From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) (19 page)

“What about my father?”

That I’ve inadvertently brushed upon a subject I hadn’t intended to broach makes me want to smack myself around the back of my head.   What a moronic thing to do! 

Feeling discomforted, I murmur, “Well, the same could be said about me and you.   I didn’t touch Clordina and I doubt Cass has had any more dealings with our chauffeur.   Like you know already, the morning after our arrival we received a nasty package in the post and ever since then, she’s been acting so strangely, it’s unnerving.   It’s been a bloody nightmare.   I’ve had to handle all the work myself; with no help from her.  It’s like I said, I haven’t had time to do all my work never mind sleep around. ”

“You can say the words, Joe.  I’m pissed off at daddy for involving you in this, but he swears he has no idea why anyone would send you a mutilated hand in the post. ”

“To be honest, he’s involved us in a bloody nightmare, that’s what.  We’ve got drugs being shipped out of the factory to only God knows where.” I drop my voice to a just-audible pitch.   “Undercover police have infiltrated the factory looking for clues and evidence.  Christ knows what they think they’ll find, but so far, no luck. It’s been a complete cock up and that’s why I’ve been off on the phone.   I never imagined Cass and I would have to deal with this kind of shit.   The factory itself is a decent proposition and its work module is perfect; we’ve updated the machinery.   It’s just a shame that this local gang is using the delivery system as transportation for their drugs.”

“Can’t you stop them?

“How?  They’ve got the big guys in; not just the local police but a task force agency that deals with these kinds of criminal organizations and they haven’t managed to do diddly squat except fuck up my schedule and overtake my factory floor!”

“Does dad know any of this?”

“I keep sending him reports, but there’s nothing he can do, nothing I can do.   It’s just a shame that the factory is a viable investment. ” Deciding to broach the subject before she does, I ask, “How did it go with your father? Have you had a lot to talk about?”

“A lot of things.   We cleared the air.” She smiles at me, but it’s wry and in no way angry.   “It was mean of you to keep me hanging that way.”

I shrug.  “I didn’t think it was my place to tell you, but if you’d wanted to wait, you could have done and I would have explained your father’s past to you.   Did he tell you everything?”

“Most of it, but he did say that to properly understand, I should talk to Cass.   Clear the air with her, for misjudging her all these years.”

I narrow my eyes at her.   “And is that why you’re here?   On an angel of mercy mission?”

“Yeah, but not for the reason you think.  I could have waited until you all returned home to talk to Cass.  I couldn’t have waited much longer to jump your bones.”

Grinning, I lean forward and run a finger along the sharp jut of her cheekbone.  In the shade of a parasol, the sun dappling through the heavy-duty fabric, both illuminating and shading her, she’s never looked more enticing to me.   Maybe that’s because I know most of her body’s secrets now.   Not all of them, because they’ll take a lifetime to learn.   But I know a damned sight more than I once did.  

My once irrational attraction has developed into something I’d never imagined possible.  I’m not a person who
loves
.  My feelings for Brook were adolescent passion mixed with lust.  This feels like a weight in my chest.  So heavy that it’s almost painful.  I don’t even know how they developed.  How my stupid crush turned into this
need
.  I guess I’ll never know. 

“Right answer; I was in desperate need of your bones too.”

It’s her turn to smile; the left side of her mouth quirking up cheekily.   “Whilst I’m here, I might as well talk to her though.   I doubt we’ll ever be friends, but there needn’t be this animosity between us either.”

“Well, this might not be the best time to talk to her in all honesty, Jules.   She’s been weird ever since she received that hand.   I’m not kidding; it’s like a complete regression.   Black moods, rebellious glares… it’s like working with a teenager!”

She shrugs.  “There’s no better time.  I’d like to get it over and done with if I’m honest.   Eating humble pie isn’t my favourite way to spend the day and I figure if you’re doing all her work and she’s back at the villa, and then now might be a perfect time.” She reaches forwards and presses a kiss to my lips.   Her perfume fills my nose and the gentle brush of her mouth against mine has me tensing my jaw to stop myself from leaning in and taking more than she wants to give.  

“Well, I’ll warn you.   She’ll bite and God knows what you’ll catch.”

She shrugs again.   “Whatever.  I’ll catch a taxi and you get to the office.  The sooner you get this situation sorted out, the sooner you’ll be back home.  You’re behind schedule, aren’t you?”

I nod.   “About a month or so.”

Standing, she squeezes my hand and whispers, “Now you’ve got an incentive.”

That being said, she sashays away with as much seductive skill as Clordina.   Only with this woman, my cock is harder than a brick and I’m salivating like one of Pavlov’s dogs!

With my eyes glued to her arse, I slip a hand into my jacket pocket, simultaneously retrieving my wallet and mobile.   Pressing the speed dial, I lift the phone to my ear as I sort out the bill for the brunch I’ve just eaten with Jules.  

“What?”

Cass’ snap has my fists clenching with strain as I seek patience.  

I’m getting pretty damned tired of being treated like a woebegone father to her recalcitrant brat.   Her mood swings are atrocious.  From bouts of sulking where she rarely leaves her rooms at the villa, to times of furious concentration, where she rushes through the factory like a whirling dervish.  Accomplishing nothing but pissing off the staff and leaving me with angry managers.  Ultimately causing me more work! 

“Juliet’s on her way to talk to you.”

“Tell her not to bother!”

Chuckling, I retort, “Yeah, let me know how that works, when you’re talking to her.   You know what she’s like with the bit between her teeth.”

“Yeah.   Her father.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ve had it up to here with this damned family.   I’m sick of him calling and now, to make it worse, he’s sent his bloody daughter to spy on me.   Well, she can just sod off!”

