We Can Work It Out Read online

  BELLE HENDERSON

  &

  CJ MORROW

  Copyright: © Belle Henderson & CJ Morrow 2019

  Tamarillas Press

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, businesses, organisations and situations in this publication are either a product of the authors’ imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or circumstances, is purely coincidental.

  Cover images: © Belle Henderson, CJ Morrow

  Cover design: © Amy-Rose Mayes

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Pick up a freebie!

  From the authors

  Other books by CJ Morrow

  One

  Emily

  ‘Hey, how’s it going? You all ready for your big day?’

  ‘No, no I’m not. I’m panicking, Sab.’ I appraise myself in my wardrobe mirror. I don’t feel comfortable at all. ‘This outfit is just all wrong!’ I stare at my reflection with my phone wedged between my neck and shoulder. The nerves are really setting in now.

  ‘It’s a bit late for outfit changes now darling, you have to leave soon,’ Sabrina says gently.

  ‘The shirt you lent me, it’s bit small. I mean I love it, but it’s just a bit…’ I pull at the gaping shirt and try to make it stretch better across my boobs. It doesn’t and it’s now exposing some of my bra.

  I’m wearing a black skirt suit with a white, very tight, shirt and some black high heels that are smart but I wouldn’t wear them on a night out. I’m not wearing tights, it’s autumn but apparently, we are having an Indian summer. It’s one of those gorgeous, crisp, sunny days where the sky is a cloudless bright blue and the leaves are starting to turn golden. It’s my absolute favourite time of year, and just a few months away from Christmas when I can truly spoil my little girl, Rosie. I smile as I remember her excited squeals last year as she came running into my room on Christmas morning. Rosie is five, that special age where she still believes in all things magical such as Santa, the Easter bunny and talking animals.

  ‘Oh yeah, I bought that shirt back in my Atkins diet days, super skinny back then. What are you wearing it with?’ Sabrina asks as I simultaneously take a photo and send it to her.

  ‘Wow, you look gorgeous, love the hair, very professional. The shirt looks fine to me, darling. There’s nothing like flaunting what you’ve got to get what you want.’

  Oh hell. Now I feel like a whore.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s a bit inappropriate for an interview, don’t you think?’ I open up my wardrobe and stare at the alternatives. There is a navy-blue shirt but I can’t wear that as it will clash with black. I also own a white shirt but it has too many ruffles and looks too flouncy, not serious enough. I have to make an executive decision and I don’t have anything else suitable. I will have to wear this, breathe in all day and just hope I don’t burst out of it. Oh, why didn’t I check the fit before? I could have bought something new. As I do up my jacket buttons, I reassure – or delude – myself that the jacket should cover most of my modesty.

  ‘It’s perfect, trust me. Do you have your stuff ready for your presentation?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve printed everything out, all stapled and good to go.’

  ‘Why the printing? Is it 1987?’

  ‘Oh, I’m taking my laptop too.’ I laugh. If only Sabrina could see the wheelie case I’m taking as well! I used to take it to London when I worked there many years ago and it worked a treat when running for the train, which I often did.

  ‘I can’t find my memory stick and I’m assuming they’ll want to project my presentation onto a big screen, so I have to take the laptop. If not, I can give out handouts. I thought I’d cover all bases, you know.’ Come to think of it, I last saw Rosie playing with the memory stick, perhaps she’s taken it to my mum’s by accident. I wouldn’t be surprised, she once took our TV remote to school.

  ‘You’ll be fine, you will dazzle them with your presentation and your personality. You’ve got this,’ Sabrina encourages against my babbling.

  ‘I hope so, I really want this job. It’s so nerve wracking, I haven’t had a second interview in years.’ I chew on my nails as I think of the possibilities, there’s a lot resting on this. Holidays for Rosie and I, day trips to Legoland and the cinema, maybe a spa day for me and Sab. And finally, the possibility of buying a house of my own. Oh the endless opportunities that come with securing this job. I yearn to earn my own money on a permanent basis and not rely on income solely from him and the government and intermittent temp jobs.

