RosAl: Chapter 1

  Chapter 1:

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Words like Due, Cut, Deadline, Wanted, Responsibility, and Of Utmost Importance didn’t’ faze him one bit.

Well, those were the more distinctive words he heard since he had left the receiver open on the end table. They were just words used to add emphasis on intimidation his editor was delivering to him through the phone, tirade that went on and on for the past thirty minutes. Something which was the frequent exchange of conversation between them, and a discussion he often ignored as he was doing that very moment.

He was sidestepping and stepping over litters of pots, pans and opened cans that cluttered his kitchen floor, his attention more focused on trying to locate where his reading glasses were, he last remembered slipping them into of the pockets of his robe, or it could have been in the other robe he had carelessly strewn into the laundry when he went down for a meal.

Searching for his glasses would be his next priority, he noted mentally, after he had eaten something first.

Next he busied himself with preparing breakfast. It was more like brunch now, he thought, as he caught sight of the kitchen clock. The long hand was pointing past twelve and the short hand just before that.

Not to mention it took him time to locate a clean frying pan and to rummage his already depleted refrigerator for decent food to cook. He found two eggs, and the rest were either rotten or past their expiry date.

Glancing around the kitchen, he knew he had to make time, one of these days, to get around to making sense of the place, as he had successfully scared off his last housekeeper whose idea of passing time was to bother him with her nonstop yapping. The repeated gushing over how lucky she was to be working for someone famous wasn’t the worst of it, she also constantly pestered him about his works—he had to rewrite and redraft several of his manuscript from her constant prying into his papers—as she also had a tendency to gossip with the women from the nearby town on the days she went for grocery shopping. There were also times when she thought he would be napping in the afternoons that she’d start singing off-key at the top of her lungs.

He had been tolerating her, as he did the others before. All were equally annoying as the current one, whom he had sent packing after one of his black moods, as she was far more older than her predecessors before her, but she finally struck on the last of his nerves.

She had been sashaying about, humming loudly, and doing a poor imitation of a tango with the vacuum cleaner, when he charged at her, all but bellowed an order for her to leave and never return. Her croaking had turned into sputters before she sped to her room and, a few minutes later, was out the door and gone from his sight.

He should have known better than to expect some peace and quiet now that he was alone. The phone started ringing afterwards, and he had nonchalantly picked it up, already knowing who would be calling at that moment.

True enough, he could hear his former housekeeper bawling in the background. The call came from the main house. What surprised him was that it was one of his aunts who was berating him for scaring witless another of the poor, helpless matrons whom the family had thoughtfully sent to care for him as they knew he was clueless with housework and especially disastrous in the kitchen. It wasn’t the person he was expecting to hear from.

He promptly hung up then.

The phone had been left off the hook after that, and when he did remember to put it back it started ringing insistently, the caller which was now his ecstatic and similarly hysterical editor harping in the other end.

Two eggs were cracked and opened into the heated pan, sending a pleasant aroma wafting in the air. Pulling out a drawer within his reach, he dug around assorted utensils until he caught hold of a spatula, his glance going to the phone.

Hearing silence from the receiver after a while, he picked it up, leaving the two eggs sizzling on the stove, putting the piece to his ear and nearly had his eardrums erupt when he heard a piercing shriek.

“MISTER MERILL! SIR! Mister Merill? Mister Merill? Mister Merill? Sir, are you still there? MISTER MERILL!” She sobbed.

So his timing was a little off, he thought, wincing, the earpiece now a distance away from his somewhat injured senses before deciding to put his editor out of her misery.

“I hear you, Amy. Deadline is at the end of the month. I’ll make it. I’m working on the last chapter now. I’ll be sure to finish the manuscript before then—” He stopped short to sniff the air.

“Mister Merill, what is it?”

“Hn? Something’s burning…” He said whiffing the air, heard a loud “WHAT!” from the other line as he placed the receiver on its hook.

Black smoke was starting to puff up from his now charred late breakfast when he came back to the kitchen. Grabbing the pan handle, he turned off the gas and stoked the crispy eggs and found them, to his thinking, still edible enough to eat.

He cleared a place at the table and started eating, his attention darting from on corner of the room to the next. It wasn’t only the kitchen that needed cleaning actually, he remembered. The entire house was the result of a week’s neglect. It was actually quite some time before his relatives started sending over another housekeeper…

As much as he hated to admit it, he did need a helping hand in handling housework—but only up to that part. The rest he was fine on his own.

The decision to live independently was his alone. None of his relatives had been keen on his idea, nor were they particularly encouraging in any of his choices. In fact he was hated by his uncles, aunts and cousins alike. When he left right after graduation he knew they were celebrating, thinking with him out of the picture they would get a chance at his inheritance. Unfortunately for them, the head of the family, which was also the only one who praised his independence yet still discouraged the act, was no other than his stubborn grandfather.

He still retained the rights to inheriting all the family had to offer—which was quite vast. That is, if he ever decided to return to the main house.

He was the first and the only grandson after all. The legitimate one that is. The others were linked through a second branch or so. Because of that he was forced to become the figure his grandfather want him to be—ruthless, cunning, manipulative and completely without mercy—and all that was just the first step to take over the family inheritance.

Too bad he didn’t want any of it. He was his father’s son, the head of the family’s only child, the first heir, but had died in an accident. He despised his grandfather in a way. The old man was the reason his parents became estranged. Last he heard she was still in the main house, and still living her life like a caged bird—a golden cage nonetheless.

He was fed up with the lot of them, sucking up to the family that when he reached of age he wasted no time packing and leaving with no turning back—except to pry his desperate relatives from wanting him to go.

The housekeepers where his relatives’ tactical ways to keep an eye on him, if trying to gain favor didn’t work, they resorted to surveying his everyday living. If that wasn’t enough, a daughter or two would be sent to deliver fruits, drinks, and whatnot they could come up with.

Temporarily satisfied with his short and burnt meal he was sipping tepid tea when he heard the screeching of tires, recognizing it to belong to his editor’s bug of a car as it made a hasty stop at the front gate.

He stood up with a sigh, was almost to the door when it was pulled open and there stood his bedraggled editor in the entranceway. Her short hair standing on end, her once crisp suit wrinkled and the coat had been thrown on hastily—no one would believe she was the best in the company and was quite famous for her success if they had seen her now.

She had been only a beginner when he first chose her as sole editor for his works, clumsy and very shy, often stuttering when spoken to, but was very dedicated to her profession.

But because of her personality he couldn’t help but want to bully her.

“MR. MERILL!” She screamed upon her first step into his abode.

“Yes?”He answered.

The next scream that she would have emitted stopped short down her throat when she looked ahead of her where he stood nonchalantly.

“Eh? But the fire—on the phone… you said… burning…”

“Ah, I burnt my meal a bit.” He replied, his arms hidden in the long sleeves of his robe as he crossed them, recalling the bitter and charred taste of the eggs he had drowned with the tea.

“You’re meal?” She repeated dumbly.

“Yes, my housekeeper left a few days ago and no one else can cook for me.” He said, which brought to mind the necessities he needed. “And you have good timing.”

“Eh?”