A/U story of Molly and CJ inspired by Jojo Moyes' book "Me before you". Both are living in Bath and Molly is hired as companion for CJ who is wheelchair bound after injuries he got in Belize. CJ is his usual self and captain, meanwhile Molly has led another life not involving the army but in spirit she is the same character. Should be easy to follow even if you never have seen "Our girl" (although I highly recommend the series for enjoying these fantastic characters on screen).
I might continue "Missed me?" in the future, but right now this is what pops up in my head and I just love thinking of stories of these two. Writing fanfiction has really turned into my new hobby. Hope you might enjoy reading it too.
This will be a full story of several chapters and I have a general idea in my head of the story line although it is far from fixed yet.
All characters except newly invented ones belong to Tony Grounds and BBC. /X
Chapter 1: An accidental interview"What previous experience do you have of taking care of a convalescent?"
Truth is - none, but when I open my mouth, I lie so fluently that I almost believe myself, to the blonde, cool woman who for some reason is interviewing me for a job I have no intention applying for.
"I was taking care of my sickly grandmother for many years, almost like a part-time job. I was there for every single day until her very last moment and then I sat by her side, holding her hand as she left this world. Everyone was so sad because she was the most beloved person, but their grief was at least relieved by knowing she had company until the end by someone who loved her."
I believe myself so much that I can feel a tear finding its way out from the corner of my eye and run down my cheek. This is total bullocks. I'm not a naturally care-taking person, nurse is one of the professions I first ruled out back in the day when one discussed possible career options with the school counsellor. Furthermore, my Nan is alive and well, probably shouting out loud in the bingo-hall as we speak, but no need for the interviewer to know that. I don't know why I bother. I shouldn't even be here for this interview, it's a mistake, but her haughty way of looking at me like I'm unlikely to qualify strikes a competitive nerve in me and now I suddenly want this job more than anything. Even though I don't know for sure what it actually is.
-O-
This morning started like any other morning in the Dawes household. Except I got up a bit late because I had put the phone alarm on snooze too many times, hurried for the bathroom only to find it occupied by Bella. It is hopeless in our house if you for some reason miss your "slot" in the bathroom. We are so many sharing this bathroom that we have spontaneously fallen into a pattern where everyone follows a schedule for using it in the morning. Usually Nan is first, she is one of them elderly people who for unknown reason wakes up fully alert at 5.30 am even though she does not have to get up for work, which leaves her plenty of time in the bathroom before it is my turn. Then is gets busy; me, followed by my sister Bella, then Mum together with Bonnie, Charlie, Liam and Ella to get the little bleeders ready for school. Last comes dad. He does not really have anything special to get ready for, so like Nan there is plenty of time for him and I think he likes to just sit there for an hour. But me, now, I'm colliding with Bella. Luckily, she is in a good mood and lets me brush my teeth and put on makeup while she is in the shower, saving me from arriving to work more than ten minutes late, breathless after biking faster than usual.
The café owner, Louie, is waiting impatiently for me, demonstratively looking at his watch as I enter the door and hurriedly put on my apron and dive into my place behind the counter. This job is in one way my dream job, yet miles away from it. My dream is to have a café of my own. A really cozy, homely one, with small intimate tables, armchairs, cushions, shelves with magazines, books and games that the guests can borrow, maybe even a fireplace which one can drink hot Cocoa in front of in the winter. Everything will be homemade and made with love, the bread for the tasty sandwiches, the delicious the cookies, cakes and pies. It will smell great, obviously, from the newly baked pastries, the freshly grounded coffee and the tea. I will be circling around, chatting to the many regulars and convince them to try the new cake recipe I have invented. Of course, this is nothing but a dream so far and the only resemblance with my current job is that the place I work is called a café.