  ‘Emily, you’ll be fine. You’ve got this. It’s your time to shine.’

  ‘Thanks, Sab. I’ll message you later.’

  ‘You better do! See you soon and good luck, not that you need it. Bye.’

  I end the call while rummaging through my drawers, still not satisfied with my outfit, I come across an old neck scarf. Its black and purple vertical stripes will zhush up my ensemble, inject a bit of colour and hide my obscene cleavage. Perfect, I’m finally ready.

  Well, ready as I’ll ever be.

  Realising I have less than ten minutes to go, I reach for the Kalms on my bedside table. These little gems have become slightly addictive since my husband left me. It takes the edge off and I have actually cut down quite a lot on all things recreational in the last couple of years. When he first left, I was smoking a lot, probably around twenty cigarettes a day if I’m honest, and around two or three glasses of wine a night, sometimes a bottle if it was a bad day. I took Kalms during the day to keep me going and help mask what I was going through. I think I’ve done pretty well since the dark days. I’ve given up smoking and cut way down on the wine, I’m only having about a glass a night now and sometimes I don’t have any, so Kalms are really my only vice and of course I’ll give them up eventually. Just once I get this job. Anyway, they’re herbal, aren’t they?

  My thoughts are interrupted by a message from Mum showing a photo of Rosie grinning back at the camera with both hands wrapped around what looks like a massive chocolate doughnut. Mum then messages seconds later. Hmmm interesting breakfast, Mum.

  My mum: Nanna’s house, nanna’s rules.

  I roll my eyes, chuckling to myself and reply to her choosing to ignore her attempt to wind me up.

  Me: Hehe she looks sweet! Leaving in a minute, give Rosie a kiss from me and wish me luck?!

  She sends a little video back of Rosie with chocolate smeared all over her face. Good luck Mummy, you are the bestest Mummy.

  My heart melts and I send back three loves hearts. It’s just typical that my interview clashes with a teacher training day, otherwise Rosie would have been in school now.

  I lock my phone and chuck it into my wheelie case. As I leave my bedroom a thought creeps into my mind that I now resemble an air hostess.

  Positive thinking. Yay, I’m about to board the flight to my potential new life!

  My neighbour’s fat, grey, fluffy cat
is crouched under my car staring at me with such disdain I swear it wants me dead so it can live under my car forever. We have this confrontation most days. Rosie is normally the one who is good at getting rid of it by patting its bum and shooing it away. Something about it unnerves me and I won’t get too close.

  ‘Hssssssss,’ I attempt.

  The cat stays put, giving me a contemptuous, defiant look.

  ‘Hsssssssssssss,’ I attempt again, this time louder while showing my teeth.

  It just blinks at me. Time to try a different tactic.

  ‘Ruff ruff. Ruff ruff.’ Wow I didn’t know I could imitate a dog so well.

  The cat just blinks its big, green eyes.

  ‘Ruff ruff.’ Unable to crouch due to the combination of tight shirt and fitted skirt, I’m now on all fours, getting down to its level. The rough pavement cuts into my knees and I’m glad I’m not wearing tights.

  Our eyes lock in a stare off. The cat’s tongue flicks lazily across its nose.

  ‘Ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff.’ Louder I bark, more aggressively this time but the cat still stares. ‘Grrrrrrrrrrr. Ruff ruff,’ I snarl, showing my fangs as I feel a dribble of saliva slide out the corner of my mouth. God knows what that’s doing to my carefully applied makeup. My throat is beginning to get sore.

  ‘Oooooooowww owwwwww.’ Howling to the sky to call upon the rest of my pack.

  The cat still stares.

