“Tim, ball’s in your court, mate,” Simon said. “You play rugby or whatever, right? So you get the metaphor. I can’t help you. You’re the contractor. I’m the director. I don’t ask you to do my job. We’ve all got to muck in and make this deadline work. And to be honest, I agree with the powers that be. No one wants to see how the sausage is made. No one cares about the electrics or the plumbing or closing the walls. It’s about the decorations anyway. Cushions! Wallpaper! Sofas! That’s why we got young Talitha in.”
Simon flung a dismissive hand at me, as if I should be grateful for his approbation.
Decorations. That burned me.
“Her name isTabitha,” Tim snarled.
I could feel my face getting hotter and hotter. Usually, I would have been annoyed at Tim speaking for me, but right now, it felt good that someone had my back.
Simon looked confused at the correction. Then annoyed.
Everyone in the crowd went rigid but silent. Maybe they knew there was no arguing with Simon.
“That means I need more crew,” Tim said. “And all my subbies will need to be paid a rush fee.”
Now Simon looked plain bored. “Of course. Bill us for more workers—that’s not an issue. Can’t you pull some of your people from your own jobs? Don’t you have a building business with scores of workers?” He made it sound like Tim wandered around with a band of tradies behind him. “I mean, clearly, we need them. Today.”
“I can’t pull them from my other sites,” Tim said. “That will damage my relationship with my clients. And that sort of treatment gets around a small village very quickly.”
Yuxi stepped forward. “I’ll work extra hours.”
Solomon was hanging back, trying to look small, but seeing Yuxi, he stepped forward too. “Me too.”
A sound intruded from the corner of the kitchen. Amid the dust and chaos, Dad was grinding away on one of his own projects, something involving steel and wood that only added to the dust and chaos. Mum was gluing a fringe onto one of her many lamps, dripping glue all over the floor, while chatting with the llama who had his head through the window.
Simon held out his arms. “You have two very willing people at your fingertips. They own this house, so theywantto do it.”
I tried to catch Tim’s eye. His horrified face must have been a mirror image of mine.
Simon clapped his hands as though the issue was satisfactorily resolved and turned to Trystan about what sort of garlic was in the chicken Alfredo for lunch.
My mind ticked over, making a list of everything that needed to happen. First, I needed to take an hour out now to get all the orders expedited.
Kitchen appliances, sofas, drapes, cushions, bedding, and towels. I’d have to make calls early in the morning before my job and late at night. It was too late to take this week off, but I had to get the whole of next week off. Anxiety twisted in my stomach that I’d made a promise to my editor that this shoot wouldn’t interfere with the interviews, and that was nonnegotiable.
I looked at Tim, his jaw slack, his eyes staring, but I was sure his mind was racing as fast as mine. At least we only had fourteen days left together.
That should make me feel better. We fought a lot of the time, he was obstructive, he didn’t agree with my vision. And now, I was going to be free to concentrate on the Wainwright story in two weeks. After the rush and stress of finishing over a month early, that should make me feel relieved, but somewhere in my body, a painful twisting sent out panicked mayday signals to the rest of me.Alert, alert, alert.
After fourteen days, I wouldn’t see Tim again. Oh, I might see him at the pub, in the grocery store, in the street. But not to reallyseehim and talk to him.
I clutched at where the distress was coming from.
It was my heart.
23
Tim
Fuuuck. How wouldI finish in two weeks? My mind raced through all the subbies I’d have to get in and listed all the remaining work in order of priority.
Another thought made my heart plunge.
I only have two more weeks with Tabitha.
At the end of the frustrating day, I waited for everyone to leave. I found Tabs in the area that used to be the formal drawing room scouring samples and taking notes. She was glowing in the last light of the window, sitting on one of the tatty silk-covered chairs strewn about the room, her legs slung over the arm. The room had been larger than any other, even cavernous, with crystal chandeliers falling from ornate ceiling roses. The French doors had beautiful views to the green side paddocks and golden hills beyond, but no one ever came in here.
Tabs was right; the formal space was unused and wasted. Maybe she was also right about opening it up so that it became part of the kitchen.