Firstly, I do not own it, Louie does. He is a short, chubby Italian who thinks he has irresistible Italian charm but actually is quite creepy and has a foul temper. Secondly, the café is far from cozy. So much could be done with this room, the lighting, the furniture, right now it is sparse and cold with a mixture of ugly plastic chairs and metallic tables, with unmatched cloths and vases with hideous fake flowers, a ghastly greenish shade on the walls. Thirdly, what we serve is not homemade. Some of it Louie orders ready from a supplier, some is so-called 'bake-off' which means it comes here half ready, we bake it some more in our oven and present it as our own. It does not taste bad, but I'm not very proud of it either. Obviously, the customers know the difference too. By-passers come in and we have enough guests to make ends meet, but it is not like it is a popular and crowded place, or people make an extra detour to get here because of positive reviews on TripAdvisor.
I love to bake. It is my favourite hobby (my second best is reading) and I can spend hours and hours in our kitchen at home trying new recipes, from cookbooks or my own inventions. I would love if I could serve that to the guests, but Louie says that preparing everything from scratch with quality ingredients would be too expensive. All I do here in the café is to put the bake-off in the oven, prepare sandwiches and make coffee.
Today, eleven-ish, the phone rang and as I was busy serving a family of four, Louie answered. When he had hung up, he turned to me;
"We have a home delivery."
Now, that was a first. As far as I know no one has requested it before and we have not offered it.
"Some posh lady over at Royal Crescent was desperate for an apple pie for her book club gathering this afternoon. She was willing to pay a fair amount for a home delivery."
Of course, pay enough and greedy Louie would agree to anything. Problem is, we do not have a delivery boy, or a car or even moped for the purpose. Even before he says it, I know that I will have to put my arse on my bike and pedal myself and the pie over there. At least I will get out of here and away from Louie for a while.
Biking to work is okay, because the distance between home and the café happens to be relatively flat. Biking anywhere else in Bath can be a hell because of the steep streets. Even though the distance between the café and Royal Crescent is not that far, it happens to be very steep and when I arrive I'm all flushed and sweaty. Fortunately, the box with the pie is still attached to the carrier. If I had dropped on the way it I'm not sure I would have managed to return for a new one and go back again. For the thousand time I think I should start jogging or some other exercise.
The houses in this street and the entire street itself, are intimidating. The old houses are so amazingly beautiful and just ooze wealth, very far from the house the Dawes family lives in, although I must admit ours looks cozier. I wonder how come someone living here came up with the idea ordering an apple pie from our café. I get the answer shortly after calling on the door.
The house does not have a regular door bell, instead a brass knocker. (I assume brass, it could be solid gold for what I know but then I guess they would need a permanent guard watching it or someone would steel it, so probably brass after all.) When I knock, it is opened by someone who seems to be a house keeper, and she seems very bothered when she understands I'm there to deliver the pie.
"We usually receive deliveries through the kitchen entrance" she says in complaining voice, pursing her mouth.
How the heck was I to know? But I play along.
"Do you want me to go around to the other entrance?" I ask in my most congenial voice.
"No, no, too late", she replies impatiently. "Just come with me quickly."
I guess it might offend the fine people living in this building if they would happen to see a simple person delivering something. I laugh inside at the thought, there really is a difference between people and people, at least some people like to think there is. Holding on to the box with the pie which is my ticket into this fantastic house, I follow the housekeeper towards the kitchen area in the back of the house. The moment I enter the kitchen I fall in love. The rest of the house may be posh, but this is rustic and homily. It is large, with a big wooden kitchen island with an antique finish to it, a huge stove of the kind I only dream of – retro looking but in fact top modern, copper skillets and pans hanging from the roof. I would die to be allowed to bake in this kitchen, but I'm only here to deliver a pie that I have not baked myself and which I'm not particularly proud of even if I know it is one of the better ready-made pastries we have on the menu. As the housekeeper conjures forth some bills to pay me, she explains how come I'm here.
"Normally, Mrs. James always orders apple pie for the book club afternoon tea from the Courtyard café and today would have been no different, but they called an hour ago and it turned out their pastry chef had vomited – vomited! – in the kitchen, so of course we had to cancel the order and look for something else. Your café was the first one within reasonable distance who was able to deliver."
Ah, that explains it. We were not the first choice and I can hear that she is pissed off that the pastry chef had the audacity to be sick while preparing something for this household. Suspiciously, she opens the box, looks at the pie and sniffs it.
