Copyright © Ashe Barker 2014. All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Totally Bound Publishing. As the car pulled out of her driveway, Imogen flicked over the ‘Vacancies’ sign in her street-level window to indicate that she once again had space for a weary traveller or two. It was February, definitely the quiet season in the Yorkshire Dales, but there was always the possibility of passing trade. A stray hiker or maybe a die-hard Three Peaker who didn’t mind the rain and the fog and the probability of being cut off for days by sudden snow. And she had to face it, she needed the business. After Easter things would pick up, always did, but until then Imogen’s little guest house was situated in the hamlet of Countersett, close to Bainbridge, in the heart of the Dales. The perfect getaway for intrepid outdoorsy souls or those seeking solitude and inspiration. All Imogen was seeking was a decent living, but every year that seemed more and more difficult to achieve. Foot and Mouth hadn’t helped, but that was years ago now. These days it was the recession, and ever more severe weather that reduced the once steady flow of hungry, tired tourists to a meagre trickle. The family whose tail lights were now disappearing around the bend in her lane had been her first customers this week, though between the five of them they’d occupied all three of her available guest rooms, so she’d been glad enough to see them. Imogen had a sinking suspicion they might be her last. She had no more bookings for ten days, and meanwhile she had electricity to pay for, she badly needed to order a new load of logs, and her washing machine was on its last legs. She saw no alternative if she wanted to carry on basking in such luxuries as light and heat. She needed a job. Anything would do, as long as it brought in a steady wage, and left her free in the mornings to dish up hearty breakfasts to any guests she might just manage to drag in off the fells. Sighing, reluctant to compromise on her dream of running a successful country guest house, but at heart a pragmatist, Imogen headed into her large kitchen to fire up her laptop. She Googled ‘temps in North Yorkshire’ and sat back to see what emerged. An hour and a half later, Imogen had managed to register with three temp agencies. She’d possibly been a little overenthusiastic regarding her range of skills, but needs must. She had to get in the door, get in front of some prospective employer at an interview, then, maybe, she could sell herself. She was personable enough, if unremarkable in her appearance. She would never see her forty-second birthday again, but Imogen knew she looked no older than thirty five. Small and slim, she was always on the move, always bustling around, always busy. She kept herself fit, loved walking and cycling and chose not to own a car. Well, she might choose to own one if business ever picked up enough. Pedal power was cheaper, though. Shoulder-length ash-blonde hair—these days helped along by regular visits to a salon in Skipton—and a deft hand with cosmetics meant she could look decent. Presentable even. Add to that honesty, trustworthiness, reliability, reasonably literate. And she was definitely good with money despite having none to speak of. She could do shop work for sure, and would probably manage okay in an office, at a pinch. She wasn’t going to win any prizes for accurate typing, but she could find her way around a spreadsheet. Oh yes, she was definitely employable. Now all she had to do was convince someone who could offer her a job. * * * * Her somewhat strained job prospects were still exercising Imogen’s thoughts as she cycled back along the lane to her house later that afternoon. She was wondering about maybe...