Authors: Carrie Elks
Fix You (3 page)
With Ruby’s bedtime routine, a favorite TV
program, and their sharing of beer and cookies, they were turning into a parody
of an old, married couple…
Minus the sex.
ON RICHARD’S FINAL night at the
cottage, they decided to walk into the village to buy their dinner from the
chip shop. The evening air was warm and fragrant as they sat on the village
green, eating their last supper of fish and chips straight out of the paper.
Ruby perched on the concrete steps of the War Memorial, throwing chips at
pigeons as they swooped down trying to steal her food from her fingers. They
watched the sun go down, their fingers coated with vinegar, salt, and grease.
A smudge of ketchup clung to the corner of
Hanna’s mouth. Richard stretched out his hand to rub it away with his thumb. He
felt the strangest urge to move his thumb slightly leftward, to plunge it
inside her soft mouth, just to see how it felt. Instead, he put it to his own
lips and licked the sauce off. Hanna stared at him with her rosebud mouth
slightly parted, and he could see a small hint of tongue just behind her lips.
“Are you
growing out your hair color?”
“I’m trying to reinvent myself for college.
I’m going for more of a rock-chick look. Goth is so last century.”
Richard laughed at her idealistic
enthusiasm, her belief that you could simply reinvent yourself with a change of
hair color. If only it were that easy.
“Rock chick?” He looked at her skeptically.
“Yep, I’m getting bored of only wearing
black. Even I need to wear color occasionally.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting the newly
re-invented Hanna Vincent. Maybe you can send me a photo.”
“Maybe you can bite me, perv,” she replied,
bumping him with her shoulder. Richard bumped her back and she fell from the
wooden bench, landing on the hard, dry grass with a thump. Her outraged
expression made him laugh long and hard.
The next morning, Richard left the cottage
early to catch the first flight to JFK. The plane was crowded, but the Maxwell
family always travelled first class. Even if Richard was a Larsen, his
stepfather wouldn’t let him travel any other way.
A black Lincoln was waiting for him at the
arrivals gate. The driver took his luggage, and Richard followed him to the
parking lot. He sat in the back as the driver steeled himself to go up against
the New York traffic. It was more than an hour before they pulled up outside
the brownstone townhouse.
He was home, though it was a strange word
to describe this place. The interior of the house was too pristine, too stark.
Too much like his mother. Yet if anywhere, this was the one place that should
be home to him. He’d spent the best part of fifteen years here.
Once inside the door, he walked toward the
kitchen where he could hear Consuela singing as she cleaned the floor. She had
worked for the Maxwells for a long time and was living at the townhouse long
before Richard and his mother moved in.
“Ricardo.” A smile lit up her face. “You’re
home. Come here and give me a kiss.”
He lifted her up and swung her around as
she swatted at his arms, trying to get him to release her.
“Where is everybody?” he asked, letting her
back down.
“Your momma is in the Hamptons. And Daniel
had to go to work with his father. He wasn’t very happy about it, either.”
Daniel was Richard’s seventeen-year-old
stepbrother, the only son and heir of Leon Maxwell. With a multi-billion dollar
empire encompassing everything from real estate to financial advisory services,
Leon Maxwell had a vast range of investments spread across the globe.
Richard leaned around Consuela and took a
still-warm roll from the cooling rack. She reached out and slapped his hand.
“Are we entertaining tonight?” He bit into
the roll.
“Mr. Maxwell has invited the Brookes to
join you for dinner.”
“At eight?”
“Yes, sir.” When she spoke to him, the
“sir” was always accompanied by a teasing smile. It was different than when she
said it to Leon or Daniel.
“Well, in that case, I’ll be in my room,
sleeping off the jetlag.” Richard winked and left the kitchen.
When he got upstairs, he wasn’t surprised
to find that his room was cleaner and more fragrant than when he had left it
over a week ago. Consuela had attacked it with gusto during his absence.
Throwing his suitcase in the corner and kicking off his shoes, he lay down on
top of the comforter, closing his eyes as soon as his head hit the pillow.
October 5
th
2000
“So, Hanna Vincent, what is your USP?”
Josh Chambers, editor of the student magazine, leaned back in his threadbare
swivel chair, removing the pencil that he had put behind his ear some moments
before. He tapped it against his teeth, as he stared at her.
