The Three Rs Read online

  There’s a pile of boxes in the middle of my living room. One or two contain the few clothes, CDs and other bits and pieces I want to keep with me. Most of the boxes, though, contain my extensive collection of paints, brushes, spare canvases and several works in progress. I also have an impressive collection of completed canvases which I’m thinking might appeal to a new crop of car boot sale enthusiasts in Northumberland. Cain’s gaze falls on these, his brow creasing as he cranes his neck to see the contents. He crouches alongside one and starts to flick through the canvases.

  “These are nice.” He glances up at me, waiting for some sort of explanation, more information about the artwork I seem intent on carting off to Berwick with me.

  “Thank you. I like to paint. I’m not really very good, but…”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They look great to me. Are they all your work?”

  “Yes. I sell some, when I can. At car boot sales mostly.”

  “You might not have much time for painting, at least not for a while.”

  There he goes, not five minutes in my company and he’s telling me what I will and won’t do. I stiffen immediately, and set my shoulders stubbornly. “I’ll make time.”

  He grins at me, and I get the worrying sense he’s actually enjoying my defiance. Deliberately provoking it even. Still smiling at some private joke he seems disinclined to share, he stands up and hoists the biggest of my boxes into his arms.

  “Yes, I think you probably will. I’ll start loading your stuff while you do whatever you have in mind for that kettle. Black coffee for me, no sugar.”

  * * * *

  The journey to Berwick passes pleasantly enough, given the distance. It’s a shortish drive up the M62 to join the A1, then the route is all motorway until we get north of Newcastle. The A1 becomes a normal road beyond that, but still our progress is brisk. Our conversation is amiable, and I get the impression Mr Parrish has decided to play nicely today. I’m relieved. Having given up my job, I’m short on alternative options now, so I don’t want to argue with my new business partner if I can help it. And if he goads me, I know I won’t be able to stop myself reacting.

  Cain pulls into some services at Durham and we both need the loo. He’s waiting for me as I emerge from the ladies. “Fancy a coffee? Or something to eat?”

  I thank him, and we head for the Costa section of the concourse. Cain gets us both a coffee and some sticky chocolaty concoction to share. He hands me a spoon. “Dig in. We’ve a way to go yet.”

  It’s heavy and decadent and absolutely delicious. We clear the plate between us. When he’s not being rude and confrontational, Cain Parrish can be very, very nice. If he continues to bribe me with chocolate, I could really get to like him.

  He offers me the choice of music to listen to on the drive so I rummage in the glove box and shove something by The Killers into the CD player. I recognize the picture of Brandon Flowers on the CD case, so that seems a safe bet. Still playing nicely, Cain nods his approval. We both have a sweet tooth and we share the same taste in music. It’s something to work with.

  I catch sight of the imposing Angel of the North—that awesome piece of outdoor art towering over the Tyne and Wear landscape—long before we actually get to it. From a distance the haunting outline of the Angel, arms or wings outstretched, is intriguing. Up close it’s simply stunning. I love art, in any form. This is the first time I’ve actually seen this particular masterpiece, I don’t want to just sail past.

  “Could we stop? I mean do we have time?”

  “Of course. We’ve made good time so far. And we’re in no hurry anyway.” Cain signals to pull off the motorway and follows the signs to a small parking area. The huge statue is in front of us, just rising up and up from the grassy mound alongside the road, almost as if it’s been planted in a field. There’s a path leading to it, and a gaggle of people strolling around. I grab my bag and open the van door. Cain says nothing, but there is a thud from his door closing so I know he’s coming too.

  Up close, the metalwork seems rusty, but I know this is what the artist intended. The real impact of this piece is gained from looking up at it. The ground slopes away downwards so I make my way to the foot of the hill, and turn to look back at the Angel. Moments later my sketchpad is out, and I’m seated on the ground, my pencil moving swiftly across the sheet as I draw the shape of the Angel silhouetted against the bright blue of the sky.

  “Most people would take a photograph.” His tone has no hint of impatience in it. Instead, he sits down beside me and slightly back so he can watch me drawing.

