John Tregarth perched on the chair behind the counter and tried to make himself concentrate on the paperwork and his spreadsheet. Outside, the day was unseasonably warm and fair, but here in the closed shop, the shut blinds let in little of the sunshine. Only a few sparks of dust floated in the stray rays, dancing like - Oh that is quite enough. Concentrate, John. This is not the time for your runaway imagination.
He had more than enough work for the day: invoices and bills, orders and requests, and not near enough tea. He should have accepted Paula’s offer to come in and help, but he really didn’t know if he could afford to pay his assistant the overtime. He scrubbed a hand through the blond curls that fell into his eyes. He needed a haircut but that seemed like a luxury, especially given his preferred salon. Things were definitely going to be tight for a while. The dreadful economy didn’t help matters, even if most of the clientele for his art and antiques business were above such concerns. The shop in Truro was doing well enough, but he’d probably made a mistake to buy into the modern gallery over at Marylebone which had seemed like such a sure thing at the time. This location did the best business but clearly could do better; Islington rents weren’t cheap. He frowned as he looked over the figures. John clearly had spent too much time in the past on other endeavours.
And look how that turned out.
John turned back to his laptop and the pile of papers. He was startled to hear the tinkle of the bells at the street entrance. “Paula? I said you didn’t need to come in today. I can’t pay you so you might as well –“ There were footsteps, but the sound wasn’t of Paula’s fashionable heels. The steps indicated a man and, not for the first time, John berated himself for his natural inclination against firearms. As much as he told his mother and his former fiancée the truth - that he had turned a new leaf and all his business dealings were now completely above board - that had not always been the case. In fact, it had been only been the case for a very short time. John was keenly aware that there were certain acquaintances who would very much like it if he were to return to his former ways. Some of those persons were very persuasive. Perhaps a little counter-persuasion in the form of a small firearm (though illegal) might have been a worthwhile investment. However, it was too late for that now, so he looked about the desk for potential weapons: his mobile (good for calling the authorities); his laptop (useless); an art deco lamp (frankly his own skull would be easier and cheaper to repair if damaged); and his most treasured of all weapons, his wit (probably less useful than the laptop).
That will have to do.
He sighed, determined that the best defence was, well, a good defence. “I’m sorry; we’re closed,” he called towards the front room. “Regular hours on Wednesday but you can make an appointment for tomorrow.” John had to admit that it wasn’t exactly rapier-sharp threat material, but it was true and, on the off chance the visitor was an errant shopper, would do the job nicely. Right. A housewife or tourist who picked the lock, as you never forget to lock yourself in.
Re: Fill, part 3/? Re: Dialogue prompt
John Tregarth perched on the chair behind the counter and tried to make himself concentrate on the paperwork and his spreadsheet. Outside, the day was unseasonably warm and fair, but here in the closed shop, the shut blinds let in little of the sunshine. Only a few sparks of dust floated in the stray rays, dancing like -
Oh that is quite enough. Concentrate, John. This is not the time for your runaway imagination.
He had more than enough work for the day: invoices and bills, orders and requests, and not near enough tea. He should have accepted Paula’s offer to come in and help, but he really didn’t know if he could afford to pay his assistant the overtime. He scrubbed a hand through the blond curls that fell into his eyes. He needed a haircut but that seemed like a luxury, especially given his preferred salon. Things were definitely going to be tight for a while. The dreadful economy didn’t help matters, even if most of the clientele for his art and antiques business were above such concerns. The shop in Truro was doing well enough, but he’d probably made a mistake to buy into the modern gallery over at Marylebone which had seemed like such a sure thing at the time. This location did the best business but clearly could do better; Islington rents weren’t cheap. He frowned as he looked over the figures. John clearly had spent too much time in the past on other endeavours.
And look how that turned out.
John turned back to his laptop and the pile of papers. He was startled to hear the tinkle of the bells at the street entrance.
“Paula? I said you didn’t need to come in today. I can’t pay you so you might as well –“
There were footsteps, but the sound wasn’t of Paula’s fashionable heels. The steps indicated a man and, not for the first time, John berated himself for his natural inclination against firearms. As much as he told his mother and his former fiancée the truth - that he had turned a new leaf and all his business dealings were now completely above board - that had not always been the case.
In fact, it had been only been the case for a very short time. John was keenly aware that there were certain acquaintances who would very much like it if he were to return to his former ways. Some of those persons were very persuasive. Perhaps a little counter-persuasion in the form of a small firearm (though illegal) might have been a worthwhile investment. However, it was too late for that now, so he looked about the desk for potential weapons: his mobile (good for calling the authorities); his laptop (useless); an art deco lamp (frankly his own skull would be easier and cheaper to repair if damaged); and his most treasured of all weapons, his wit (probably less useful than the laptop).
That will have to do.
He sighed, determined that the best defence was, well, a good defence. “I’m sorry; we’re closed,” he called towards the front room. “Regular hours on Wednesday but you can make an appointment for tomorrow.” John had to admit that it wasn’t exactly rapier-sharp threat material, but it was true and, on the off chance the visitor was an errant shopper, would do the job nicely.
Right. A housewife or tourist who picked the lock, as you never forget to lock yourself in.