Hanna frowned. What the hell was a USP? She
wondered if it was some sort of journalistic term she should be aware of. She
didn’t want to look stupid and admit she knew virtually nothing about writing
for a newspaper.
She’d applied for the position of unpaid
staff writer on the university magazine as soon as she’d arrived in Nottingham
the previous week. Now, she being interviewed by the highly intelligent editor
and already making a fool of herself.
“What I mean, Hanna, is what is your Unique
Selling Point? What makes you special? What do you have that all the other
applicants don’t?”
He had obviously taken pity on her. It seemed
the “deer in the headlights” look got her somewhere in life after all. It was a
shame she couldn’t use it on her family as easily.
“Well, Josh Chambers.” She allowed herself a
small grin at using his full name in the same way he had said hers. “I have
many Unique Selling Points. I’m hardworking, I’m determined, and I never take
no for an answer.”
“You and everybody else I’ve spoken to
today. That doesn’t make you unique. That just makes you desperate.” Josh shook
his head, smirking at her response. He was on the right side of attractive,
with his mop of dark-blond hair, strong jaw and day-old stubble. He had
perfected the “geek-chic” look, with his black rimmed glasses that kept sliding
down his nose. Though he was in the final year of his journalism degree, to Hanna
he seemed so much more than two years her senior.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a
large poster on the wall advertising a gig taking place the following week. She
turned her head to look, smiling as she recognized the man posing on the front
of the poster. He was wearing a tight black shirt, his wild hair flying
everywhere as he strummed his guitar.
“I know Tom McLean from Fatal Limits.” She
gestured over to the picture on the wall advertising the band as the headline
act. “I could score an interview with them.”
Josh leaned forward, his curiosity sparked
for the first time that morning. “Are you shitting me?”
“No!” Hanna laughed at his expression. “Seriously,
I met him in the summer. They’ve just been signed by an independent label. I
can call him right now if you like.”
Josh was still regarding her with interest,
his pencil firmly wedged in between his teeth. “Okay. Let’s agree that if you
score an interview with Fatal Limits,
and
if you write a good enough
article, then I’ll put you on a three month trial.” His smile was genuine.
“Thank you!” Hanna was incredulous, finding
it hard to believe that out of nearly a hundred applicants, she had been given
a trial. She felt like doing a little celebration dance.
“I’ll warn you now, I’m a pretty hard
taskmaster. I’ve been known to make grown men cry with my editing. I don’t take
any bullshit, and if you’re after an easy ride, then this isn’t the job for
you.”
“I’m not after any kind of ride, thank you
very much,” Hanna replied pithily, returning his stare with a piercing one of
her own. “And a lot bigger men than you have tried, and failed, to make me cry.”
“I’ll take that as a challenge, then.”
“Please do.”
Josh put out his hand and grabbed hold of Hanna’s.
He shook it a couple of times, as if to seal the deal.
“I look forward to working with you, Hanna
Vincent.”
“Please call me Hanna. Vincent is my
surname. It sounds weird when you say it like that.”
“Okay then, I look forward to working with
you, Hanna.” He paused. “No Vincent.”
“You just couldn’t resist it could you?”
She shook her head at him.
“You think you’re irresistible?” His brow
rose up.
“Not as much as you do.”
Josh removed his glasses, placing them on
the desk to his right. Running his hand through his hair, he leaned forward
until his face was only inches from Hanna’s.
“Are you hitting on me, Hanna Vincent?” She
could feel his soft breath against her skin. He was that close.
“If you have to ask, then the answer’s no. If
I was hitting on you, you’d know it.”
“Then I look forward to knowing it.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” She pushed
herself up from the chair, picking up her resume and portfolio. “Thank you for
the job offer. I look forward to you publishing my first piece.” Sounding more
confident than she felt, she gave Josh a quick nod and walked out into the main
newspaper office. Closing the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She wasn’t sure if she was attracted to Josh Chambers…or if she wanted to kill
him.
WHEN SHE GOT back to her dorm room,
there was a small brown parcel wedged into the mailbox by her door. Pulling it
out, she saw it had come from New York. The customs form affixed to the back
had been smudged in the rain, the writing illegible.
