resorted to pretending I’m suffering a medical crisis of the female variety so he leaves as quickly as possible. Last time he poked his snout in, I’d just picked up the receiver to dial. One mention of ‘vulva’, and Gregor’s cheeks went scarlet before slamming the door behind him. Some men need to get a grip – figuratively, of course.

Sighing, I dial the next number on the list.

“Rose House,” a nasal voice answers. “We put the bloom back into life.”

Oh, God. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Hi, could I speak to the manager?” I repeat the same question I’ve asked countless times already.

“One moment, please.”

I tap my fingers on the table as she transfers the call, praying this will be it. God knows where I can go from ‘vulva’.  

“Hello, Ryan Johnson here.”

“Oh, hello, I’m calling from
Seven Days
magazine. We’re doing an article on Top Class Construction. Have they completed any work for you recently?”

Ryan snorts. “I’m not sure I’d call it ‘work’. Whatever it was, it was absolute rubbish.”

Score! I almost do my Rocky punch in the air before remembering I’m a serious journalist now. Serious journalists don’t do victory punches. And it’s not like I want old people to be at risk, of course. It’s just such a great story.

“Can you elaborate a bit?” I ask.

“Can I ever!” Ryan responds fiercely. “I’m sure that company thinks they can get away with it because we’re a little old care home out in Surrey. Top Class was fairly new at the time, looking for a way to expand their business. They promised personal attention.” His voice is bitter. “Anyway, they gave us a great estimate for our building refurbishment, so we went with them.”

“And?” I scribble his comments in my notebook, making sure to get them word for word.

“Well, things started off fine. But one day all the workmen left when they were only about half-way through the job. Windows not put in, wires hanging out everywhere – I tell you, it was a mess.”

“Where were the residents at this time?”

“We’d moved them into another part of the home not being worked on,” Ryan says. “They were comfortable enough, but it wasn’t meant to be long-term. Unfortunately, it was longer than we’d planned.”

“How long?”

“I called Top Class every day, trying to find out when they’d return to finish the job. Turned out they’d been awarded a major contract, working on a new development somewhere near Brighton. A development that obviously had a lot more profitability than our care home,” he spits out. “Anyway, after a month of me pestering them to come back, they finally did. Threw in the windows, did a shoddy job with the plumbing and electrics, and disappeared again.”

“You weren’t happy with their work?”

Ryan laughs. “Happy? Would you be happy if you had to move residents from an area that’s supposed to be newly refurbished because of damp issues? These are elderly people – we even had one woman suffering from pneumonia before we knew what was happening.”

Shit.

“And it wasn’t just the damp. We’ve had chipped tiles in bathrooms, carpets not fitted properly, flammable materials . . . the list goes on.”

“You complained to Top Class about all this?”

“You could say that.” Ryan’s tone is grim. “Every day, over and over again. Emails. Faxes. Phone calls. The thing is, it’s affecting our business. When people come to see the facilities, they’re never going to let their loved ones stay in a place like this. And to think, we were trying to improve.”

“Can’t you pursue legal action?” I’d love Julia to be dragged into court.

“I could, but I made the mistake of paying up front.” Ryan sighs. “It was stupid, I know. They seemed so trustworthy. There’s something in our contract about arbitration, but I can’t reach anyone at Top Class beyond the receptionist, let alone get them to meet us. And I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer – or to pay other builders to fix anything. I’ve been living day to day, hoping a solution will come from somewhere.”

“That’s terrible.” As excited as I am at this new angle on Top Class (and a not-so-complimentary one, to say the least!), I feel for the poor man and all those residents living in unsafe conditions. I straighten my spine as determination sweeps over me.
This
is why I wanted to be a journalist! Setting the world to rights, one story at a time. Shaking my head, I think how ironic it is that my first big break also means Julia will finally get what she deserves. The universe definitely has a sense of humour!

We talk for a few more minutes as I scrawl notes. When I have all the information I need, I tell Ryan we’ll be in touch again today or tomorrow, and hang up. Pushing back from the table, my heart flips in my chest like a fish out of water.

I’ve done it. Forget adding a couple quotes here and there – I’ve found a story! I can see the headline now:
Corrupt Construction Company Cheats Britain’s Elderly
. If we get photos of those old people living in dilapidated conditions, this article will tug the nation’s heartstrings, for sure. It’s not an exposé on a famous footballer, but it’s still pretty great.

I glance through my notebook, reviewing the quotes from Julia, the other clients, and all the incriminating details at Rose House. Yes, I’ve got enough here now to talk to Jonas. Wiping sweaty palms on my trousers, I stride to his office, taking deep breaths to calm my excitement. Will he ask me to visit the site? Maybe interview some of the residents, too? I’m really good with old people! Well, as long as they have all their own teeth – the clicking of dentures freaks me out.

I rap on the half-open door, so hard my knuckles smart.

“Yes?” Jonas barks, jowls jiggling as he lifts his head. God, he looks like that nodding Churchill dog in the TV ads.

“Can I talk to you about the Top Class Construction feature?” I make my voice smooth and confident.

He beckons me in. “You’ve got one minute. Remember, you need to have that piece to Gregor by five at the latest.”

“Well.” I clear my throat, flipping open the notebook. “The angle of the original story was Top Class bucking the market trend, growing at a phenomenal rate. But through additional research, I’ve uncovered an angle with much more impact.” I watch Jonas’s face for a response, but he isn’t wearing the intrigued expression I’d anticipated. Instead, he just looks . . . bored.

He makes an impatient noise. “Come on. Spit it out.”