Chapter 3
Spring 2010
At thirty-four, Jason Dooley had had more to fill his life than the average fifty-year old. His schooling had been scant simply because he had found it difficult to read. He was to learn later that, besides being left-handed, he was dyslexic. He wasn’t illiterate but he found that the great outdoors held more attraction for him than the local library. By the time he was sixteen, he had already got his first job on a building site, his first wage and his freedom. His ability to charm his way through life might have been compensation for his more academic failings, but he had never suffered from an inferiority complex. Why would he have when he’d had his pick of fair women and had never had an issue with men? It was only when he had reached his mid-twenties and had ten years of working experience behind him that it occurred to him there were more important standards in life than how many pints he could drink in an evening or how far all his spent condoms would reach if put end to end.
It was then that he had headed out on his great Canadian adventure, either working or charming his way across North America with his wit, good looks and British accent. He had been willing to turn his hand to anything for experience, so was able to add chauffeur, barman, kitchen hand and gardener to his own trade of brick-layer. He’d lived simply. Although he’d been surrounded by beer drinkers, he had drunk reasonably and had never smoked. Oh, he’d puffed a packet or two in his teens but the taste and the waste had disgusted him, so he was free of that particular vice and had the white teeth to prove it. Having never been one for extravagance, he had been able to accumulate a good sum of money for his return to England. It had been enough to set him up with his own brick-laying business.
He might not be comfortable reading more than the daily newspaper but his mind was keen and ready to assimilate the tiniest piece of information for future use to his advantage. His financial acumen, perhaps as an equilibrium for his dyslexia, stood him in good stead as his small brick-laying business gradually expanded to become that of a building contractor’s – Dooley’s Brick Builders.
With the expansion of his company and his list of clients never waning, he had finally moved his London builder’s yard in Finsbury Park to Enfield, an area that had seen a boom in property prices. London’s never-ending stretching had propelled the wealthier to London’s outskirts where green fields were still to be seen, figuratively speaking. The larger family homes in Enfield still held promise for expansion and conversion. Jason had moved at the right time to remain in great demand. ‘Cowboy’ builders, known for their shoddy work, scrounged for jobs offering cut-price rates but people were now wary of the pitfalls of using a bargain builder. Dooley’s was not cheap but its reputation guaranteed that every penny spent would be worth it. Jason was a task-master who kept an eye on every one of his contracts. He often spent his time on the sites working along side his men. It was obvious he knew what he was doing, so that it was natural for him to expect top quality work with no slacking from them. He paid well for it and got it. As a result, much of the work his company got came from recommendations, word of mouth. Clients were queuing rather than going with someone less known. His livelihood was assured.
He had an easy-going nature and wasn’t too particular as to where he lived. He had been on the move so much of his life that it was often without regret that he could move on. But for once, he had gone so far as to buy a small semi-detached house in one of the culs-de-sac in North London. Inside information had given him a lead to its sale before it had been put on the market; an occasion not to be missed. He hadn’t needed anything grand as he would be spending so little time in it but it was on a plot of land that had potential if he wanted to extend. It was a sound investment if he wanted to sell.
Quite unintentionally, he had begun to pick up some of the moss that a rolling stone is not supposed to gather. The local shopkeepers recognised him as being local now that he bought his bread, take-a-ways and tooth paste from them on a fairly regular basis. He was becoming familiar with the neighbours enough to nod with a ‘hi ya’ as paths crossed. It wouldn’t be easy for him to admit it but he had begun to enjoy the idea that this little part of the world was now his territory. Was age catching up and taming him? Na. He’d spent the last two nights with a woman who was cheating on her partner and he didn’t have to feel the least bit guilty. She’d come on to him, so what was a fella to do? One word covered it – oblige.
His first sexual experience in his teens with an older, married woman had made an impression on him. He’d asked her how she could have sex with another person when she was married and her words had, in some twisted way, made sense to him. ‘A slice off a cut loaf is rarely missed, love.’ Consequently, he had always shied away from girls he had suspected were virgins. They were an unknown quantity to be avoided. Why flirt with trouble when there were so many other experienced women who were willing and able? Another of his ‘principles’ was not to mix business with pleasure. This he held to strictly.
So, he had never slept with a virgin nor had he slept with any woman connected to work, including his rather lovely secretary, Jill. In principle, it was like switching off a light. Once it was off, there wouldn’t be any current at all. Anyway, it just so happened that Jill, as lovely as she was, would never be for him. She was gay, which was a very effective switch off, indeed.