His Competent Woman: British Billionaire Boss, #1

Chapter One: Emma

B en's a lovely boy , Miss Maddy said brightly. We're so happy to have him.

Thank you so much!

Oh, tell her to quit the chitchat and cut to the chase!

That’s my inner devil. I’m patient and cool on the outside, but inside me there’s this little voice that pipes up and says it how it is. She’s blunt, difficult, and honestly, a bit of a slut. Maybe it’s the real me, I don’t know. But whoever that little voice really belongs to, she’s certainly impatient.

While my devil was right, I resisted an impulse to hurry Miss Maddy along. Ben's schoolteacher was dedicated and likeable, although somewhat longwinded. Being a teacher is a tough job, and Miss Maddy prefaced every conversation with endless compliments, as if parents weren’t capable of tackling reality without a spoonful of sugar. 

Ben’s kind, generous, and very popular.

But Ben isn't doing well, I prompted her. Is he naughty in class? Not listening, maybe?

He's in my bad books for being too chatty at least twice a week! Miss Maddy laughed indulgently. But that's normal for a seven-year-old, isn't it?

Come ooooooooooooooooon!

You asked me to come and see you, I reminded her. You said it was important?

When she’d called me, I’d immediately envisioned broken bones or at the very least gushing blood. Once assured on both counts, my mind had flown to some hideous disciplinary problem. Thankfully, Ben didn't seem to be in any trouble.

Ben's not doing well on his reading. Miss Maddy was finally getting to the point. His writing is poor, too.

Okay, so my stomach plummeted at that. He's young. I thought boys are slower to develop than girls?

I think he may be dyslexic, Miss Maddy confided. I'm not a psychologist, Mrs Reed, but he does seem confused about certain words and letters. I think we should have him tested.

Now I could barely breathe, either. Dyslexic? But that's serious, isn't it?

Well, it makes school a bit more of a challenge, but with support most children cope very well.

I’ll make an appointment with the doctor.

I’m afraid that won’t work, Miss Maddy said carefully. Dyslexia isn’t covered.

Hell, hell, hell!

If it wasn’t covered by the National Health Service, it meant private doctors. That meant money, and I didn’t have a bean. Can you test him? My voice was totally Minnie Mouse, squeakily hoping against hope.

I’m afraid not. Miss Maddy handed over a leaflet. It takes a qualified psychologist. There’s a list here to help you out.

They’re going to be expensive, and I'm broke!

I'm so sorry. Miss Maddy looked away, knowing it was bad news. You're a widow, isn't that so?

Yes. Dear Graham. Gone seven years now.

He died in Iraq? Miss Maddy asked delicately. Erm, during the war?

Actually, he was run over. It still made me sad just thinking of it. It was an accident.

A stupid, stupid accident. A young man, a car thief, had made off with an army jeep parked at the Baghdad market. He'd jumped in, taken off and rocketed into Graham just twenty feet later. Killed instantly, Graham’s friends assured me afterwards. Graham hadn’t suffered at all, thank heaven.

The driver had joined him shortly after. The mob had beaten him so badly that he'd died on the spot. It was no consolation. I didn't find it a comfort that two families had grieved instead of one. Still don’t, actually.

Very tragic, Miss Maddy said sympathetically. Look, there are some charities that help out. It’s all in the leaflet.

Oh, thank God!

But it can take months to make an appointment, Miss Maddy cautioned me. And it may not be in Oxford, so you may want to save for the trip.

Oh lord, it’s going to take us months, my inner devil moaned.

Miss Maddy cleared her throat, piling on bad news, I'm afraid that if Ben is dyslexic, he will need some support.

Support. Crap, crap, crap. That meant specialist training, extra classes, and that meant more bills. My stomach pitched and rolled with fright. As if I weren’t already struggling to make ends meet.

Parenting Ben on my own made working a regular job extremely challenging. Few businesses tolerate staff starting at nine a.m. and dashing off at three p.m.—never mind sick days and school holidays.