  ‘Ruff ruff, oooooowwwwww.’ I must be looking really menacing now. Why isn’t it backing away? ‘Owwwwwwwwww, ruff ruff ruff ruff.’ I’ve had enough of this shit. ‘MOVE YOUR FAT FURRY ARSE FROM UNDERNEATH MY CAR YOU BIG BALL OF FLUFF!!’ I bellow.

  The cat nonchalantly licks its paws and I swear it’s smirking.

  I feel a burning in the back of my head. I turn to see my pensioner neighbour, Margaret, staring at me in horror.

  ‘Pss pssst, come to Mummy, darling Patrick. Come away from the scary lady,’ she calls in a shaky voice with her arms stretched out.

  ‘Umm, sorry Margaret but it wouldn’t move and I need to get my car out. I’m in a bit of a rush for a job interview,’ I hear myself say, sounding pathetic and apologetic.

  Margaret pauses and regards me cautiously before replying. ‘Yes dear, and he’s a he, not an it. His name’s Patrick.’

  ‘Okay. He. Right.’

  ‘Remember dear, he’s only an innocent little cat. You can always just come and get me next time if he’s causing you any trouble.’ Margaret shuffles over to Patrick and scoops the fat ball of fur into her tiny hands.

  ‘I’m sure you’re not doing your knees any good, dear,’ she says as she retreats up the path to her house. I clamber inelegantly to my feet and dust my knees off.

  Bloody Patrick has now made me late.

  I’m not going to deny that I most definitely break a few speed limits on my way to my job interview at Genevre’s. The journey is only ten minutes and I’m grateful that the appointment is at 10am, just missing the worst of rush hour which sometimes more than triples the time of any journey. I drive into the car park, negotiating a space close to the pay and display. Turning off the ignition I pull down the mirror to study my face and reapply my Heather Shimmer lipstick.

  My face looks okay, no lines yet and I’m lucky to have olive skin that I’m often told makes me look younger than my thirty-two years. I reach into the back seat to grab my bottle of water for a quick pre-interview whistle wetting and it’s then that I freeze.

  Shhittttttttt.

  There’s a sudden satisfying, yet ominous, release across my chest. I force myself to look down and see that the top two shirt buttons have burst open and are each hanging on by a thread, oh hell! I feel thankful that I am wearing the air hostess neck scarf and rearrange it from being tied at the side to down the front, it just about covers my cleavage but it now looks like I’m wearing just a bra underneath as you can see a little bit of skin on either side of the neck scarf. I decide to tuck the corners into my bra creating the image of it being a top, it looks a little wacky but at least I don’t look like a stripper. This is not a good look and I am super stressed after this morning’s antics; I think someone is trying to tell me that this job isn’t meant to be.

  Get a grip, I tell myself and I grab my wheelie case from the passenger seat and force my body out of the car and head towards the pay and display to get my ticket. I’m nearly there when my phone beeps and I stop and open my case and rummage inside for it. As soon as I see the display, I realise I should have ignored it because it’s Liam – my ex-husband. His timing is just impeccable.

  Cheating Bastard: Hi Emily, we need to talk. I’ve been thinking and I want to see Rosie a lot more, she loves it here with us. Rosie and Tiger Lily are just like sisters. When are you free to talk this through?

  Bastard. I knew this day would come but I can’t think about it now. Must. Stay. Focused.

  I glance at the ticket machine.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘You okay?’ A male voice asks.

  I look up, and keep on looking up because the voice belongs to a big guy, well over six-foot-tall, big built but not muscly, or fat. He’s probably a bit younger than me with what I can only describe as brown smoke for hair, and despite his size there’s something gentle about him. His stance reminds me of the character Lennie from Of Mice and Men. I want to say no I’m bloody not and burst into tears and clutch onto him and sob but all I manage is, ‘It needs coins,’ before running off back to my car to search for change and almost falling arse over tit in the process.

  I am seriously considering getting into the driving seat, admitting defeat and going home.

  But I can’t. I need this job.

