Chapter Two
It was three days after the incident on the train. I had not received any new job offers and was spending time at home at night catching up on cleaning and laundry and listening to music off my iPod. The Canadian Tenors were my current favourites.
I was in the kitchen at the back of my flat at the time, blending some fruit and ice for a smoothie. That, combined with the soaring voice of Clifton Murray – turned up loud so I could hear it over the whir of the blender – almost drowned out the sound of someone knocking at my front door.
I did not know how long my visitor had been knocking, but I heard it only because I had switched off the blender and there was a fortuitous break in the song at the same time. However, hearing the persistent knocking, I panicked a little, not knowing who might be calling at this time of night, and rushed out of the kitchen. My foot caught in my laundry basket, upsetting it and causing the toweringly large pile of laundry to tip over and me to lose my balance. Somehow, I managed to use the momentum to propel myself forward to land with a heavy thump against the door.
The sound must have alarmed my visitor for I heard him ask through the door: "You all right in there?"
Red-faced and embarrassed, I unlocked the door and opened it while replying: "I'm alright, thanks."
My humiliation was complete once I saw who it was standing outside. It was the man from the train who had been half-naked and commandeered my coat. This time, he was dressed in a nice leather jacket over a printed tshirt and dark blue jeans.
"Hello, love," he said, eyeing me with a curious but appreciative eye, like an art connoisseur considering a fine painting up for sale. At first, I wondered why he was looking at me like that and was a little offended. But that quickly turned to horror as I remembered that I was dressed only in a tattered purple camisole and old panties that were a hideous shade of green.
"Hi," I stuttered. "Give me a minute," I said and shut the door on him. In my head, I was screaming in utter mortification. I hurried to my upset laundry pile and pulled on a tshirt and a pair of shorts. I then hastily gathered my various articles of clothing and unceremoniously dumped them in the nearest cabinet.
The man knocked again. "Danae, are you decent yet, love?" he asked.
How does he know my name, I thought. Then, a more important question struck me; how does he know where I live? I wondered if I should make sure my kitchen knife was within easy reach just in case he turned out to be a murderer or criminal. He and his friend's behaviour on the train that day did not seem exactly normal to me.
"Danae…" he called again, a touch of impatience in his voice.
I lowered the volume on my iPod dock so we could at least hear ourselves think and opened the door again, but not as wide as before. "Hi again," I said. "Sorry about that."
"It's not a problem," he said with a small smile. "May I come in?"
"No," I quickly said, using the door as a shield to block most of my body, in case he whipped out a weapon. "Who are you and how did you know where I live?"
He reached inside his jacket, presumably, to an inner pocket. With two fingers, he drew out and held up my name card. Of course. I should have known.
"I found this in your coat pocket," he said. Looking down at it, he read: "Danae Pieterson. Phone number and agency number. It wasn't hard to find your address with this information. In any case, your agency was quite forthcoming." He put the name card back in his pocket and held out his hand. "Owen. Owen Sinclair."
I took his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you," I said automatically. I felt a strange tinge of regret at having to let go after the handshake. I folded my arms across my chest defensively. "So, what do you want?"
Owen held up a paper carrier bag that I had not noticed before. "I have something that belongs to you. I thought you might want it back." He held it out to me. I took it, looking inside as I did so. It was my coat, neatly folded and wrapped in a dry-cleaner's plastic cover. "Don't worry, I don't have any diseases and I had it cleaned," he assured.
"Thanks," I said grudgingly. So he returned the coat. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
"May I come in?" Owen asked again hopefully. I stood aside to let him in, praying that he would not comment on the messy state of the flat. He glanced round at my sitting room, his keen eyes seemed to be taking everything in.
"I was making a strawberry, kiwi and orange smoothie. Would you like some?" I offered as was only polite.
An odd look crossed his face. In all probability, he was considering if his stomach could handle that combination. Finally he replied: "No, water will be fine, thanks, love."
I went to the kitchen and searched for presentable mugs. I do not usually have visitors and so do not own "good china". I settled for two mugs with the least objectionable design – some corporate souvenirs from companies I had worked at. Having run out of boiled water and not really wanting to serve Owen boiling water right out of the kettle, I winced as I filled the mugs with tap water. Really classy. Hey, the authorities said it was clean enough to drink anyway, right?
Owen had settled himself down on my sofa when I returned. He took a glance at the contents of my mug as I handed him his. "Water for you too? Shame. I was hoping to see you drink that fruit concoction of yours," he commented.
"It's not really a drink for company," I said. The truth was, I was a little embarrassed to drink it in front of him, especially after he implied that he thought it was disgusting and had refused it.