The latter was more of a murmur to herself.   “Oi,” I chide.   “Watch it.  I don’t want you upsetting her, not when she’s coming to you to break the ice!”

“She’s an adult.   She can handle herself and
you
by the sounds of it.   As well as the sounds from last night.”

I refuse to blush.   I’m nearly thirty-three, not a spotty teenager who flushes and suffers with a spontaneous hard on at the mere mention of S.  E.  X. 

“Yeah, well, make of that what you will, but if you upset her, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“I’m so scared.”

“You should be,” I warn.  “I’m carrying you at the minute, Cass.   You might be done with the family, but I’m assuming you still need the pay packet to afford the rent in Canary Wharf and that rather nice Merc you drive.”

With that, I cut the call and throw down a few notes, before stalking out of the square and towards my car. 

***

It’s a bloody inconvenience having to leave the office this early on in the afternoon.   The machinery is close to being fully operational in one sector and I’d intended to work on a staff schedule to bang out the very first order of lace I’ve received from another of Bernard’s companies.  

Instead, I’m acting the messenger boy. 

Fun.  

Even though Juliet did the calling, I’m still pissed off.   I’ve a tonne still to do and having to travel home in the middle of the afternoon isn’t pushing me nearer to completing today’s work goals.  

By the time I reach the villa, the car’s air con has only just kicked in and taken off the dull slice of heat that severs through my veins every time I step out during the peak hours of the afternoon.  

Sweat is beading along my forehead and at the bridge of my n
ose, making my sunglasses slide about.  

Locking the car, I run to the cool shade of the veranda and let myself into the villa
.  With the cool air con chilling me nicely, I head towards the stairs and am one second away from climbing the arterial staircase, when I hear a noise. 

In another mood, I might have let the argument continue unnoticed, but I’m pissed off myself and narky.   In other words, I’m in the mood for confrontation.  The flood of Italian is aggravating, as I hate not being able to understand, especially considering the last argument between Marco and Brigida!  

The sounds come from the kitchen, the strange sing-song melody that is the Italian language is sharp and staccato with the fury of people engaged in the fight.   And it’s only as I move into the dining room and step towards the adjoining kitchen door, that I realize the man involved isn’t actually Marco. 

Marco sounds like he’s smoked eighty cigarettes a day since birth.   There’s a coarseness to his words that even I, a non-speaker of Italian can recognize.   But this is different.   Younger.   I frown, trying to place the voice and eventually piece together the few Italians in my actual ken. 

While I’m the manager of the plant, I come into little contact with the workers.  I deal with them through Monica who passes on the orders, either that, or if Cass has decided to work, she handles that side of things. 

For me, I’ve met few and as far as I can recall, the voice is one of the very first ones I heard upon touching Italian soil. 

Angelo. 

I could be wrong; but I doubt it.   While I’m not aware of a connection between him and Brigida save his employment at the villa and surely that wouldn’t the catalyst for such a row, I truly
think it’s him.   And on some unknown instinct, I dig around in my pocket and pull out my phone.   Turning on the voice recorder, I hold it to the door and hope the quality will be good enough for Juliet or Monica to eventually translate. 

I’ve got a funny feeling about this argument.   Especially as it coincides with my request for Monica to dig deep into Brigida’s past.  

I’ve no evidence that Brigida is anything but a housekeeper; nothing save a feeling.   A reflex, an impulse that tells me all is not right with her and her position here. 

For ten minutes, I stand there.   Feeling like a dick for hovering
and
for eavesdropping.   But knowing that I’m doing something important.  My patience is rewarded, when the argument abruptly dies down.   I manage to leap towards the doorway that leads on to the terrace and hide behind one of the heavy red velvet drapes.  

Peering out, hoping that rage will have the protagonists in question keeping their eyes turned away from me, I spot Angelo.

I was right.   It was him. 

Following his path with my gaze, I grimace at the sound of something in the kitchen crashing to the ground.   Tumbling along with that is the sound of sobbing. 

Deciding to get the hell out of dodge
,
I rush out of the room after waiting enough time to hear the front door bang shut and run up the stairs towards my bedroom, knowing that Juliet is there and that she’ll be able to translate. 

She’s lying on the bed watching a movie.  Wearing a bikini and very little else.   Picking up my tongue from the floor, I shut the door behind me as carefully as I can so that Brigida won’t hear it
and as soon as Juliet claps eyes on me, she laughs.  “Why the clandestine entry? Are we James Bond now? ”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.   Why did you call me?” I ask, rushing over to the window to peer out and look down into the grounds.   A few minutes after I ran up the stairs and entered the first floor, I heard another door slam and want to see if it was to the terrace or to Brigida’s apartment. 

As I can’t see anyone outside, I can only presume it’s the latter so I turn to her with a questioning frown.  

“Monica called in and left me a letter for you.  She said it was urgent and she looked under the cosh.”

“Where is it?”

Juliet reached under her pillow and pulled out an envelope.  “She told me that Brigida -the housekeeper? - mustn’t see it so I’ve kept it with me since she dropped it off.”

Handing it to me, I pass her the phone.   “Listen to this argument, would you, Jules?   Tell me what’s going on?”

Looking a little perplexed, she began to play the recording as I absorbed:

You were right.   Brigida is more than she seems.   Her name is false and I managed to speak with an old woman in the infirmary who remembered her arrival.   She came from Sicily, originally, the woman told me.  She gave me more information, but it’s too dangerous to leave you in a note. 

I’m going to Sicily.   There are more facts to be had there and I’ll contact you as soon as I know more. 

The old woman was frightened of her, she seemed to think Brigida was more than a housekeeper and I’m wondering why that is.  What’s happened in the past that most people have forgotten or tried to forget and succeeded?