  “Not me. I like to draw.”

  “I can see that. You’re good at it.”

  “Thanks.”

  We sit in companionable silence while I finish my sketch. It’s a simple enough image, which is probably why it is so beautiful. It doesn’t take long. When I finish I pass the sketchpad to Cain for him to look at my picture.

  “Mmm, it’s good. Better than a photograph.”

  “It’s just different, that’s all. I prefer drawings. Later, I might copy it in watercolors.”

  “That’d be nice too.”

  I turn to grin at him. “Now you’re just being polite. You want to get off, don’t you?”

  He shrugs, smiling as he hands the sketchpad back to me. “When you’re ready. No rush.”

  Even so, I get to my feet and turn to him. He extends his hand, an invitation that I should pull him up too. I grin, admiring his cheek. And his optimism. I take his hand, and with some effort haul him to his feet. Laughing, we make our way back to the van.

  * * * *

  I don’t know Berwick at all so I’ve no idea where we should be headed. Still, I’m surprised when Cain maneuvers the van between the pillars of a large gateway and along a graveled drive lined with thick shrubbery. He parks in front of an imposing double-fronted house.

  “This doesn’t look like a builder’s yard. Why are we here? I thought you were going to drop me off at my new flat.” I turn to him, puzzled, but strangely I’m not alarmed by this unexpected turn of events. Cain might be intimidating, and on occasions rather too forceful for my liking, but I feel safe with him.

  “There’s a problem with the flat. The boiler’s broken. I’ve got a new one on order and I can fit it for you next week. For now though, you’ll be in my spare room. Unless you prefer a hotel, of course. There are a couple of nice places in the town center. I can book you in somewhere and you can leave your stuff here for the time being…?”

  A hotel? I can’t drum up even the slightest enthusiasm for spending hours alone in a strange town, stranded in an impersonal hotel room. A few days as Cain Parrish’s guest might be unexpected, but the house looks nice. And more importantly, it looks big enough to allow me to have some privacy if I need it.

  “I see. No, no hotel, thank you. This is fine. I’d prefer to stay with you, if you’re sure I won’t be in your way.”

  “I’ll let you know soon enough if you are. Come on, I’ll show you round. If you’re still insisting you never met my uncle, then I have to assume you’ve never been here before.” He opens his door and leaps to the ground before strolling round the front of the van to help me down.

  I take the hand he offers and glare at him, making no attempt to conceal my irritation at his continued mistrust. “Of course I haven’t. This was his house then?” I step down onto the driveway and study the stately frontage of the house, unconsciously imagining it reproduced in charcoal. It would make a nice picture, and I might well spend tomorrow creating it, as it sounds as though I won’t be able to do anything about getting settled into my flat.

  “Yep. I inherited it when he died. Moved in here myself only about a month ago so the place is still a bit old-fashioned. Needs redecorating, a modern kitchen, that sort of thing. Nothing I can’t handle, it’s just a case of getting round to it.” He’s opening the rear doors of the van as he explains, and he leans in to grab the largest of my boxes.

  I step forward, intending to hel
p carry my stuff, but he’s having none of that. He pulls a key from his pocket.

  “This is yours, for while you’re here. Could you open the front door please?”

  I nod and turn to do as he’s asked. I unlock the door then push it open wide for him to carry the first of my boxes through. He strides along the hallway and up the stairs, me following in his wake. At the top of the stairs he turns left along the landing then stops by a door.

  “This is the spare room. I think you’ll be comfortable enough in here. Could you…?”

  I reach around him to open the door, and he marches in. He deposits my box at the foot of a double bed before crossing the room to open the curtains. I stand inside the doorway, looking around at my new—if temporary—home.

  It’s nice. Very nice in fact. Old fashioned, certainly, but comfortable. Clean, light and airy. Cheerful. This is a happy place, I can feel it. James must have been a very nice man, in spite of his odd habit of writing strangers into his will. My bed is a double, the frame made of solid wood. Oak perhaps. There’s a matching wardrobe and dressing table, and a small vanity unit in one corner. It’s just a wash basin, with a mirror over it, but it’s somewhere to do my make-up.