I hadn’t been able to find a decent job, full time or part time, either. After applying to hundreds of companies, I’d turned to the gig economy. To my horror, I discovered that meant forking out for massively expensive babysitters at unreasonable hours. A zero-hours contract at Tesco had actually cost me money at the end of the month, with all my salary and some of my last remaining savings going to sitters.

Now I was just shattered at the thought of the months ahead. A psychologist would cost a bomb, but there was nothing left to sell. The car had gone first, then the antique clock that had been my grandmother's, and finally the 78s, the vintage records that had been Graham's treasures from his grandfather.

All I had left of value was my wedding ring, an antique Cartier that I’d taken off and shoved into my pants drawer because two of the diamond chips had fallen out.

Oh God, do we have to part with it? It’s all we have left of him!

Just the thought made me feel like weeping, but I had to pull myself together. Ben’s future was more important.

What will testing cost? I asked Miss Maddy fearfully.

Well, there's the assessment. Last year we had little Siti Menon tested, and I think her mum said it set her back— Miss Maddy mentioned a figure that made me reel. 

If he is, will he need special lessons? I was praying she’d say not. Or a special school?

We can help, Miss Maddy assured me.

For a second I breathed again. If the school could pitch in, maybe we’d be okay. I was uncomfortably aware of being a burden, a scrounger on state benefits.  Maybe I could help, volunteer for something.

My spirits rose a little, but then Miss Maddy whacked me right back down. But if Ben’s diagnosed, there may be extras like a laptop and special software. Tutoring in coping techniques can sometimes help, too.

She rummaged in her desk. Let me see about prices. I had a list here from a chat group the other day. I think tutoring classes are charged by the half hour and that they tend to charge about—

By the time she was done, I felt sick. Even selling my ring wouldn’t raise enough cash.

But it's all worth it, Miss Maddy finished. It really does work. Then she put the boot in. Without intervention, he'll fall more and more behind.

Can the school help with a grant for testing? I would crawl through broken glass if they’d help. Sackcloth, ashes, the lot.

Miss Maddy just shrugged helplessly. I’m so sorry.

Or maybe if he needs it, with tutoring?

That got me another helpless shrug.

I sat in my chair, shell-shocked. I knew that Ben would not get any more attention. It wasn't Miss Maddy’s fault. She simply had too many kids to cope with. The school was already under tremendous strain, with classrooms holding thirty children and sometimes more. Frankly, it was a miracle she'd not just dismissed Ben as lazy.

I'll see to it, I tried to sound totally cool. Thank you, Miss Maddy. It's very kind of you to alert me.

Miss Maddy blushed. It's a pleasure. We all love Ben. He's such a pleasant boy.

She’s a pain in the bum sometimes, Miss Maddy, but her heart is in the right place.

Walking out onto the sunny street, I prayed for a miracle. Maybe the job centre had something new.

Oh, Mrs Reed... The counter staff knew me by name, I'd been in so often. There's an opening in Tesco, but it's shift work. Mostly nights and weekends.

They pay so little that it won't cover the babysitting, I couldn’t help but moan. Is there anything that isn't zero-hour contract or minimum wage?

Nothing that matches your qualifications, the woman said sympathetically.

A degree in English literature and a year as a glorified intern in a publishing house have prepared me for nothing but benefits. Yes, I was on a total self-pitying grumble fest. Why didn't I study something lucrative like accounting?

Accounting? One of the office staff popped up, holding a newly printed vacancy notice.  There's a job in Weston Enterprises. It says office manager, but they said to give priority to people with bookkeeping or financial management experience.

Weston Enterprises, a top-of-the-line green architecture construction company. I took the posting and read through it quickly. It looked like simple enough work, a girl Friday job that covered office record-keeping. It was nine to five, a proper contract, and the salary was decent. It was a miracle.

Run! My inner devil screamed. Get there right now! We’ll snaffle this job before some other desperate cow even gets wind of it!

I'll go straight away! Then I ran out the door before anyone could stop me.

It wasn't difficult