A Stolen Future is one week old today and I thought I would share with you the first chapter:
1: A Chip off the Old Block?
There had been a moment, once, a long time ago now, when Mr Marchant Senior had casually placed his hand on my bottom. I had only brought the post into his office to be signed and was therefore far too surprised to react. Unexpected. That’s what it was. Badly timed too. What with him being married. Happily, by all accounts, although since that incident I wasn’t so sure. I’d even speculated that maybe, just maybe, something was missing from his world, despite the carefully crafted façade of family man, local philanthropist, head of building empire.
That touch had held such promise, although it lingered but a moment. And it was thrilling. All these years later, I could still recall the sensation, the tingle.
Sadly, it was all I had left of what might have been. Because now, my world was a different place, and I didn’t care for it.
I hear Rex call me, not by name, of course. An abrupt, ‘Come here,’ is barked out instead. I used to ignore it, pretend he was calling someone else. A passing dog, perhaps. But that only made matters worse.
I pick up my pad and pen and hurry to his office, reflecting on the fact Mr Marchant Senior had always had the grace to call my extension if he wanted me to come through. Not that he’d needed to often. In those days, both my and his office walls were glass and he could easily get my attention without the need to shout.
I enter Rex’s inner sanctum.
‘Where’s my dry cleaning? My suit? I need it tonight.’ Hands behind his head, he leans back on his executive chair behind the expansive desk on which there is precious little sign of any work being done.
‘You haven’t asked me to collect any dry cleaning.’ My voice breaks as I speak and I clear my throat, my mouth dry as I stare down at my pad, at recent instructions. No. No mention of dry cleaning. He leans forward. His close-set eyes are eager, like those of a bird of prey, its target in sight.
‘Yes, I did. You said you’d pick it up and bring it in this morning.’
‘Did I?’ The furrow deepens between my eyes as I struggle to remember.
‘Clearly you’ve forgotten, so go get it now.’
‘I’m in the middle of—’
‘Now.’ He slides a single sheet of paper, which he pretends to read, across the polished mahogany and I know I’m dismissed. I stifle my sigh of frustration as I return to my office to retrieve my handbag and keys. It’s a pain when interruptions break the flow of me putting the monthly finance reports together. I like to follow my tried and tested process so nothing gets missed. Plus, it’s also my lunch hour. It isn’t a long journey back to Sharon’s Stores in Melton, a round trip of ten miles, but as I live in Melton, it would have been far easier if I could have run the errand on the way to, or from, work. Also, this interruption means I’m unlikely to get the reports completed this afternoon and Rex does like them done on the first of the month. Why, I haven’t yet fathomed, as I’m sure he never so much as glances at them.
They’ve not made for pretty reading in months, and yet he’s not said a word.
I visit the facilities, thinking it is ironic he wants me to pick up his suit on company time when he never wears one in the office. Jeans and a tee shirt are his usual attire. Although only his. Everyone else wears office clothes, which I prefer anyway. You know where you are with what amounts to a uniform.
Although I will never forget the rather pointed comments he once made, embarrassingly in front of the other staff, joking (and I use that word loosely) about which decade my suits had come from, thus shaming me into replacing my entire workwear wardrobe. An expense I could have done without. Much as I hate to admit it when I’d evaluated my appearance after Rex’s rather cruel observations, I had seen how old-fashioned I’d become. How frumpy.
Of course, Mr Marchant Senior had never worn anything less formal than a suit to the office, sometimes a three-piece. I liked those particularly, as I found a well-fitted waistcoat becoming on a man.
I don’t even like calling him Rex. His father had been Mr Marchant to me, despite our close working relationship, and I remember clearly the exchange with Rex on his first day. He’d scoffed at me calling him Mr Marchant, which I did out of respect.
‘I’m not my father,’ he’d spat out through gritted teeth.
No, you’re not. But in those early days of the new reign, I’d still had hope the business of Marchant & Son would carry on as before, as would my job. Disillusion followed shortly thereafter.
Before I leave my office, I carefully check through all the recent notes on my pad again. I’ve taken to writing everything down because clearly my memory is not what it once was and Rex often pulls me up on things I’ve forgotten. I’ve also made two serious mistakes in recent months, which had shaken my confidence.
No, there is no mention of any dry cleaning. Not recently anyway. Obviously, I’ve picked it up before, though why I have no idea as it isn’t part of my job description. But then many things I do for Rex I was never called upon to do for his father. I thought it was because of Mr Marchant Senior coming from a different generation. He was more aware of, and sensitive to, most of the boundaries of the employer/employee relationship.