  The room even has a tiny fireplace, but I don’t think it’s used often. The central heating seems perfectly efficient. The walls are papered in a tasteful pale yellow, and the carpet is gray and yellow, and feels very thick, the pile deep and soft under my feet. I’m tempted to slip my pumps off and sink my toes in, but I suspect that might seem a little over-familiar given I’m only to be here a few days.

  “Will this be all right?” He looks at me expectantly, hopefully even.

  I nod my agreement. “It’s lovely. Thank you. It’s very kind of you to put me up like this. I mean, in the circumstances…”

  He smiles now, and it’s another of those genuine smiles, the sort that lights up his gorgeous face and actually reaches his eyes. “Ah, Miss Fischer, I might not want you in my business, but I’ve no objection at all to having you in my house. Or anywhere else. Make yourself comfortable while I bring up the rest of your stuff.”

  He leaves me to consider the exact meaning of his remark as he heads back down to the van. My pussy is dampening, encouraged no doubt by his sensual innuendo. I note this fact, not without irritation. How come he keeps on doing this? I don’t fancy him. I don’t even like him, well—unless he has chocolate.

  Ten minutes later, and all my boxes are neatly stacked at the foot of my bed. Six trips up and down the stairs, and he’s not even out of breath. He turns to me, his smile warm still, welcoming. “If you prefer to keep your room clear, there’s another spare room across the hallway that you can use for storage if you like. It’s the door opposite. My room is two doors down. Bathroom’s in between. Now, I’ll leave you to get unpacked. Obviously you’re welcome to use the kitchen, the lounge, just come down when you’re ready. I’ll cook tonight, but I expect you to take your turn.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you again. And—I don’t mind doing the cleaning while I’m here. Sort of pay my way…”

  He’s half out of the door, but turns to answer me, “No need for that, I have a cleaner who comes in a couple of times a week. Just do your share of the cooking and I’ll be happy. And don’t worry, Miss Fischer, you’ll definitely earn your keep. Till later then.” He offers me a brief nod, and he’s gone.

  * * * *

  An hour later, my clothes are hanging in the wardrobe, my few other belongings are neatly placed in the drawers and my boxes of art paraphernalia are stacked in the room across the hall. I might not be staying long, but I don’t intend to live out of a suitcase. My bedroom looks out over the garden, which seems to mainly consist of an expanse of grass surrounded by trees and shrubbery. Very leafy. When I open the window, I can hear the faint hum of traffic, but the house is private and has a secluded feel to it despite being close to a main road. It’s a nice place, and I can easily understand why Cain chose to live here rather than put the place on the market following his uncle’s death. From his remarks when we arrived I get the impression he intends to stay here and make it his over time.

  I’ve always lived in rented property, and that’s what I expected would remain the case for me. I never considered any alternative. Now, perhaps, I could contemplate buying my own home. Not somewhere as large as this, of course, but still nice. If I get to like Northumberland I might look around for somewhere here. Or I could go back to Bradford. Either way, I suspect I’ll be giving up my tenancy on the seventh floor in a tower block before much longer.

  On that thought I decide to explore the rest of this house, or at least the bits of it that concern me. I’ve already found the bathroom and toilet, made use of those facilities, but now it’s time to branch out. Cain said he’d be downstairs, so I head in that direction. At the foot of the stairs, the low drone of a television somewhere is the only clue to Cain’s whereabouts, so I try to locate that. I try a door on my right and find it leads to a large lounge. The mismatched sofas look very traditional, over stuffed but comfortable, and I’m sure these are another legacy from James. The huge wall-mounted flat screen television, however, is pure Cain Parrish. The jury’s out on the drinks fridge beneath the window—for all I know James might have been fond of a beer. I notice the fridge is empty now. If I lived here I’d make sure it was kept well stocked with crisp white wine.

