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“Yeah, Freddy’s our driver; hasn’t he told you?” he questions before shouting, “Fred!” across to wherever Freddy is hiding beneath the other car.
“Well done, Dad,” Calls Freddy’s voice from under the car. “I hadn’t got to that bit yet.”
“You hadn’t got to that bit?” I call over before turning my attention back to the elder Bale. “But Freddy’s not allowed to drive. What happens if he gets hurt?”
“Rubbish, he’s a master. He’s also the only one of my boys who understands an engine at all.”
The man himself slides out and grins across the floor. “Master,” he confirms before scooting back under again.
“Hmm,” is my only reply as my understanding about Freddy’s role in the business and within his family grows exponentially. I turn and look at the lines of pictures along the walls. Sure enough, there is Freddy in all his golden glory, trophies in hand. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me this. It’s a big part of himself to accidentally forget to mention. The fact he has a race tomorrow is even bigger. I cast a cautious eye over the car again as his dad starts to re-cover it. It looks suspiciously fragile and easy to crumple now I know Freddy is the one to drive it high speed.
I file the information away, ready to discuss in great detail later when we haven’t got an audience.
“Right, tea?” I prompt.
“Kitchen’s through there.” I am directed through to a small, grimy kitchenette area that looks like it was last cleaned in the 90’s. While I wait for the ancient kettle to boil, I find a bottle of bleach under the sink and start to squirt it over every surface I can find. The kettle has been flicked on and boiled twice by the time I have got the cupboards and work surface even resembling hygienic, and I wouldn’t want anyone to walk in with one of those ultraviolet germ detecting lights because I’m sure the nasties are still having a party along the tiles. Dragging a handful of chipped mugs from a cupboard, I find an old Tetley metal tray and balance the mugs and a bowl of sugar. Giving a carton of milk a dubious sniff, I load it all up and walk back into the workshop.
“Here you go,” I holler over the clang of tools banging and Freddy arguing with his dickwad brother. I can’t hear what they are saying, and nor do I really want to, because basically I have a bad feeling it may involve me. The only word I can catch is, “Distracted.” As that’s the word my mother uses in relation to Freddy, it only confirms my suspicion. Ignoring them, I clatter the tray onto the floor and head over to the desk hiding under a mountain of crap.
After ten minutes of just straightening paper into piles, I look up and see the workshop is a hub of activity. I’ve been so absorbed by the papers on the desk—most of which are bills and final demands—that I haven’t noticed the mugs of tea get drunk, nor Freddy and his family settle into a tight organised machine of activity. It’s a shame they don’t put the same effort into their filing system.
“Don’t you have someone to help with the paperwork?” I call out to the room, but I’m met by silence. Trying a different tack, I call, “So, who am I invoicing then, and how much?” This quickly gets Freddy’s dad up off his knees and over to the desk.
“Mrs Bedlington. Her address is in the pile somewhere, and you’re charging her for a Roadster 140. She’s paid a deposit, but I can’t remember how much though.” He shrugs ruefully and runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair.
I mutter under my breath about this being no way to run a business, but he doesn’t hear and walks off instead to watch as Freddy completes some essential task they are all holding their breath over. I take an entirely pleasurable moment checking out his grease covered, arm bulging, vest wearing form before turning my attention back to the paperwork from hell and the elusive Mrs Bedlington.
“How much is this car again? The Roadstar 140?”
“Twenty-nine thousand, five hundred and fifty,” they all chant at once.
Not quite a Ford Focus then.
It’s pitch-black outside and I’m sure the shops are closed when I finally manage to print off the invoice. “I’ve done it. I’ve bloody done it!” I shout before I can stop myself and keep my very uncool enthusiasm in check. I look up and find them all standing in various poses watching me. Even dickwad is smirking in my direction. Freddy is grinning and his dad just looks mighty relieved to be able to get someone to pay for the car that’s sat gleaming in the middle of the garage. It’s pillar-box red and looks outstanding.
“Did you do all this?” I ask Freddy, as he snatches his discarded shirt off the floor.
“Meh, it was a team effort.” He plants himself squarely in front of me and wraps his arms tight around my shoulders. I breathe in the warm scent of chemicals and oil lifting off his skin. It’s just too much hot all at once. A flush burns deep inside me at the mere touch of his skin against mine.
“Thanks for helping with the paperwork.” His lips skim the skin under my ear and a shudder runs through me.
“Okay, can we go now?” I’m not trying to be rude, but seeing him here at work, seeing what he’s capable of, combined with the way he looks and smells is having a jelly wobble effect on my legs and well, most of my extremities. Who knew watching a guy perform some manual labour could be such an outrageous turn on? For a split second I realise meeting Freddy, and being with Freddy, has put me on a totally different path. I always figured I would train to be a doctor and then when the time was right, I would meet a doctor, all suave and clean, and we would go on to have little perfect babies. Standing in this grimy garage, with a man covered in dirt and sweat, but watching his beautiful smile light the room, I know that path will never be one I want now. Not now I’ve felt this. Seen this.
The realisation makes my legs give a distinct wobble and Freddy tightens his arms around me and lowers me down to cast his concerned dark blues over me. “Okay?”
“Yeah, just hungry I guess,” I quickly fib.
“Food! Shit! Okay, I’m a terrible boyfriend, you should look for an upgrade.” He smiles at me, and I grin back at the irony he thinks he’s a terrible boyfriend when I’ve just come to the understanding he may be the only boyfriend I will ever want. Not that I’d tell him that, yet. That would not be cool.
“Well, I wouldn’t say terrible,” I tease.
Mr Bale walks over and shakes Freddy’s hand, which I find endearingly gentlemanly. “Don’t be late for the track tomorrow.” He winks knowingly at Freddy, and I flush all over again. He turns his attention to me and catches me burning. “Will you be joining us for the race?”
I open my mouth to answer, but don’t need to because Henry butts in from across the room. “No, she won’t. Freddy has to concentrate.”
Freddy smooths over the awkward moment by leaning in and kissing under my ear. “It’s true, you are very distracting.” His voice is low, and the soft knowing tone is meant just for me.
“Here you go, Fred. I hope you guys enjoy your holiday.” Mr Bale hands Freddy an envelope and a set of keys before turning to me. “Thank you, Miss French for helping us today. You’re an asset I think we should keep hold of.” He gives Freddy a wink, which makes me giggle. I’m a great asset. Please keep me.
