‘Mr Lopez,’ I say. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too, Señorita Smith.’
Lopez turns to my colleague. ‘Señor De Reborn, nice to meet you.’ It must be mild hysteria that makes me want to giggle at his mispronunciation of Dereborn. He repeats the same formalities while the two of us look everywhere but at each other. This cannot be happening.
As Mr Lopez and the driver turn to lead us to the car, I leave Tom De Reborn to make small talk as I try to fathom how the hell this could have happened.
We slide into the back seat from opposite sides as our host gets into the front passenger seat and immediately turns to talk to us. We don’t even look at each other but I’m so very conscious of Tom just centimetres from me. My body hums with awareness, every hair on my arms standing to attention, tiny blonde iron filings tuned to Tom Dereborn’s magnetic north.
I know this man. I know exactly what he looks like naked. I know how his skin feels. Know what his dick feels like, full inside me. I know what it’s like when he whispers shamelessly filthy words in my ear, to make me come, while he’s finger-fucking me. For two days and two nights the man knew me inside and out, milked orgasm after orgasm from me. He grunted, groaned and ground. I can still see the tendons in his neck as he’s thrusting over me, holding on for dear life, trying to prolong the race to the edge. Hear the long-drawn-out ‘fuuuuck’ as he comes, pumping and pulsing.
I’m damp, wet and horny. He’s ruined me for anyone else and, believe me, I’ve tried to blot him out. I’ve tried to erase him. Boy, have I tried, but every sodding subsequent sexual encounter has been a big fat disappointment. So much so – I’ve given up. No sex, not so much as a sniff, for ages.
I glue my posture upright and forward so I’m not for one minute tempted to look at him, catch his gaze, or even so much as acknowledge him. Thankfully he seems inclined to do exactly the same, although what else can we say in front of the extremely charming Guido Lopez, who seems to have taken a shine to me.
‘Señorita Smith,’ he shoots an admiring glance at my legs in heels and barely-there sheer tights, ‘would you like to stay in the car? After the fire it is … not the place for a beautiful woman.’
I hear a snort come from my left. I don’t blame him. I’m here to assess the scale of the loss of the contents of a warehouse which two days ago contained sixty-four thousand square feet of sports equipment. Those football shirts, it would seem, are very flammable. I’m not sure how Señor Lopez expects me to do that from the back of the car.
‘Your colleague, Mr De Reborn, will, I’m sure, be able to conduct the survey on his own.’
I give the Spaniard a cool smile. It’s not the first time I’ve been underestimated and relegated to note-taker or back-up partner. Some might say it’s because I insist on presenting myself as a smart, feminine woman but why the hell not? This is who I am. It’s been hard won and I’m not about to compromise for anyone. I don’t have to apologise for being young and attractive or dressing how I want. I’m vain. I want to look good, so I do. But I allow for some practicality – it’s common sense if you’re working in the field.
When the car pulls up next to the blackened site, buckled and twisted steel uprights testament to the former warehouse, I open my travel bag and pull out a pair of thick hiking socks, my steel toe-capped boots, my hi-vis vest and my yellow hard hat as well as what looks like a brown lab coat.
I try not to feel self-conscious taking off my shoes in the back of the car in front of Tom Dereborn. It feels intimate and far too reminiscent of him unbuckling the straps on my sky-high sandals and running his hands up and along my calves. I gulp and hurriedly pull on my thick, distinctly unsexy, wool socks.
By the time the driver has parked the car, my footwear is on and I’ve regained a little equilibrium as I step out onto the slightly sticky tarmac, which must have melted in the heat. Acrid smoke taints the air and there’s a glow of warmth that has little to do with the local climate. I shrug the overcoat over my suit without saying a word to our host. My colleague mutters, ‘Show-off,’ under his breath.
Señor Lopez walks us around the site, our feet crunching on broken glass and blackened debris, indicating the warped metal struts – all that’s left of the extensive racking that once lined the aisles. His face is twisted with woe and despair as he relays in that spare, hopeless way of the bereft how much has been lost. I have to stamp down on the innate sympathy and the desire to reassure him. It’s always sad to see the aftermath of destruction, especially when it’s someone’s business.
Unfortunately, we’re the bad guys sent in to determine the truth of the loss and adjust expectations back to reality. Some clients exaggerate the size of the loss – after all, who does it harm? They’ve paid their premiums all this time, they deserve the pay-out. But I have a responsibility to shareholders and to other insurance customers to stop out-and-out fraud and keep their premiums affordable. I might sound callous, but I don’t mean to. Often we’re dealing with shell-shocked, horrified people who’ve seen a lifetime’s work snuffed out in one fell swoop. It is heartbreaking but there is a certain percentage of people who will always try it on. According to Señor Lopez, who has already provided us with extensive figures and details of the amount of stock that was held on this site, the company was holding more stock than it sold in the whole of last year. The figures didn’t stack up even back when I was in London.
I know exactly what I need to see and I ask Señor Lopez to show me round the former warehouse. I ask a ton of questions that he quickly starts to get irritated by, but I want a watertight case and for my report to be incontrovertible. I’m known for being thorough.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ mutters my colleague, when I ask Lopez to indicate exactly where the shelves were. When I ask the height of the shelving and how many shelves per unit there were, he tuts under his breath.
I ignore him. I know my job. To be honest it’s a relief he’s being a complete arse. Stops me remembering all the ways he was so good in bed.
‘Señorita Smith. What difference does it make? Everything is gone. You have the figures.’ Lopez frowns.
‘Yes, Miss Smith,’ replies my colleague, undeniable withering sarcasm present in every syllable.
‘How wide were the aisles?’ I press, pacing across the floor, trying to visualise the scene. Across on the other side of the factory is a skip full of water-soaked sports shirts.
‘We couldn’t salvage much,’ the client says, mournfully trying to steer me away from the skip.
‘I’d like to see,’ I say and shrug off his restraining hand and march over to the skip. Tom Dereborn follows me, hissing in a low voice, ‘For God’s sake. Didn’t you read the file before you got here? No way in hell did they have ten mill’s worth of stock stored here. Any idiot can see that. What are you trying to prove?’
I know exactly that but…
‘I’m making sure the job is done properly. I bet you ten quid that there aren’t that many shirts in there and the rest have been repatriated by the company to sell on some market stall or car boot sale.’
‘So what?’
I whirl on him unaccountably raising my voice. ‘So what?’ I put my hands on my hips and glare at him. It feels good to be mad at him, although I’m madder than I usually would be because he’s done such a good job of pretending he’s never met me before. I want to make him pay for that. Pay for all the other people who’ve pretended they don’t know me because I’m not good enough.
‘Yeah,’ he says going toe to toe with me, his smart brogues nudging up against my scuffed leather boots.
‘I don’t bloody believe it.’
‘Why are you making a meal of this? The company is obviously inflating the claim.’
‘I know that but I’m being thorough.’ The word brings back a memory. Tom Dereborn was very thorough, and I flush remembering how assiduous he was… A lick of heat touches my core at the sudden memory – the slow careful slide of his mouth up my thighs and his hot breath teasing my clit.
I suck in a quick breath, to shake loose the thoughts and focus on the specks of white-grey ash dusting the air. ‘I want to be able to prove it should they appeal.’
‘Our word should be good enough.’ His arrogant drawl brings me back to the present.
‘We’re supposed to be professional. We should be meticulous. Give me a hand.’ I regret my choice of words. I’ve had those hands over every inch of my body.
‘What?’
There it is. Just a tiny tell, his left eye twitches ever so slightly.
‘I want to get in the skip. Give me a leg up.’
‘You are fucking joking.’
