Chapter 1

Erection leading the way, Dean Chapman emerged from Lenny’s pub, a grin splitting his face. The door shut on the cocktail of humanity within, leaving him with the swish of passing traffic on the rain-slicked tarmac. The leftover spray came from an earlier shower as weather forecasters predicted. He adjusted his cuff, looked at his watch and—unable to resettle his cock without calling attention—he walked off on his way to a date, leaving his favourite watering hole early. His drinking and dating life would be far from over when work commenced, but a combination of being fresh out of college and his father’s goodwill provided him with six weeks grace. Best he exploited this break between one type of slog and the next, the liberty of late nights, and morning lie-ins.

Back with his parents.

The road ahead made the disparity of freedom and family distinct, deflating good cheer like the air running out of a punctured tyre. In any relationship, love didn’t always suffice. He relished being young, bumped to the street, driving unsupervised. Many assumed his choice of college had stemmed as much from a wish to live away from home as his longed-for career. They also assumed and weren’t entirely wrong his sharing a house with four other blokes was his excuse to get drunk and pick up women. If his choice of further education staggered no one, his resolution to join the family business dumbfounded many, in opposition to the concept of ‘getting away’. When asked why, Dean never explained, more than content with the outcome, eager to begin. He agreed to this hiatus because his father insisted, so far loving every minute.

“Have fun this summer,” George Chapman had told him. “One last respite. You’ve enjoyed them every year of your life until now. Stay a kid for a little while. Don’t worry,” his father added. “I’ll make sure you put in extra time to compensate.”

The transparent threat crooked Dean’s lips, the warning one of the long hours and the effort required until he grasped the running of the business. Small penalty. His interest in mechanics developed when young—George Chapman’s efforts to direct his son’s energies elsewhere were doomed—but Dean confessed not to have taken notice of the administration side. Accepting the bad with the good might be an indication of a little maturity creeping in, though he hoped not. A few more years not acting his age wouldn’t go amiss.

Still, no one would hear any arguments from him. Dean wanted the work, and his father appreciated the idea of his son taking over one day, as long as Dean was happy. No need for the older Chapman to fret over Dean’s commitment. His dislike extended only to the paperwork for which ‘necessary evil’ sprang to mind. By the time his father reached retirement, surely Dean would have the hang of the invoices and filing. Another reason for his taking control—to open the way for his father to resign when his parents’ decided the right time arrived.

Foot tapping while he waited at a set of traffic lights permitted serious sentiments to creep in. His father—thirty years senior, not old but not young—already ‘made noises’ of working part-time. Dean wished his parents the best, wanted them to enjoy more hours off if not early retirement. The way his father grafted, who could blame the man for wanting to take his wife abroad for long stretches before they grew old?

Timing. Their plans depended on Dean, on how well he integrated.

“All on me, then,” Dean muttered, receiving a mistrustful frown from a man crossing the road at his side. Too preoccupied to care, Dean added, “I can do this,” half-amused when the stranger quickened his pace. Dean walked on, mind awhirl with forms and figures.

Sure, he lacked incentive when it came to the office side, and true any boss hired the right person for each job, but no smart person relied on others. Some people didn’t rate Dean for his smarts, but he was intelligent enough to be uncomfortable with self-imposed ignorance. Some expressed surprise over his attending further education, not grasping how insulting they sounded.

Stepping aside to avoid a collision with a pushchair brought him to a standstill in front of a rare thing these days known as a bookshop. The vision of novels lined up on display in the window recalled to mind another life lesson learned. People understood his studying for the requisite mechanical qualifications, but to an aware few, his appreciation of creative writing struck them as peculiar.

Yes. He. Could. Read. Better than many. His love for books inspired enough comments. The notion he wrote, too, astounded people. Not that he tried to prove his ability to them and, from most, the sideline stayed secret.