Should she call him back? She was just debating that point as her phone rang again. It was Zack. She hit ‘answer’.
“Zack? Hello.”
“Hello yourself, Gennie.”
Gennie!
“I-I…” She was stuttering, at a loss what to say now. Which Zack was this? Was he Zack—her Zack who’d fucked her and spanked her and made her sob with delight? Or was he Zack—the Director of the Rural Development Network, wanting to explain why he was sorry, but they’d offered the job to someone else?
Neither, apparently.
“The job’s yours. Well done.”
“What? Me? You’re offering
me
that job?”
“Yes, we are. You were very impressive. Easily the best candidate.”
“Really? You’re not just…?”
“Imogen. Gennie—before you say any more, there were three of us on the panel, and the interview was conducted absolutely by the book. Claire made sure of that. You were far and away the best candidate, all three of us thought so. The decision was unanimous. You won, fair and square. The job’s yours, if you want it.” He paused, his voice softening now. “
Do
you want it, Gennie? Will you be accepting the post?”
Imogen took a moment to consider his words, to let them sink in. She’d got a job. She’d won it in fair competition. She was the best candidate. Her.
Wow!
Then, “Yes, yes thank you. I’d like to accept the post.”
“Excellent. I’m looking forward to working with you. Which brings me to my next question. I just came up for the day today, but I’ll be moving up here full time from next week. So I’ll need a place to stay. Can you recommend anywhere?”
“I—what are you looking for, exactly?”
“The usual. Bed, breakfast, evening meal. And with a blow job thrown in on Sunday mornings. Could you manage that?”
A month without so much as a phone call, then he turns up out of the blue on an interview panel, and now he wants blow jobs!
Imogen bristled. She was delighted to be offered the post, and even more delighted that he was back. And that he still seemed to want her. But still, a whole month without so much as a text…
“Why didn’t you get in touch, let me know what was happening? I’ve missed you. I thought…”
“I’ve missed you too, Gennie. And, I know it’s not much of an excuse, but I have been absolutely snowed under, getting ready to move up to Yorkshire. And—I wanted to surprise you.”
“You managed that. I was stunned to see you on the interview panel. It was all I could do to remember my own name let alone answer the questions. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You answered the questions brilliantly. I was playing it by the book, Gennie, like I said. I had no prior contact with any of the applicants.”
“Prior contact! What we did was more than prior contact, I’d have said. A lot more!” She was distinctly irritated now, the combined effects of surprise and of lingering disappointment that he hadn’t got in touch with her earlier.
She heard his sigh, of regret perhaps. “Yes, I do get that. It was. It was fucking wonderful. I knew three weeks ago that you were on the shortlist for the job, and as soon as I realised you were one of the interviewees I played it straight. I knew you’d be a brilliant candidate, but I didn’t want anything to go wrong for you. The rules around recruitment and selection are pretty rigid. I did tell the rest of the panel that we’d met previously, but it would have been—awkward—to talk to you before the interviews. About anything, really. Now, the decision is made, and I can. So I am.” He hesitated, then, “Gennie, I’m sorry. I should have kept in touch. Please, forgive me. And let me stay with you. Please.”
Imogen giggled, hugging herself in delight as the impact of his words sank in. He was back. He still wanted her. He wanted her again. Did she still want him? Despite everything? Christ, yes!
“Blow jobs on a Sunday, you said? I daresay I could provide that. And maybe on alternate Wednesdays too.”
He chuckled down the phone, the sound low and sexy. “Sounds fair enough. Are your terms the same as before?”
“They might be more negotiable now. Would you be wanting your usual room?” She did her best to manage a business-like tone, as might befit a professional hotelier and soon-to-be personal assistant to the Director of the North Yorkshire Rural Business Support Network.
“I prefer the four poster, if that’s available? And I’ll supply the nipple clamps.”
Imogen tried, but probably failed, to keep her voice even as laughter and delight bubbled within her. A fabulous new job, and her lovely Dom. Life was good. Very, very good. “Yes, Sir, I think I could make that room available to you. On those terms. When will you be coming?”
