‘So,’ said Ian, in the broad burr he hadn’t lost despite his millions. ‘I want that book shop. That is a prestige building and I want it as my head office. It’s classy. If I do that up right, it’ll do more for my reputation than any advert.’
Ian was obsessed with how people perceived him. He longed for people to think he was a class act. And he was right – the book shop was one of the nicest buildings in Peasebrook, right on the bridge. Jackson could already see the sign hanging outside in his mind’s eye: Peasebrook Developments, with its oak leaf logo.
‘And I’ve gone over the drawings for the glove factory again and done a bit of jiggling. If I get the book shop car park, I can have parking for four more flats. Without it, I’m down to eight units, which doesn’t make it worth my while. Twelve will see me a nice fat profit. But you know what the council are like. They want their allocated parking. And that’s like gold dust in Peasebrook.’
He tapped the drawing of the car park with his pencil.
‘Julius Nightingale wasn’t having any of it,’ Ian went on. ‘One of those irritating buggers who don’t think money’s important. I offered him a hefty whack, but he wasn’t interested. But now he’s gone and it’s just his daughter. She insists she’s not interested either. But now the dad’s gone, she’s going to struggle to keep that place afloat. I reckon she could be persuaded to see sense. Only she’s not going to want to hear it from me. So … that’s where you come in, pretty boy.’
Ian grinned. Jackson was, indeed, a pretty boy, slight but muscular, with brown eyes as bright as a robin’s. There was a little bit of the rakish gypsy about him. His eyes and mouth were wreathed in laughter lines, even though he hadn’t had that much to laugh about over the past few years. With his slightly too long hair and his aviator sunglasses, he looked like trouble and radiated mischief but he had warmth and charm and a ready wit. He was quicksilver – though he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He just couldn’t say no – to trouble or a pretty girl. Although not the pretty girls any more. His heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t even sure he had a heart these days.
Jackson listened to what Ian was saying and frowned. ‘But how am I going to get to know her? I’ve never read a book in my life.’
‘Not even The Da Vinci Code? I thought everyone had read that.’ Ian wasn’t a great reader himself, but he managed the odd thumping hardback on holiday.
Jackson shook his head. He could read, but he never did. Books held no thrall for him. They smelled bad and reminded him of school. He’d hated school – and school had hated him. He’d felt caged and ridiculed and they had been as glad to see the back of him as he had been to leave.
Ian shrugged.
‘It’s up to you to work out how to do it. But you’re a good-looking boy. The way to a girl’s heart is through her knickers, surely?’
Even Jackson looked mildly disgusted by this. Ian leant forward with a smile.
‘You get me that shop and you can manage the glove factory development.’
Jackson raised his eyebrows. This was a step up, letting him manage an entire project. But Ian’s offer was a double-edged sword. He was flattered that Ian thought him capable of the job. Which of course he was.
But Jackson wanted to be able to do what Ian was doing for himself. He needed money if he was going to do that. Proper money. Right now, Jackson couldn’t even put down a deposit on a pigsty.
Ian was smart. He knew he’d got Jackson by the short and curlies. He was taking advantage of him. Or was he? He paid him well. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that Jackson had screwed up his relationship. Or that keeping Mia was bleeding him dry. He only had himself to blame for that. If he hadn’t been such an idiot …
Ian opened a drawer and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out five hundred.
‘That’s for expenses.’
Jackson pocketed the cash, thinking about what else it could buy him.
He’d love to be able to take Finn on holiday. He imagined a magical hotel on a beach, with four different swimming pools and palm trees and endless free cocktails. He longed for warmth on his skin, and the chance to laugh with his son.
Or he could put it towards a decent van. He’d just need one job to get him started. If he did it well, there would be word of mouth. He could move onto the next job, start saving, keep his eye open for a house that needed doing up … He could do it. He was certain.
In the meantime, he had to keep in with Ian. Ian was his bread and butter, and he wouldn’t want to let Jackson go. He had to play it smart.
Emilia Nightingale shouldn’t take him long. Once Jackson had a girl in his sights, she was a sitting target. He had to muster up some of his old charm. He used to have them queuing up. Pull yourself together, he told himself.
Jackson held out his hand and shook Ian’s with a cocky wink that would have done credit to the Artful Dodger.
‘Leave it with me, mate. Nightingale Books will be yours by the end of the month.’