Page 10 of Hired Help

“It’s some girl,” she says in a scathing tone. “I can’t believe he wants to throw his life away over a girlfriend. I raised him to be smarter than that.”

I end the call soon after, smarting over her summary and the implied criticism.

Ithrew my life away over a girl. Gwyn.Idropped out of school far too early with skills that barely qualified me for the employment ladder, let alone gave me enough earning power for me and my suddenly-having-a-baby-we-knew-nothing-about-until-midway-through-the-last-trimester girlfriend.

My unpreparedness had sunk my chances of finding a good job. The employment centres couldn’t work out where I fit any better than I could.

Desperate, I’d answered an open audition call to become a performer in a male revue show. That salary alone would have covered our bills nicely, except when Harrison was six months old, we discovered a congenital heart defect that needed urgent repair.

The hospital was free, likewise the surgery, but the cost of flying Gwyn to his bedside and putting her up in a hotel for the duration of his stay was far more expensive than our meagre savings could afford.

To the dancing, I added escorting. A career change I thought would be busy women without the time or inclination to date ensuring their sexual needs were met.

Instead, I found sex such a small part of the work it was more like an afterthought. My appointments were filled with people seeking connection, seeking conversation, friendship, reassurance; the emotional labour so intensive I had to space appointments far more widely than I first thought.

Even the appointments I took with men, a necessity to supplement my earnings, were filled with talk, with gossip, with laughter.

I thought it would be a short-lived career change. But the work was both more exhausting and more rewarding than I’d expected.

My worst mistake came from hiding the additional workload from Gwyn. A poor decision at the time. Even worse in retrospect.

She lost her rag when she found out, accusing me of cheating, of betrayal, of treating our relationship as a joke when all I wanted was to provide for her, for Harrison. It wasn’t forfun.

We struggled along for a while, but I never gained back any of the ground that I lost with her. The moment Harrison was through his rough patch, she left, and my struggle for access began.

“Daegan?”

I dart to my feet, so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear Roger, the mortgage broker, enter. “That’s me. Can I grab you a coffee?”

He smiles, tugging on the knot of his tie. A habit of his, judging by its angle. “I’m meant to shout you the drink. I’m the one earning a commission.”

“Hopefully,” I add since I’m not at all sure how this meeting’s going to go. I notice he doesn’t correct my impression.

When he sits, a dainty cup of espresso making his hands gigantic, I crack my knuckles. “Have you reviewed the paperwork?”

“It looks good,” he says, eyes skirting to the folder on the table rather than meeting mine. “Did you have a particular property in mind? Sometimes knowing what you want helps to clinch the deal.”

“This is the place I’m interested in.”

I slide the printed listing across the table to him. The copy is pristine, grabbed last night from the realtor’s office because the original is badly crumpled and stained.

He frowns at the details. “You’d be purchasing this as an investment property, is that right? Because it changes the parameters the bank checks for if it’s a business.”

“No.” I take a beat, not wanting to talk too soon because when I get worried, I blurt out everything at once, close to babbling. I’m not sure what Roger’s normal clientele are like but making the best impression possible never hurt anyone. “Although it’s listed as a rental, it’s my current residence, and I’d remain there.”

The widening of his eyes is subtle, but my overwrought nerves catch it. So much for my first impression. My postcode apparently means more than my savings, my employment longevity, my appearance.

“The house is old, but it has good bones, and the landlord installed new insulation just a year or two ago.”

“Sounds great,” the broker replies with a smile that doesn’t even attempt to reach his eyes. “But I won’t bother to sugar coat it. The bank might have a problem with this property. There’s a lot of gang activity near the address.”

Ah, yes. My lovely neighbours. A subsidiary chapter of the Head Hunters that grows like bacteria, doubling every time I check.

“Safest place to live,” I say, forcing myself to relax back in my seat, to flash my most charming smile. “Nobody messes with the properties around a gang house.”

“Until you cross the wrong neighbour and come home to find your place torched. What’s the insurance like?”

“I have contents—”

---