“Not sure. But within the hour I hope. Depends how long it takes you to open the bloody door and let me in.”
“What? You’re here?”
“Parked outside on your drive.
Imogen was proud of her composure as she answered him. “The door’s not locked, Sir. And I’ll be upstairs, getting your room ready.”
“See you in a moment, Gennie. And Gennie, I’m hoping that when I come up, I’ll find you face down on that sweet four poster of yours. Ours. With your arse bare and spanking paddle to hand.”
“I’d be delighted, Sir.”
Coming Soon from Totally Bound Publishing:
What’s Her Secret?
The Three Rs
Ashe Barker
Released 14
th
February 2014
Excerpt
Chapter One
It looks official.
White envelope. It’s made of heavy paper, expensive looking. My name and address on the front, and some other words in large, bold letters. I recognise some of the letters. A word starting with ‘P’ and with a ‘v’ in it. Probably ‘Private’. Not so sure about the other word, that’s just a jumble. As if someone simply grabbed a handful of the alphabet and dropped it onto the paper.
But the letter is definitely for me. I do recognise my name, my address. Maybe I should open it, try to decipher whatever’s inside.
I put the envelope, still unopened, back on my table. It leans against the cereal packet as I take a sip of my coffee and contemplate it grumpily. It’s been two days since the imposing looking white envelope plopped onto my doormat, and I’m no closer now to knowing what the contents might mean than I was when it first arrived. It could just be junk mail. Some organisations deliberately make their rubbish letters look real and important just to trap unwary or gullible people. I like to think I’m neither of those things, but the fact remains I have a letter propped against my cornflakes box which may or may not be important—it certainly looks the part—and it’s spent the last two days occupying pride of place on my fireplace taking the piss out of me. It’s likely to continue taking the piss for another week, until my friend Wendy who lives upstairs comes back from visiting her sister in the Cotswolds. Wendy does my reading for me when it can’t be avoided. Because I can’t.
Can’t read, don’t read. Never really learnt. And now it’s too late. Probably.
Childhood leukaemia effectively wiped out the first two years of my schooling. I was nearly eight before a bone marrow transplant finally did the trick and I was eventually pronounced cancer free, but by then the other children in my year were miles ahead of me. They all seemed to be able to read, and I still couldn’t. My school did try. They sent work home for me, and a teacher came to see me quite regularly. I was often too ill to listen to her though, and I didn’t feel like concentrating. In that cunning, manipulative way that children have sometimes, I soon realised that all I had to do was lie back and close my eyes, look a bit helpless, feeble, pained, and they’d back off immediately.
“Oh, she’s tired. Let her rest.” My mother was sick with worry about me, and fiercely protective. I milked that relentlessly, idle little slug that I was. Being ill was crap most of the time, but it had its up-side. No one hassled me, and if I didn’t want to bother with school stuff, no one would make me. My health was the only thing that mattered—I just had to concentrate on getting better.
And when I was better, school tried again. I had a special reading recovery tutor, they put me on accelerated reading programmes, spent a fortune no doubt on my remedial education, but none of it made much impression. I learnt the alphabet, learnt to recognise my own name then to write it. I can string together short words, simple words, and I’m sort of okay at guessing how to fill in the gaps. I’ve had a lot of practice at that over the years. But it’s an unreliable system, I make a lot of mistakes and I completely miss the meaning of most things. I never read newspapers, not even the red tops which I understand are written for people with a reading age of about seven. They’re too hard for me. I struggle to understand cooking instructions on food packets, but these days most are done with symbols so that’s easier. I can recognise a picture of a microwave, and single numbers are okay. Even double numbers at a pinch, but beyond that I get hopelessly lost. So I’m pretty much unable to read or write anything. Functionally illiterate, is the label they give to people like me, or so I understand.
I’m perhaps slightly better with numbers. I can add up in my head. Adding, subtracting, multiplication—I’m very good at all that mental arithmetic. It’s just that I struggle to untangle the lines of numbers when they’re written down.
