November 23, 2014 by helenwaldron
In which Writewell notices she hasn’t been paid.
Andalusia. Sounds great, thought Writewell. She was now beginning to regret her conscientiousness, or weakness, or ambition, or whatever.
She should have gone on holiday herself. Instead she had made the decision to take it easy during this quiet period, and now found herself teaching an unplanned intensive course at Happlon Group (with all the attendant preparation that a new course required). In short, she was working a normal week, but her brain still persisted in thinking it was on holiday.
She visited her fashion designer. The one who never spoke, but stared moodily out at his property while she tried to engage him. And she was so preoccupied with Happlon that she failed to notice that the driver failed to hand over the usual handsome cash payment, as he returned her to Hamburg from the designer’s estate
Never mind, she thought. It was the designer’s own decision to pay her in cash. She would simply send him a bill, as was usual in her trade. She remembered Speakeasy’s advice then.
“Bill as you go. You know, just in case.”
There was no problem as yet, but you couldn’t be too careful.
There were three messages from Happlon Group on the answering machine. Two were from Frau Reppentrop and one was from Happlon himself.
“Come now, please. And dress for a conference.”
Feeling slightly insulted (she was always dressed smartly, even if she wasn’t a designer victim, like Speakeasy), she realized that – although she was unprepared – Happlon was planning to use her as an interpreter.
“How long will the meeting last?” she asked when she rang back.
“I’ll pay you well,” he said and rang off.