"It is homemade, I presume?"
"Of course." I'm not even ashamed lying to her. It amuses me that the ladies of the book club will eat this pie. I wonder if they will be appalled or if they will not know the difference. She believes me or she is just desperate, but either way she closes the lid of the box, counts the brazen sum that Louie has demanded to deliver this pie and hands it to me.
"That would be all. I'm very busy, can you please see yourself out." It is not a question, rather a request.
"Okay, enjoy the pie. I hope you will find it delicious." I say very politely and she gives me another suspicious glance before she turns her back on me.
It is only when I have already left the kitchen that I realize I did not ask where the other entrance is, the one where she would have preferred that delivery boys, or girls, entered. Instead of returning and ask, which would most likely annoy her, I decide to leave the same way I came. Just as I stand in the main entrance, for a moment admiring the giant staircase which is winding its way high up above my head, I hear someone say;
"This way please, miss."
Another woman is standing a few meters away, signaling for me to come with her. Before I have the chance to ask anything, she spins around and disappears through a door. This is very odd, but it would be impolite not to follow, wouldn't it? Or maybe I'm just too curious not to.
She leads me into a small but very elegant office, seats herself behind a desk and sign for me to sit down on the chair in front of her.
"So, what is your name?"
"Molly Dawes."
She glances down at the papers in front of her.
"Strange… Your name is not here in the list of candidates I got from the agency… Well, maybe they just added one last minute and frankly we can need some more candidates to choose from."
I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about. Candidates for what?
"As you know, we are looking for a companion for Mr. James, someone to keep him company meanwhile the elderly Mr. James and his wife are away travelling. Someone to ensure he is not alone, help prepare his meals and drive him back and forth to rehab."
It sounds like an easy job, lucky the person that gets it – but she continues.
"The job will be… a bit of a challenge. Mr. James is not very happy with his current situation and he can be… let's say moody. His companion needs to be able to handle that."
I can hardly help letting out a giggle. "Companion", it sounds like something out of a Jane Austen novel, which is quite fitting as we after all are in Bath. She is one of my favourite authors by the way. Now that the interviewer woman has warned me about that the job may be challenging, she seems to find it necessary to ask of my qualifications as well.
"What previous experience do you have of taking care of a convalescent?"
Aha, so Mr. James has suffered from some kind of disease or injury, therefore he finds himself confined to this house and in need of a companion (giggle inside again). This is the moment where I find myself lying about taking care of Nan without better reason than that the interviewer woman by her sneering looks has provoked my competitive spirit. Also, I'm curious like hell.
She gives my speech some thought, then with a sigh says;
"There are several candidates who have more experience that you, but maybe it will work out. I will let you through to the next step. Mr. James has the final say and will meet all candidates to decide which one he wants. So far no one has passed that step."
This is just too exciting to tell her a mistake has been made, I'm not looking for a job and head for the door. Instead I let her show me to another room where three others, two women one man, are seated on chairs along the wall, apparently waiting for their turn. Suddenly a door opens, and a middle-aged, upset-looking woman hurries out and leaves without looking at any of us. My guess is she did not get the job. The next woman, in her fifties and with hair so frizzy it looks like she put it in a waffle iron this morning, disappears through the door. I hear the other two chatting while waiting. It seems they have experience from working with elderly and sick people that far exceeds my made-up one, but as I only want to take a glance at Mr. James, I do not really care. The frizzy haired woman soon appears in the door and with flushed cheeks make her way off as speedily as the previous one, further increasing my curiosity about the challenging Mr. James on the other side of that door. In the next twenty minutes, the same happens with the other woman and the man – it seems they did not get far impressing Mr. James with all their previous experience.
As the door opens for what I assume must be my turn, I hear a harsh voice shout from inside;
"How difficult can it be for you massive cockwombles to find a candidate who doesn't make me want to kill myself!? Is there even one I don't feel like lobbing out of here at the bare sight of them?"
Just as I giggle about this, the interviewer woman looks out though the door and says;
"Ms. Dawes, Mr. James is ready for you."
The question is – am I ready for Mr. James?