The Builders' Report (chapters 3 & 4)

Chapter 3
Spring 2010

At thirty-four, Jason Dooley had had more to fill his life than the average fifty-year old. His schooling had been scant simply because he had found it difficult to read. He was to learn later that, besides being left-handed, he was dyslexic. He wasn’t illiterate but he found that the great outdoors held more attraction for him than the local library. By the time he was sixteen, he had already got his first job on a building site, his first wage and his freedom. His ability to charm his way through life might have been compensation for his more academic failings, but he had never suffered from an inferiority complex. Why would he have when he’d had his pick of fair women and had never had an issue with men? It was only when he had reached his mid-twenties and had ten years of working experience behind him that it occurred to him there were more important standards in life than how many pints he could drink in an evening or how far all his spent condoms would reach if put end to end.

It was then that he had headed out on his great Canadian adventure, either working or charming his way across North America with his wit, good looks and British accent. He had been willing to turn his hand to anything for experience, so was able to add chauffeur, barman, kitchen hand and gardener to his own trade of brick-layer. He’d lived simply. Although he’d been surrounded by beer drinkers, he had drunk reasonably and had never smoked. Oh, he’d puffed a packet or two in his teens but the taste and the waste had disgusted him, so he was free of that particular vice and had the white teeth to prove it. Having never been one for extravagance, he had been able to accumulate a good sum of money for his return to England. It had been enough to set him up with his own brick-laying business.

He might not be comfortable reading more than the daily newspaper but his mind was keen and ready to assimilate the tiniest piece of information for future use to his advantage. His financial acumen, perhaps as an equilibrium for his dyslexia, stood him in good stead as his small brick-laying business gradually expanded to become that of a building contractor’s – Dooley’s Brick Builders.

With the expansion of his company and his list of clients never waning, he had finally moved his London builder’s yard in Finsbury Park to Enfield, an area that had seen a boom in property prices. London’s never-ending stretching had propelled the wealthier to London’s outskirts where green fields were still to be seen, figuratively speaking. The larger family homes in Enfield still held promise for expansion and conversion.

Jason had moved at the right time to remain in great demand. ‘Cowboy’ builders, known for their shoddy work, scrounged for jobs offering cut-price rates but people were now wary of the pitfalls of using a bargain builder. Dooley’s was not cheap but its reputation guaranteed that every penny spent would be worth it. Jason was a task-master who kept an eye on every one of his contracts. He often spent his time on the sites working along side his men. It was obvious he knew what he was doing, so that it was natural for him to expect top quality work with no slacking from them. He paid well for it and got it. As a result, much of the work his company got came from recommendations, word of mouth. Clients were queuing rather than going with someone less known. His livelihood was assured.

He had an easy-going nature and wasn’t too particular as to where he lived. He had been on the move so much of his life that it was often without regret that he could move on. But for once, he had gone so far as to buy a small semi-detached house in one of the culs-de-sac in North London. Inside information had given him a lead to its sale before it had been put on the market; an occasion not to be missed. He hadn’t needed anything grand as he would be spending so little time in it but it was on a plot of land that had potential if he wanted to extend. It was a sound investment if he wanted to sell.

Quite unintentionally, he had begun to pick up some of the moss that a rolling stone is not supposed to gather. The local shopkeepers recognised him as being local now that he bought his bread, take-a-ways and tooth paste from them on a fairly regular basis. He was becoming familiar with the neighbours enough to nod with a ‘hi ya’ as paths crossed. It wouldn’t be easy for him to admit it but he had begun to enjoy the idea that this little part of the world was now his territory. Was age catching up and taming him? Na. He’d spent the last two nights with a woman who was cheating on her partner and he didn’t have to feel the least bit guilty. She’d come on to him, so what was a fella to do? One word covered it – oblige.

His first sexual experience in his teens with an older, married woman had made an impression on him. He’d asked her how she could have sex with another person when she was married and her words had, in some twisted way, made sense to him. ‘A slice off a cut loaf is rarely missed, love.’ Consequently, he had always shied away from girls he had suspected were virgins. They were an unknown quantity to be avoided. Why flirt with trouble when there were so many other experienced women who were willing and able? Another of his ‘principles’ was not to mix business with pleasure. This he held to strictly.

