I knocked on Mrs Askham’s door, I’d chosen my time well, having watched Mr Askham leave for work as usual. She opened it, and stared at me for long seconds before, grudgingly, it seemed opening it wide for me. I followed her into the kitchen.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you’ I made it a rule never to take refreshments at a client’s house, especially when I was about to break bad news.
I plopped an envelope on the counter. She looked at it like I’d put a doggy bag of steaming shit on there, which in one way, I had.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I never liked this bit although it paid the bills. She opened the envelope with shaking hands and flipped through the photos, a zoetrope, starting with her husband meeting Miley (28, works in admin) in the carpark, through the stripping of clothing in the car, and then the inevitable conclusion, for which I had done many close ups of Mr Askham’s contorted face, a sweaty climaxing gargoyle. I didn’t manage many of Miley just her legs waving around and stilettos that I was convinced would punch out a window.
Mrs Askham gave a gasping sob, and I remembered the raw end of this deal. I finished making her a tea and patted her hand as I listened to the wailing sobs of a heart breaking in two, interspersed with threats of maiming and death. I should add counselling to my business cards, maybe Private Investigations, Counselling optional and charge more. Another reason I was not married and did not believe in relationships. Happy ever after, my arse.
I left Mrs Askham calling a divorce lawyer and got back into my car, the ‘old faithful’ which had been going since the 90’s, a Renault 5, now held together with prayers and string. Despite supposedly being faithful, it regularly let me down, failing to start in the mornings, which dovetailed perfectly with the moral sense of most jobs I had. I also couldn’t afford a new one and couldn’t be bothered to look. At some point it would just not work anymore forcing the decision on me, but that was another day. I sighed and lit a fag. I’d given up, but the whole thing with Mrs Askham had unsettled me leaving me feeling a bit grubby. Anyway, I’d only given up on Sunday and it was Monday, so no big deal.
I called Dan, who was my sort of assistant that I couldn’t afford. Consequently, he only worked for me when he wasn’t busy. It’s better than it sounds. ‘What did you find?’ Dan was young, around 20 something which as far as I was concerned meant he was a computer whizz and as far as he was concerned could look things up on google and social media.
I checked my list, although it wasn’t strictly necessary as it consisted of two items, Mrs Askham – completed, tick- and a Mr Pratt, 15 Beechwood Gardens. I wasn’t exactly inundated with work, but the thought of being able to pay this month’s rent cheered me up and I set the sat nav and drove off to find him.
He lived in a good area of town and, as always, I automatically took in details as I drew up. Recently painted 1970s semi, well-tended garden, freshly mown with robust looking roses around the perimeter and a two-year-old Kia Picanto was parked on the driveway. Details matter, when you want to get paid, and the omens were good. Not rich, but disposable income was available. The question was would he be disappointed or not? This year’s score was 7 disappointed, to 3 not.
I used the burnished doorknob, and he opened the door, adding to my list of data, nothing to contradict the initial impression: he was small, elderly, and neatly dressed in what looked like Marks and Spencer’s Classics for men range.
I introduced myself and saw the telltale look of disappointment. Ok, so score now: 8 to 3. So this is where I must own up to a bit of deliberate contrariness. My name is Andrea, but on my business cards I use my nickname, Andy. So of course, most people are expecting a man. And they shouldn’t, really. Or at least I pretend I know they shouldn’t, but of course they’re going to, because I would myself, anyone would, but it still doesn’t stop me messing with people’s heads (or preconceived notions of gender names and roles). I’ll should grow up one day, but meantime my job is so tedious, I invent these games, for myself.
I could see Mr Pratt’s thoughts cross his face: readjusting his internal picture of how his conversation was going to go, recounting the problem, and now putting a female in the PI role. Some people had refused to see me, one gentleman had been furious and quite threatening, calling me a ‘fraud woke bitch’. Call me perverse, but I got a buzz out of it, even if I was shaking for a bit afterwards. My mum says I’ve always been a bit odd.
Mr Pratt obviously fought his arguments in his head, and decided it was too much time and trouble to call up another agency, and nodded, ushering me into a front room, which was a surprise. I’d gone with LLadro figurines, brass clock on mantelpiece, lampshades with fringes, and beige velour couch, but I was wrong. The room was lined with bookcases, and more books were piled by the sofa and chairs. There were paintings dotted around and stacked in front of the cases. Unusual for suburbia, or what I’d seen so far. Mr Pratt was observing me.
‘Surprised?’ he said.
‘A bit. So, I guess that makes two of us.’ I raised my eyebrows.
‘Hah. Touche. Sit down’ he gestured to the sofa and moved a pile of books to the floor. ‘I was expecting a man. Do you do that on purpose, Andy?’ Whatever else he was, he wasn’t an idiot.
‘Maybe’ I said taking the seat. A cat entered the room and made a beeline for my lap.
‘How can I help you, Mr Pratt?’
He looked at me a for a moment and said ‘Have you ever seen the Antiques Roadshow?’
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