I walk out to my beloved car, an original Mini Cooper, surprised it passed the MOT again last month and is therefore good for another year on the road. I’d been concerned it would fail and had lain awake at night fretting over the possibility of having to spend my savings on replacing it. At least that worry is deferred for another year. In dire need of a wash, it is the shabbiest vehicle in the car park. Which is probably the reason Rex withdrew my entitlement to the reserved spot next to his BMW I had with Mr Marchant Senior for so many years. I appreciate from his point of view it isn’t the image of success the company wants to project.
I wait as two company vans turn in. One of the site managers, Eddie Lumbers, is in the first, and he raises his hand to me in greeting as they pass by and follow the road round to the rear of the building I work in. There is a huge yard out back which houses the construction machines, vehicles and materials. Running along the far side and forming an L shape with the office block is a large building, called The Lodge, for use by the builders themselves and all the support staff and professionals brought in on projects such as architects and surveyors.
This is the area Mr Marchant Senior loved to spend his time in most and whenever he had the chance, he was at his happiest when he got to change from his office into his work clothes and discuss projects with his men. He took every opportunity he could to visit and spend time on each site for the same reason. Under the new regime, I worry this crucial part of the business lacks guidance and direction.
Despite the excellent project and site managers we have on the payroll, it still needs an experienced someone with a guiding hand in overall control, and that’s where there is a problem with Rex. He lacks any credibility, as he hasn’t a clue what he is talking about.
I can’t help worry, but why I do, I’m not sure. After all, it isn’t my company. Why should it bother me if Rex is already damaging its reputation? The reality is I’ve been part of the business for so long it’s difficult not to care and I can’t turn my back on something Mr Marchant Senior put so much work into building.
As I leave Buntingley and drive towards Melton, I put Rex out of my mind, as my thoughts wander back to that bottom touch from what I realise is now some eight years ago. I know I shouldn’t dwell on it. It’s pathetic to do so, particularly after so long, but I have never been able to help myself. What if I’d responded? Favourably, of course. Where might I be now? Not where I am, living in a small cottage and scratching out a living with little besides a state pension to see me through my twilight years, of that I’m certain.
I’d given myself a good talking-to at the time, of course. Told myself George wouldn’t have minded. My husband had died far too young, and well before there had been any planning for our old age. Now, although only about to turn fifty, I feel I’m racing towards retirement, and with no one else to rely on for support I’ve only ever managed to get by and not been in a position to put much away over the years.
‘Needs must, old girl,’ is what George would have said had I encouraged Mr Marchant Senior. Which is weird now because I was barely twenty when George died. Still, it’s what he called me, had done since we’d met in our early teens way back in the 1980s. At the time I’d imagined us growing old together, his endearment becoming more appropriate as the years passed. But that life was all so long ago, and so different from the one I live now. Some days it is as if it hadn’t happened at all.
I think they’d have got on, my George and Mr Marchant Senior. They were of the same cut, had the same altruistic nature. I believe it’s why I was so drawn to Mr Marchant Senior. He reminded me of my lost love.
I’ve also recently pondered that one short-lived husband and a bottom touch doesn’t amount to much by way of romance in a lifetime. For years after losing George, I hadn’t been able to even contemplate getting involved with anyone else. Then I sunk all my energy into working with Mr Marchant Senior to build Marchant and Son into the company it is today. Also, it isn’t as if anyone has shown any interest in me in years either so I’m not exactly inspired to give romance another go. No, when it comes down to it, given the passion, excitement and unpredictability of my early years with George, I’ve been perfectly happy with my steady job and quiet home life.
I pass the end of Marchant Road, renamed years ago and the clearest indication, if any is needed, of the high esteem Mr Marchant Senior was held in around here. Pulling up in front of the village shop, Sharon’s Stores, I get out, wishing I’d had the foresight to put on my coat. Despite it being April, if only the first, there is a chill wind, and I pull my jacket around me as I scuttle across to the entrance. Rain is in the air and spring feels far away.
Sharon sits behind the counter, as usual. She is far too pale, her face drawn and sickly beneath the peroxide hair. I’ve heard rumours she is ill and undergoing tests but as far as anyone knows there has been no diagnosis as yet. I go straight to the counter and, as I find her prickly to get into conversation with, restrict myself to asking for Rex’s suit. Not that it prevents her from prying.
‘Do you have the receipt? Oh, and have you heard about poor Dora Smith?’ Sharon’s hair is like straw, dry and fragile, the ends splitting. I’m relieved I never embarked along the hair-dyeing route. There are some greys on my head, but I have every intention of letting them develop at a pace to lead me elegantly into old age. I smooth my shoulder-length hair with my free hand, to reassure myself it is well-conditioned, then tuck one side behind my ear as I reply.
