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)
“Perfect. Does eight o’clock work for you?”
“Absolutely. See you tonight.”
My hand drops slowly into my lap, and for a moment I just stare at my phone, wondering what just happened.
“Well?” Rick asks, voice eager. “Cobbe. That’s the rich fella from up in Prestbury, right?”
“Yeah.” I nod gently. “He just offered me a job?” It sounds like a question on my lips. “But I don’t really know why, or doing what. What does the guy even do? Do you know?”
“He’s a manager for some actor, I think.”
“An actor?” Now I’m really confused. “Why would an actor need an electrician?”
Rick rolls his shoulders. “Fuck knows. That Cobbe fella makes some serious dough, though. Have you seen all those awards and statues and shit in his house? You get in there, lad, and you could be fucking rolling in it.”
Rick seems genuinely excited at the prospect, excited for me. Still, I can’t bring myself to share in his enthusiasm. I need more details.
“He’s coming to my house tonight.”
That only seems to brighten Rick’s smile further. He claps my shoulder. “Good luck, mate! And if the opportunity arises, don’t forget to drop my name if he’s looking for anyone else.” He says it in jest, tone teasing, but it still stabs me with sorrow.
“Abso-bloody-lutely I will.”
Rick snorts a chuckle but drops his head, as if he’s silently hoping it will come true, that my unexpected phone call will save us both from hardship and misery and, for him, a job with the ‘fucking prick’.
“You gonna eat that gravy?” My lungs empty with relief when he changes the subject and nods towards the half-empty tub on the dashboard.
I was…but if I can’t get him a job, I can at least give him some gravy. So, I shake my head. “Have at it.”
As he reaches over for the tub, I watch his gaze wander into the box on my knee. “What about that chicken?”
Job or no job, that’s too far. “Not a chance, mate. I don’t share chicken.”
Laughing, Rick mutters, “Worth a try,” before downing the gravy like a drink. Fucking animal. “Right, get that last piece in your face. We’d better get back if we’ve any chance of finishing before tea time.”
Nodding in agreement, I shove a whole boneless fillet in my mouth, regretting it instantly when I can’t close to chew, and start the engine. Suddenly, I’m looking forward to getting home tonight. Summer could be coming early. For me anyway.
That summer I was wishing for turns to winter storms when I arrive home and see the beat-up Rover on my driveway. “Shit,” I curse under my breath, wondering what the hell he’s doing here. I don’t need this today. In fairness, I don’t need this any day…but especially today.
He gets out of the car when I get out of mine. “Time d’you call this? Been sat ‘ere an hour.”
“It’s called work, Dad.” You should try it sometime. I make my way to the front door, my dad following. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, that’s just bloody charming, isn’t it? Can’t a fella come and see his son without the third bloody degree?”
Maybe if you showed up more than twice a year…
“Rugby’s on,” he continues. “Thought we could have a few beers. Catch up.”
No matter how hard he’s tried to push it on me over the years, I hate my father’s favourite sport. “Tonight’s not a great night, Dad,” I tell him, closing the front door behind us. I kick off my work boots before walking through to the living room, again with Dad on my heels. “Ben’s having some mates over, and I’ve got a work thing later.” My father cannot meet Ben’s friend Jordan. “Why don’t we set a date for next week?”
“Nonsense! Ben won’t mind his ol’ grandad being around, and I’ll stay out the way while you do your ‘work thing’, whatever the hell that means.”
Ben and Lucy barely know their grandad, and what they do know they don’t like. I want to tell him no. I want to say he can’t stay tonight. I want to tell him to leave. Yet, at thirty-seven years old, I’m still too afraid to stand up to the old bastard.
“I’m going for a shower,” I say instead of all the things I wish I could. “I’m ordering chippy when Ben gets home, so think about what you want.”
My dad’s already made himself at home in the armchair, feet up on the coffee table. “Ooo lovely. Cheers, son.”
Consciously hurrying, I run up the stairs and head straight to the bathroom. I need to be finished before Ben returns with his friends. I’m hoping they’ll want to disappear upstairs, spend the evening in Ben’s room and hardly interact with us, if at all. I’ve met Jordan before. Great kid. A great kid who doesn’t deserve to have to put up with my father’s backwards and bigoted views, which he will definitely express when he sets eyes on their dress sense. I might be willing to endure my dad’s bullshit, but that courtesy doesn’t extend to my kids.