Owen took a sip of the water, his dark brown eyes not leaving me for a second. His stare was making me a little uncomfortable.
"Is the water ok?" I asked to break the awkward silence. That, and because I was afraid he was allergic to the chlorine or something that was giving him a seizure – it would explain the fixed gaze.
"The water's great," he said. "Aren't you going to sit down?"
"Oh yeah, right." I realised that this was why he was staring. Why was I continually making a fool in of myself in front of this man? Suddenly, picking where to sit seemed like a very important and difficult choice. I did not want to sit too close – I barely knew the guy. But I did not want to sit too far away and seem cold and distant. I ended up sitting one seat diagonally away from him.
Since I did not have a coffee table, Owen put his mug on the floor by his foot before asking, "So, you work as a temp? Do you have any speciality area?"
"No," I answered. "I mean, yes, I'm a temp. No, I don't specialise. I find it's more interesting to be a Jack of all trades. You can work in more industries that way. Do more interesting things and meet people."
"The agency said you've been with them for quite some time already. Haven't you ever thought of getting a 'real job'?"
If anyone else were talking to me like this, I would have felt like I was being interviewed but for some reason, with Owen, it felt like chatting with a friend. I did not mind answering the questions he posed, even though I would have felt offended in other similar situations.
"I haven't really found anything I like, that's worth spending the rest of my life doing," I said. "Anyway, I see this as a real job – being a permanent temp."
Owen laughed. "You know that's an oxymoron, love," he pointed out.
"I'm not that smart. I don't know what that means, especially when I lack a dictionary to look it up," I admitted.
Thankfully, his grin did not get any less wide. "An oxymoron is a figure of speech that produces a self-contradictory effect. So, when you say you're a permanent temp, it's an oxymoron because 'permanent' and 'temp' contradict each other."
Light dawned. "Oh, I see," I said. "Now I wonder how many people I've said that to and looked like a fool in front of."
Owen sat back, relaxing and rested an arm on the back of the sofa. "I don't think you're a fool, love. In fact, I think you're rather cute."
"That's sweet of you," I said.
"It's true," he assured. He did sound sincere and I felt flattered. It had been a long time since a man had complimented me in any way. However, it was getting late and propriety called for him to leave. After all, he was still technically a stranger and, here in my apartment block, walls have ears and the neighbours would be gossiping about this like it was the most important news ever.
I stood up and said in my best "the boss is not in, please leave" voice: "Well, it's been very nice meeting you, Owen. And thank you for bringing my coat back. "
"I bet you thought you would never see it again," Owen commented. "It's a beautiful coat, by the way. You've got very good taste."
"Thank you. But, you know, it's getting a little late. I'm sure you have to get up early for work in the morning," I hinted.
"You want me to leave," Owen observed.
"You think?"
Owen still had not moved from his comfortable-looking position on the sofa. He flashed a roguish grin at me. "I like you, love. There's something appealing about you." He stood up. "Would you like a job?"
"Pardon?"
"Colin and I could do with another set of hands around the office," Owen said. "And seeing as you're a temp and between jobs, you'd be perfect for the job, Danae." I hesitated. It was more complicated that normal. In the short time Owen had appeared in my life, he made me feel attracted to him and I was reluctant to spoil any chances I might have with him by accepting him as my boss. Though a part of my mind reminded me that working in the same office all day with him would not hurt either. How many times have I seen office romance blossom? Owen appeared to sense my hesitation and pressed on. "You'll be paid a thousand a week for your troubles."
I was shocked. "Pounds?"
"No, roubles. Of course pounds, you silly girl," he teased.
£1,000 a week? I don't think I had ever seen that much money at one time before. This definitely might change things. At this point, I barely knew Owen and money was more important to me than him. "What kind of job?" I asked.
For the first time, Owen looked a little uncomfortable. "It's sort of a project we're working on. Sort of investigative… stuff," he said evasively. "Oh yeah, it's a project we're hoping to be done with by Dec 21, so, I'm sorry but it might not be a long-term job."
"I knew there was a catch somewhere," I joked. "Three months is alright with me. It's a tempting offer, Owen."
"And I hope you will take it."
"Who's Colin?"
"My friend. He was with me on the train the other night. You've seen him; tall, skinny, black-haired chap," Owen described. "So, what do you think? Will you take the job? Should I maybe check with your agency first?"
"No need to check with the agency," I told him. "I distribute those name cards for a reason. I do accept freelance assignments." He was still looking hopefully at me. "Sure, I'll take the job. When do you want me to start?"
"That is great!" Owen exclaimed. "How about the day after tomorrow? Wednesday?"
I considered the timing and nodded my agreement. Owen looked absolutely delighted.