My mother was just so relieved that I was alive, she was prepared to overlook my slow learning. Did I say slow? Of course, I mean I went at the speed of a dead snail. My mother insisted I’d catch up, but she thought I was delicate, and they needed to make allowances. It’s true that I had to continue to go back to the hospital on a regular basis for years after I was pronounced clear, for blood tests to make sure there was no recurrence. There never was, and in truth I felt fine.
School wasn’t all bad. I loved sports despite my mother’s anxiety that I might get over-tired, and I played in the netball team. I was the goal-shooter and pretty good. Nothing wrong with my hand-eye co-ordination. I could draw too, really well, actually. I quite enjoyed the practical aspects of art lessons. I did some nice work, but my art folder was a mess. I recall a lot of red pen in it—the teacher’s attempts to set me on the right path, obviously wasted on me.
Overall, my education was limited almost to the point of non-existence. And my initial disadvantages of poor health and laziness turned into embarrassment. The years went by and I made no progress—at least none that I could see—and others in my class moved on to read more and more adventurous books. I saw the Narnia films on the television or at the cinema, I loved Harry Potter and later Twilight, but while everyone else could read the books I could only enjoy the films. While others could use the Internet to find out the information they needed to do their homework, my homework just didn’t get done. I was moved into ‘special’ learning groups, and my school continued to make an effort. But it was half-hearted—I was a hopeless case. I certainly thought so, and I suppose that just clinched it. The best school in the land can’t do much with a student who doesn’t believe they can learn. By the time I was fourteen or so, they’d given up and so had I. I marked time with netball and art when I could dodge the zeal of the art teacher. She never quite relinquished the task. I left school at sixteen, with no qualifications and all the job prospects of a lettuce.
So now here I am—a twenty-two-year-old cleaner. Ironically, the place I now work, the only place I could manage to get a job at all, is my old primary school. I heard they were looking for temporary cleaners and it seemed better than staying on the dole, so I called in. Luckily the caretaker, Mr Cartwright, remembered me from when I was a gangly ten-year-old with a mop of ginger hair, and was prepared to give me a chance. I daresay all the staff and pupils at my primary school still remember me—I was ‘the poorly kid’, the one they had to be careful around, the one they had to avoid infecting with any nasty germs. Especially chickenpox.
Mr Cartwright’s leap of faith was four years ago, and I’ve worked hard ever since. I mopped and scrubbed and polished like a maniac, and when my temporary contract was up Mr Cartwright—Dave—was sufficiently impressed to keep me on permanently. So I have regular work, if low paid. And it’s enough—just about—to keep me in a small flat as long as I don’t eat too much or insist on having the place too warm in the winter.
It’s just me these days. For all her frantic worrying about me, my mother herself succumbed to cancer when I was nineteen. It was a shock, she was just fifty years old. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe what had happened. And so quickly. It seemed that one day she was fine, just had a bit of a cough. A persistent cough. She went to see her GP and was referred to a consultant. Within days she had a diagnosis of throat cancer, and it advanced so quickly, neither one of us had any chance to adjust. To come to terms. Not that we could have achieved that, no matter how long her illness had dragged on for. Looking back, perhaps, things were mercifully swift, though it didn’t feel like that at the time. It just felt horrendous. A mad, headlong dash towards the inevitable end. My mother was admitted to the intensive care oncology ward, and she died within six weeks of being diagnosed.
I got over it. Eventually. Or so I like to tell myself. In reality I had no choice. The Council wanted their three bedroomed family house back—can’t really blame them—but they offered me a one bedroom flat on the seventh floor in a tower block. It’s not bad, I have brilliant views over the rooftops of north Bradford and on a clear day I can just make out York Minster. Well, I think it’s York Minster—Wendy says it is.
So life is relatively untroubled, to the point of boring probably. But I’m safe, secure. I get by.
Then that bloody letter arrives to rock my calm little boat.