  I grab some change from the car and stomp back to the pay and display and he’s still there. I ram the coins into the machine as he watches and I wonder why he’s being such a gentleman by letting me go first. The final 20p coin keeps rejecting and he suggests I wet it. What is he talking about? He silently hands me a replacement coin when I ask if he could swap one with me. The machine finally spits out a ticket and I snatch it and stomp back to my car.

  When I head back past the pay and display, the gentle giant is still there, slowly licking coins and popping them into the coin slots, bless him. I wonder who told him that works? Probably his mum. His coin licking doesn’t seem to be working. Will he crack and end up pummelling the pay and display until it breaks? I’m grateful to him but so stressed I don’t think I even manage a smile.

  Must think positive and get my game face on for this interview.

  Must get this job! Must get this job! Must get this job!

  I power into the building and march up to its glossy reception desk.

  ‘Hi, I’m Emily Cod. I have an interview today with the underwriting department at 10am.’ I hear my tone go up at the end and wonder when I started speaking like an Australian. The receptionist checks his list with his long, bony fingers tapping gently on his computer screen

  ‘Ah yes, Mrs Cod, they’re running a little late today. Please help yourself to coffee and take a seat.’ I glance to where his ET index finger is pointing, look back at him and give him a winning smile.

  Picking up my already tired feet, I trot over to the machine to get myself a much-needed coffee. How ironic that they are running late after all my panics to get here on time. Oh well, at least I get a little breather to calm down and relax beforehand. I didn’t correct the receptionist when he said Mrs, although I suppose I should have but every time I correct someone I feel as though I have to explain/justify why I am a Miss even though it’s ridiculous to think that they care or would even notice. I’m paranoid that people will judge me as a singleton once they find out I have a child, silly I know.

  As inelegant as Cod is, I have kept Liam’s surname. I didn’t want to have a different name from my daughter and believe it or not it’s actually better than my maiden name, Longbottom – you can imagine the innuendo that surname brought. There’s also the added bonus that it probably an
noys Liam’s wife, Tiny, and that’s a small triumph.

  Jamie

  My phone pings as I drive into the car park.

  It pings again just as I am negotiating a particularly large crater filled with muddy water; this is a council car park and they should be ashamed of themselves. It pings again – managing to sound anxious and angry this time – at the very instant I manoeuvre into a tight space. I know who it is.

  I switch the engine off, pull out my phone.

  My dad: Knock em dead son.

  My dad: Good luck.

  My dad: Everything okay???

  He’s a born worrier, my dad. I message back to reassure him. Dads eh? He still thinks I’m a kid; I’m nearly thirty.

  Today’s my big day, my chance to finally nail the job I want; the job I should have, to be in the place I should be by now – according to my dad. Today is final interview day, I’m on a shortlist of two.

  I take deep breaths as I head over to the ticket machine, fill my lungs with oxygen to sharpen my brain, calm any last-minute nerves. I remind myself I’m not nervous. I’m not, but I don’t want to cock this up.

  I haven’t parked here before, first time round I parked in Genevre’s staff car park, but there isn’t space today; some sort of maintenance going on according to their HR department.

  My phone pings again; it’s reminding me that my interview is in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to lift off. Or let down.

  ‘Oh shit,’ a female voice hisses. I look up to see a girl – is that politically correct – no, a woman, standing in front of the ticket machine, her phone in her hand.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask as I approach.

  She jumps, her super smooth ponytail flicking up in the air.

  ‘It needs coins,’ she snaps, turning and trotting back to her car. She’s pulling a small, black wheelie case behind her; she cusses as it catches in the ruts on the car park’s crappy surface. Anger emanates from her retreating form, the muscles in her legs clench as she puts each foot down. She’s wearing smart shoes with blocky heels. Quite high. She would be short without them. A neat black suit completes her look, the skirt just grazing her knee. She’s got good legs, gym-toned.