‘No, sorry. Rex has misplaced it.’ It’s always the same if I’m collecting something for him. I never have the ticket, and I’ve given up asking him for paperwork. It’s as though he doesn’t think he need concern himself with such trifling details. He’s the same with any receipt or invoice. “Only plebs keep those”, he’d once told me when I’d tried to explain their need for my bookkeeping. I ignore Sharon’s eye roll as I deflect her second question. ‘Dora’s a good friend, as well as a neighbour.’ And no, Sharon, I’m not going to gossip about her.
‘There’s something funny been going on with her. You mark my words. Mind, you’ll know all about it, of course, seeing as how you’re such good friends.’ Sharon makes this nasty dig, I know her too well to take any notice, then tuts as she slides herself off the stool. Rex’s name will be on the bag anyway, but I get the impression Sharon likes her customers to be fully aware of just how much they are putting her out. As it is, she goes through to the back and returns mere seconds later with the suit bag. Astonishingly, it hasn’t entailed a long hunt after all, as I suspected. Weirdly she strokes her hand down the cover and smiles. ‘I bet he looks super in this. He’s such a charming young man and so handsome.’ My responding smile is stiff but I keep my mouth shut, take out the company credit card, pay, and leave the shop before she can expand on her thoughts about Rex or mention the subject of Dora Smith again.
The rain is insistent now and coming in on a slant, which causes me to duck and tilt my head away from its icy sting as I hustle across the road. Having only two doors on the car, I battle to get the suit bag into the back and hung on the hook. Once I’m in the driving seat, I sweep my wet hair off my face, then remove my speckled glasses and wipe them on the edge of my skirt before turning on the fan as I start the engine to de-mist the windows. It isn’t efficient, so as usual I clear the windscreen with a tissue from my bag. Reluctantly, I ignore the call of home and head back to the office, consoling myself by eating the sandwich I’d made for lunch on the way.
My thoughts drift back to Dora. I’m still reeling from her complete breakdown at the weekend. At everything it revealed. I know it will have shocked everyone who witnessed it, but it had left me with the feeling I’d let her down badly. I believed I knew her and yet I knew nothing.
I check in with Trish Taylor, our receptionist, as I walk back into the office, then I have a quick word or two with the other staff who are at their desks, working my way across the open-plan section until I reach my and Rex’s offices at the end. Everything is running smoothly. I deliver the suit to Rex’s office and, in his absence, hang it on the back of the door. Then I carry on with the reports, struggling with the new accounting system.
Rex walks in through the main door at nearly four o’clock, after what has clearly been a lengthy lunch. I try to ignore it when he lingers in reception, flirting with Trish and distracting her and me from our work, but it is hard to do given the glass walls and open-plan arrangement.
The way Rex chases after the young women in the company is problematic. Recruitment to replace those who leave fills considerably more hours of my day than it has ever done before. It is only a matter of time before someone sues us.
It’s another half an hour before he passes my office and I call out to tell him I’d put the suit on the back of his door, a fact he barely acknowledges. His rudeness, although I should be used to it by now, rankles, so even though I know I shouldn’t, I blurt out, ‘Also, could you not distract Trish? She has a lot to get through today.’ He pauses, retraces his steps, and stands fully in my doorway, his rugby player build intimidating.
‘As I’m the one who pays her, I’ll decide how she spends her fucking time.’ He then walks away to his office. Despite being used to the way he speaks to me, and his language, my heart flutters like a startled moth, and a flush creeps up my neck as I glance over at the cubicles. A couple of curious faces quickly turn back to their screens. I can’t condemn their interest because he never lowers his voice, especially if I am the one at the end of some rebuke.
I’ve spent many years building my position in the company, but now Rex is in charge, any control I had is slipping away from beneath me like scree down a mountainside with me left scrabbling for purchase as he undermines me whenever he has the chance. It isn’t on, but no approach to address the matter of the friction between us working together has been successful to date. He cannot take feedback, and as I hate confrontation, I’ve learned to back away from giving it. Today is no different and rather than challenge him, which a stronger person would have done. I quietly seethe at my desk instead as I continue to work on my reports.
With my trip out earlier, there is no way I’m going to complete them today, so as five-thirty approaches, I decide I’ll finish them the next morning. As I pack away, Rex comes out of his office and into mine with his hand held out.
‘Where are the reports?’
‘Because I had to get your suit. I wasn’t able to complete them, so I’ll finish them tomorrow.’
‘That’s unacceptable. I want them on the first of the month. You know that and I don’t want to hear your excuses. You shouldn’t have wasted your time going out when you did, should you?’
‘But you told me to do it straight away.’
‘No, I didn’t. Don’t twist your failings back onto me. What do I tell you to do?’ Then clearly not expecting an answer, he continues, ‘Prioritise. I want those reports on my desk first thing, so I suggest you stay and complete them tonight, or maybe you’d prefer to come in early?’ He raises his hand, points his finger towards me. ‘First thing. No excuses.’