So, he had never slept with a virgin nor had he slept with any woman connected to work, including his rather lovely secretary, Jill. In principle, it was like switching off a light. Once it was off, there wouldn’t be any current at all. Anyway, it just so happened that Jill, as lovely as she was, would never be for him. She was gay, which was a very effective switch off, indeed.

Chapter 4
March 2010 – 14 years later

Cleo had decided very early on that if she were to get ahead in the world, she needed to know about ‘marketing’. This being thoroughly intermeshed with ‘business’ meant that her night classes had been chosen with the view of selling a product, any product, herself included. This line of thought had also led her to ‘psychology’ because if she understood how minds worked, she would be more apt at manipulating them.

She had been lucky. One thing had led to another and she had found herself delving into her fertile imagination and successfully marrying it with her education. Nearly fifteen years after she had taken her first course, she found herself as director of her own marketing and advertising agency. At thirty two, she was a recognised force in the business. She hadn’t been the first to do it – leave the company where she had last worked, taking clients with her. She wouldn’t be the last, which is why she kept a tight rein over anyone working for her. History was always repeating itself and she didn’t want to lose her clients in the same way. There was actually little chance of that happening because, although she was considered ‘cold’— a woman made of steel – she was equally efficient, bordering on brilliant. It was thought that her unemotional approach and analysis of a situation accounted for the more than satisfactory results in any campaign her company handled. Besides, she made sure she was the only one who had any durable contact with the clients.

As cold as she might be, as uninviting as her personality might seem, she had understood early in her climb in the business world that an attractive physical appearance was primordial. She first got a client’s attention by her personal presentation and by her language. She had made a concentrated effort to speak with a ‘BBC accent’ which gave the impression she had come from a better social class than she really had. In Britain, as soon as anyone opened his or her mouth, he or she was classed. Everyone did it, regardless of their own station in life. It was an automatic determining of ‘who’s who’. So, once Cleo had got a client’s attention with her looks and ‘class’, she kept them with her strategies. She had come a long way from that mousy Mary Murphy who had done her best not to draw attention to herself.

She was five foot seven, slender but with full breasts. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that those breasts, which had initially caused her embarrassment, were actually an asset if used wisely. Her dull brown hair had come alive in a rich, dark brown tint that had also added lustre. Although her skin was fair with a tendency to freckle if she got too much sun, she exuded an air of good health and clean living. She wasn’t beautiful but once one had looked into her hazel eyes with their long dark lashes, glanced at her lush mouth with its pink lips, one was unconsciously seduced. Perhaps her stand-offishness was seen as a challenge. Who would be the one to succeed in breaching her defences? Such thoughts became vain conjecture as time moved on, because it had never happened. She did not mix business with pleasure – ever.

The person who might be considered the closest to Cleo, was her personal assistant, Amanda Wade. She was a young woman in her late twenties with all the secretarial skills and experience that Cleo had required but it had been her chirpy, out-going personality which had cinched her position as her P.A. She was personable too. Medium height and shapely with mahogany coloured hair and blue eyes, she epitomized the general public’s idea of the trendy young woman who got ahead in life, as so often seen in TV commercials. Cleo had needed someone who would give a warm welcome to clients to counter-balance her own lack of overt enthusiasm because she would never resort to that synthetic, false camaraderie that Americans used with their clients. She was more than happy to hide behind that ‘good old British phlegm’.

Amanda had worked well and after a couple of years was comfortably ensconced in the company with Cleo, who had come to depend on her considerably. However, for all her efficiency, Amanda was no wiser about Cleo’s personal life than she had been on her first day. Once she was away from the office, for all intents and purposes, Cleo ceased to exist. Amanda had never dared overstep her position as an employee and ask any questions. She had been aware from the start that she was in an environment where one never spoke about anything personal unless one was spoken to first. Besides, it was only curiosity that sparked any interest she might have because in any circumstances, she had a hard time relating to her boss. What the hell! If the working relationship worked well without sharing confidences, why rock the boat? Anyway, she had too much going on in her own life to worry about her boss’…