  There’s no Cain Parrish in here though, so I step back out into the hallway and close the door behind me to continue my quest. On the opposite side of the hallway, I find a light and airy dining room, again furnished in an old-fashioned style. The large dining table is made of some sort of dark wood, and I wonder if it could be mahogany. When I’m not lurking around art galleries I tend to be at home a lot during the day so I watch a fair bit of daytime television—more than is good for me, probably, but I’ve seen enough antique programs to have some idea what I’m looking at. The table has carved legs with pretty lion-style feet, and eight matching chairs are neatly arranged around it. There’s a sideboard, also part of the same set I’d say. This room looks expensive, classy and dignified, the whole lot polished to a high sheen. Cain’s twice weekly cleaner knows her job. I don’t get the impression this room is used much, the heating is not on in here, and despite the beautiful furniture, the room has a lonely, excluded feel to it. I step back out into the hallway.

  The next room I find myself in is the kitchen. Two things strike me immediately. The first, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a kitchen this large—I’m pretty sure the entire floorspace of my own flat would fit easily in here. The room is more or less in two halves, the business end for cooking, and the sociable end for eating. There’s a huge oak table, heavy and squat-looking which totally dominates the eating section. There are four solid-looking chairs scattered more or less around it but at untidy angles. This is obviously why the dining room proper looks so under-used, whereas in here the atmosphere is homely, welcoming, much-loved. The other end of the large space is occupied by a full size kitchen range, one of those trendy white enameled sinks, a monstrously huge double fronted fridge and freezer, and more cupboards than I can easily count, although I expect some of those will have gadgets cunningly concealed within. He must have a washing machine somewhere hidden in here, a dryer maybe, dishwasher, the lot. Cain said it needed modernizing, but I’m not convinced I’d agree. It has definite charm as it is.

  The second thing that strikes me is the scent, the aroma of something quite delicious cooking. That mysterious kitchen range is harboring some seriously decent food within its interior, no doubt bubbling and simmering, braising nicely. Promising to tantalize my taste buds before much longer. I can cook a little, but I feel totally intimidated by all this professional looking equipment and the mouth-watering scents. If Cain Parrish uses all this kitchen stuff and can conjure up something that smells as good as whatever is inside the oven, then he clearly likes his food. He knows his way around a kitchen, and knows how to eat well. I suspect t
omorrow’s fare, left to me, may fall short of expectations. Still, he didn’t bring me here to be his live-in cook, so my signature chili and rice will have to rise to the occasion. Or it can try to. If pressed I can even throw together a half-decent chicken curry.

  Who am I trying to kid? I sidle back out into the hall, set to continue my quest to find my host. The sound of the television is louder now, but the dialog seems strange. Sort of constant. I realize it’s not a television I’ve been hearing at all, it’s a radio. More specifically, a play or some sort of drama on the radio. I follow the sound along the hall, and in any case there is only one door left to try. This time I’m sure he’s inside—there’s nowhere else he could be, so I knock. It seems polite. Cain replies, telling me to come in.

  It’s an office. A small, home office, and Cain is at his desk under the window, something open on his laptop. The sound I’ve been hearing comes from an old, battered looking radio balanced on the window sill, but Cain reaches to turn down the volume as I enter.

  “Please, there’s no need. I don’t want to disturb you.” I hover in the doorway, not sure if he has either the time or indeed the inclination to make small talk.

  His quick smile dispels that doubt, and he gestures for me to take a seat. Problem is, there’s only one spare chair, and it’s already occupied. A large, dark-gray cat is fast asleep on the battered armchair set in the corner, his nose buried between his front paws. He’s snoring softly and it seems distinctly rude to even contemplate usurping him. I’m a little uneasy around cats, and this particular specimen is huge. No, I’m not looking for bother. He can keep his chair.

  Seeing my dilemma, Cain stands up and shoves his own wheeled desk chair in my direction. “You’re right, best not to ruffle Oscar. He’s a grumpy old sod at the best of times. Here, you have that. Won’t be a sec.” He strides from the small room, to return moments later with one of the kitchen dining chairs.