His orders having to take precedence over anything else I might have to do is one thing. But I dislike the fact it then gives him the excuse to complain when I am behind with my own tasks. Consequently I have become resentful, which isn’t an emotion I’ve experienced at any other time in my working life.
I sit back at my desk unable to answer or even look at him any further, so humiliated do I feel. The shame of being spoken to like that by someone young enough to be my son is mortifying and it is all I can do not to cry as I carry on. It isn’t like I’m not used to working late but I hadn’t planned on doing so today. In reality, it takes me a little over an hour, and once done, I print off the hard copies he asks for. When I go to put them on his desk, the suit is still hanging on the back of the door. I stop and stare at it, then curse under my breath.
The chill wind whips round the corner as I step out of the building later, hitting me with a refreshing blast that’s welcome after so many hours staring at a screen. I spot Eddie Lumbers wiping my car down with a chamois, which is a surprise. It looks as sparkly as an old car can manage.
‘Thank you, that’s kind of you,’ I say as I get nearer, delighted as it saves me a job I rarely get round to.
‘You’re welcome. After being on site I had to wash my truck anyway,’ and he gesticulates to his pickup nearby, ‘so it was as easy to do yours at the same time.’ I smile at him, his face creasing in response, eyes shining. He has a pencil behind his ear as usual. It’s replaced “his next cigarette” that he always had lined up there until he quit a few years ago. Even this early in the year, he has a healthy glow about him. I suppose it’s from being outside. The silver of his hair, the change that causes the colour to drain from so many people’s faces, has no such success in his case. ‘You’re late finishing.’
‘Yes, I had to complete some reports Rex wanted, so it was easier to stay late than to come in early.’
‘How conscientious of you.’ He grins as I roll my eyes. Eddie and I have never exchanged a word about our lives working under Rex. We don’t need to. We both understand the score. Although I’ve noticed Rex behaves better with those at The Lodge than with those in the office. Eddie hesitates, as though not sure if or how to continue. ‘Erm… Do you know how Dora is? I’ve been worried.’ Eddie had been part of the cast for the Murder Mystery evening, so had been witness to the events of last Saturday night.
‘It’s kind of you to ask after her. I’ve seen her, and she’s feeling better. I think she’ll be home early next week.’
‘That’s good to hear. When you see her next, give her my best, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will.’ We say our goodbyes as I get into my car, relieved to be on my way home at last.
I’d visited Dora at the hospital the day after the Murder Mystery with some trepidation. She’d always appeared to me to be one of the strongest women I knew, and I’d worried myself through a restless night as to the damage the ordeal might have caused her. Despite preparing myself, she’d still appeared small in the bed, and fragile, like an injured bird, broken and lost. Beyond the bandages and bruises she’d been calm, although distant, and struggled to concentrate on anything for any period. She’d lapsed into silence mid-sentence and gazed out of the window distractedly. She hadn’t wanted to talk for long, had said she was tired and had said nothing about the incident, which I’d understood. Afterwards, as I’d returned to my car, I’d been glad I’d gone, so she’d know I was there for her. I’d also gleaned she was likely to be in hospital until after the coming weekend so, as one practical thing I can do, I am going to carry out a thorough clean of her cottage so it is all ready for her return.
It is harder for me to switch off from work these days. My latest mistake or admonishment from Rex spins through my brain like clothes in a washing machine, often into the early hours. Later that evening, I sit in the quiet with a glass of wine and, as I’ve done many times before, focus on my work situation. This is the first day in April. Another month having passed by in which nothing has changed. Just like nothing has changed over the last eight years. I’ve given it enough time to improve, yet it hasn’t and now something has to give, because I can’t continue to work in that environment.
Despite examining the problem from every direction over the past weeks and months, I can only see one way to resolve the situation and I can’t keep procrastinating.
Either I have to go, or Rex does.
A Stolen Future is now available to buy.
Book Description
A rival to overcome… A truth to reveal…
A family firm. A long-held promise. What will it take to protect all she loves?
Alice Fraser has everything she needs. A comfortable home. A few good friends. A satisfying career. But when the promise made doesn’t materialise and everything changes at work she finds herself losing control of all she once held dear.
She could have left. She should have left. Instead she decides to dig in, and make life uncomfortable for her tormentor.
Petty revenge, she calls it. And that’s how it starts. But one day she is pushed too far, and once she takes the next step there is no going back.
A Stolen Future is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this psychological thriller.
If this looks like something you might like to read, you can find it at your favourite bookshop HERE. Or by clicking on the book cover.
Thank you x
A great first chapter!!
Thanks, Darlene. I appreciate you reading it 🙂