Fit For Purpose, Julian Parrott [most recommended books txt] 📗

smiling as thoughts of her entered his mind unbidden. He now knew she was mercurial and unpredictable. She was a risk he was willing to take. He rationed his Nia DVDs and it became part of a new nightly routine. Dinner done, cabin warm, Tom would settle in with Jack nestled next to him to watch a TV series, special, or an episode where Nia made an appearance. He looked at his phone, often, to see the picture he took of Nia in the snow outside the Pret. He uncharacteristically checked his phone frequently for any texts and the ping of his phone alerting him to an incoming text made his heart race.

In London, Nia went through her week on autopilot. Her work on the audiobook, a rather stilted historical fantasy about the Romans in Wales, was good. Nia was always professional and quite liked audiobook work. She worked hard prepping her reading, she read through the book multiple times, she developed the accents for the different characters, made sure she pronounced town names correctly, but it was a tiring experience. The narrating itself was exhausting. She would leave the studio with a sore throat, and sore back, and tired of the sound of her own voice. However, she didn’t share some of her fellow narrators’ complaints that it was a lonely business; just you and a mike and an engineer, Nia actually liked the solitude of the studio. After one long session, she went straight from the studio to meet up with her one close, small circle of friends for drinks. They asked her about the location shoot and how she looked different somehow. They asked her had she lost weight, changed her hair, using a different foundation? When someone joked it must be a new guy, they all laughed. Nia smiled but kept quiet.

Tom followed up on Nia’s request for him to write to her. He wrote naturalistically about a day on the canal with Jack. His words painted pictures of the countryside and the flora and fauna that passed by the journeying narrowboat. How the sun looked through morning fog. How a full moon looked from the Periwinkle’s bow moored on a woody cut, quiet and alone. And then he subtly switched to his recent memories of London and Nia. He had counted the miles that separated them and the hours that stretched before them until they would see each other again.

Nia waited until she was comfortably on her favourite chair before she opened Tom’s email letter to read it. She was moved by it. It made her want to spend some time with him and his dog on the Periwinkle. She smiled with the knowledge that he felt as she did. After reading and re-reading the email, Nia couldn’t wait until Friday to see Tom, she Face-Timed him. She was pleased when Tom took her call.

“Tom,” she began, her eyes down. “I just want to tell you I’m so, so sorry for how I was on Sunday morning. All of a sudden,” Nia looked directly into her laptop’s camera. “I felt that we had… had suddenly become serious and, to be honest, I was not ready for it. As you know, I’m not good with relationships. I’m sorry for what I said and for what I didn’t say.”

Tom was so relieved and smiled broadly. “That’s okay. We can take it slowly if you’d like.” But he really didn’t mean it.

“I really like you, Tom, but let’s take it how it is. Whatever happens, yeah?” Nia said.

“Okay, whatever happens,” Tom agreed. “But what were you sorry for… not saying?”

Nia was quiet for a moment although she continued to stare through the screen into Tom’s face.

“That, that I really like you Tom,” she said. “But, Tom, you must promise never, ever to lie to me.”

“Absolutely,” Tom said quickly. “No lies ever.”

Nia smiled, “I would really like to see you again. Can you pop into London on Friday?” she asked.

Tom said he could, and Nia said she’d make some arrangements. Both Nia and Tom felt liberated and happy, and the conversation moved to their respective days, the weather, the news, and, surprisingly, football teams. She recommended some of her work to watch, but only when he asked. They talked of books and music. Through all the disparate subjects they touched on they were really discussing the connection that they had made. It took them ten minutes after saying goodbye to finally end the call.

Chapter Eight

Washington DC, December 1st

The road that snaked up the low hills on the outskirts of the smart Washington DC suburb felt like a country lane. It was a dark night and the road’s verges were heavily wooded; although, here and there, DC’s lights could be glimpsed twinkling through the trees. Konstantin Vukovic always enjoyed this stretch of his commute. It always reminded him of childhood and family holidays on the Crimean coast. It was only nostalgia; a longing for his Russian homeland had long since ceased. Not that he didn’t love Russia, he did, a point he had always made clear to his CIA handlers. His love for Mother Russia was the very reason why the former GRU major had offered his services to the Americans. He despised Putin. The American money, the fancy house and car, the interesting job, and the new identity were simply fringe benefits. The CIA had been good to him and, after he had finally defected, they had secured a role for him as a Russia analyst for the NSA. Vukovic found the work satisfying. He enjoyed the job and, as usual, had worked late and was commuting home in the dark.

He hadn’t seen the police car behind him until its flashing red and blue lights brightly appearing in his rear-view mirror startled him. He looked down at his speedometer, thirty-five miles per hour in a thirty zone. “Blyad,” he thought in