She wondered what on earth her father was
doing sending her books. Part of her couldn’t wait to see what sort of
inappropriate present he had sent this time. She supposed at the very least,
she should give him kudos for remembering her.
Once inside her room, she picked up the
package and began to unwrap it. As soon as she tore the brown paper apart, her
mouth dropped open with surprise. The book inside wasn’t pristine and new. It
had that unique, dusty odor that only old books possessed. A hardcover with a
bottle-green dust jacket. It was extremely well preserved for its age. The
large white script across the front cover left her in no doubt that the gift
was not from Philip Vincent.
It was
1984
by George Orwell.
As Hanna opened the front cover, she saw
the words “first edition” written in pencil on the title page.
An envelope fell out from its hiding place
between the pages landing softly on her white, embroidered bedcover. She could
feel her heart start to beat faster as she picked it up, putting her finger
into the gap at the edge of the flap and moving it along the edge in order to
tear it open. Pulling out the expensive cream notepaper, she unfolded it and
began to read.
September 27th 2000
Dear Hanna,
The beginning of your university
career is something worth celebrating, but as Thomas Carlyle said, “The
greatest university of all is the collection of books.” As soon as I saw this,
I couldn’t help but think of you. Thank you, not only for your kindness to Ruby
over the summer, but for also entertaining her lonely, and occasionally
annoying, Big Brother.
If the newly invented Hanna Vincent is
anywhere near as interesting as the old one, I look forward to seeing you again
soon.
Yours,
Richard
She stared at the letter for a while. It
was so short—just a note, really—but she couldn’t help but find herself getting
a little overcome at the gesture. He’d bought her a book—a first edition, no
less. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could pick up at a charity shop or a
thrift store.
Plus, he’d called her interesting. For some
unknown reason, she liked that. She
really
liked that. The way the Larsens
were lavishing that word on her was making her change her mind about it. For
the first time, it felt good to be interesting, to be different.
After spending ten minutes wondering how to
thank him, she decided to go down to the computer suite in the basement of the
halls of residence and send him an email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Big Brother
Dear Richard,
Wow, thank you so much for your
impressive gift. I’ve never owned a first edition of anything before, so I’m
very excited to start this new collection. I probably have some way to go
before I can have anything approaching Thomas Carlyle’s “university of books”
but a girl has to start somewhere, right?
I’m slightly concerned, however, that
you sent me a book which basically tells me that Big Brother is watching me.
Should I be worried?
Hanna
PS: I have been assigned room 101 as
my bedroom.
She clicked on the “send” icon, and sat
back, deciding to Ask Jeeves exactly how much a first edition of
1984
was worth.
Within moments she wished she hadn’t. There
was no way she could keep that thing in her bedroom. It was worth more than the
rest of her possessions added together. And then some.
Just as she started to consider returning
the gift, her email alert pinged.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Watching You?
Hanna,
You are most welcome. And as to your
question, it very much depends on what you’ve been doing.
Richard
PS: Does room 101 contain your worst
fear?
She smiled as she read his words, feeling inordinately happy that he
had replied so quickly. She glanced at her watch. It was 4:00 p.m. in the UK,
which meant it was around 11:00 a.m. in New York. She assumed he was either in
the library or at home at his desk, working on his laptop. After chewing on a
fingernail for a while, she decided to respond.
From: [email protected]
Subject: My Worst Nightmare
Richard,
Since you’ve read Harry Potter, I
suspect you already know what my worst nightmare is. But since I cannot say the
name, I’ll tell you instead that I’m sharing a bedroom with a six-foot tall,
chain smoking, French-speaking Amazonian. I have no doubt that anybody with a
name beginning with V would be scared shitless by her. I know I am.
Hanna
From: [email protected]
Subject: Embarrassing …
Hanna,
I’m trying to keep some street-cred
and not let on I’ve been reading children’s books during my summer vacation.
Can we keep this between you and me?
When does the next book come out,
anyway? Can I borrow it from you?
Richard
From: [email protected]
Subject: Embarrassed … you?
Richard,
It’s always a shame when a rich
Manhattan boy like yourself can’t afford to buy a book. I’ll ponder on that
while I’m eating the refectory’s latest dinner offering. I believe we’re in for
a treat tonight—Tuna Casserole with a side of over-boiled spinach. I’ll think
of you while I’m masticating.
Hanna