Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“Uh…” Shit. Is it my place to tell customers we’re going under? Fuck it. If the Big Man himself didn’t even have the decency to let me know personally, how am I supposed to know what the rules are? “I’m, uh, I’m afraid I’ve got bad news on that front. Business is closing at the end of the week. You’ll have to find someone else.” I feel sick as I say it.
Andrew sighs through his nose, gaze sweeping the floor. He doesn’t look overly surprised. A little disappointed, perhaps. “Bloody country’s going down the shitter.”
I don’t disagree, yet I can’t help but feel a stab of bitterness. Families are struggling left, right, and centre. Prices are rising while incomes are falling all over the country, but I doubt the likes of Andrew Cobbe will be affected in the least.
“So, what are you going to do?” he asks.
Caught off guard, I can’t stop my jaw dropping a little. Mr Cobbe isn’t my friend and the personal, bordering on intrusive, nature of his question dries out my tongue. “I, erm…” Fuck, I have no idea. I haven’t thought beyond getting through today and telling my wife.
“You going to go it alone? Work for someone else?”
Bloody hell! “I…really haven’t thought that far ahead yet. Only got the news this morning,” I say while picking up my drill, hoping that will put an end to it. Just in case, I raise the drill and add, “I really should crack on.”
“Of course, of course,” Andrew says, nodding. “Before you leave this afternoon, I’m going to give you my personal number. Keep in touch. You have a client for life here wherever you end up.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, smiling through the awkwardness. In that moment I decide I will call Becca soon. It seems wrong having this conversation, receiving this support, when my own wife doesn’t even know yet. “Thank you.”
With a single nod, Andrew turns and leaves. I set the drill down, pull out my phone instead. My heart sinks when I see Becca’s face on the screen after pressing her number. She earns good money, but not enough to keep us both. The kids, mortgage, bills, food, fuel, clothes…
“You’ve reached Rebecca Walker. I can’t take your call—”
I don’t leave a message. It’s not message kind of news. She’ll ring me back when she sees the missed call. There’s nothing I can do for now but work. So, after rolling my head to stretch my neck, I crank up the radio, wish I had the range of George Michael as I sing along, and start drilling.
The day dragged. I usually love my work, enjoy the company, feel a sense of achievement by the end of it. By the time Rick and I wrapped up just after four PM though, all I felt was tired. It’s now nine o’clock. I’ve skipped tired and gone straight to feeling sorry for myself. Becca still hasn’t returned my call, which isn’t helping. Since being a kid, she’s been the only person who can make me feel better. She always knows just what to say. A thousand people could tell me everything will be all right, but when Becca says it, I believe her. My faith in her is as natural as instinct, as breathing. My wife is the only person in the world who I know will never let me down.
The sound of keys in the front door prompts me to sit up straight on the couch, neck craning to see who enters the living room. My shoulders sag when I see Ben, which I feel instantly guilty about.
“I can leave if you want?” Ben says, noticing my disappointment. He might as well hand me the Shittiest Father of the Year Award right here and now.
“Sorry.” I shake my head. “Thought you was your mum.”
He looks concerned, which makes me realise I need to get my act together, enter Dad mode. Becca and I have never burdened the kids with our troubles.
“You’re home early,” I say, forcing light-heartedness into my voice.
He looks to the floor. “Yeah.”
Uh-oh. “That wasn’t a happy ‘yes’.”
“No.”
I pat the couch next to me. “Come on, tell your old dad all about it.”
Ben cringes, thumbs in the direction of the stairs. “Nah, I’m gonna head to my room.”
“Benjamin Walker, sit your arse on this couch and talk to your father.” My tone is light, probably embarrassing.
He rolls his eyes, huffs a little, but does as he’s told. Although, he leaves some distance between us. “Mercedes dumped me. Turns out she’s been seeing Callum. He’s my best fucking mate, man.”
I give a slight stare but decide now isn’t the best moment to pull him up on his language. The poor lad’s heartbroken after all. Instead, I scoot closer, put my arm around his shoulders, not caring whether he’ll deem it cringe. I do it because of Simon Rogers, a boy in my class, back in the late eighties. A boy whose name I only remember because his dad used to hug him every afternoon when he picked him up from school. A boy who, for years, I thought must be better than me for his dad to want to hug him.