Finding Home (15 page)

A luminous alarm clock glows on the bedside table: it's five o'clock in the morning. I think about inventing an exercise regime, or a penchant for sunrises – anything to justify getting out of bed right now, assembling my scattered clothing, and going home where everything is safe and familiar. But I have a vague recollection of David promising to cook me his special ‘full English'. Leaving while he's still asleep would surely be rude.

I gingerly remove the duvet and swing out of bed. The outline of the bedroom door is just visible from the light of the clock. The cold air tickles my naked skin as I cross the room and open the door. There's a slight gurgle from the bed behind me. I stand still without breathing until the snoring resumes.

In the hallway, I fumble for a light switch. The brightness hits me like a physical force. The hall serves largely as a repository for sporting equipment. I squeeze past a surfboard, a cricket bat and a set of dumb-bells. There are a number of framed photos up on the wall: David Waters with a group of mates on skis; David Waters in diving gear holding up a dead shark; David Waters playing five-a-side football. He's obviously a sports fanatic – another characteristic that we don't share. There are several doors off the hallway, one of which has an old-fashioned picture of a little boy peeing into a pot. I lock myself in the bathroom, use the loo, and stagger against the sink. The wine is reasserting itself. My heartbeat pounds in my skull, and the four yellow walls begin to spin. I steady myself and stare at a framed photo on the wall above the towel rack: David Waters and a short red-haired man with glasses. They're both wearing white collared shirts and hideous checked trousers. Between them, they're hefting up a golf trophy.

Golf.
I lean over the sink and splash water on my face. I'm now both hungover and fully awake. I don't know why it never occurred to me that David Waters might be an avid golfer – after all, a lot of people are. Normally, that would be fine, but not in this case. Not when I need him on side for Rosemont Hall.

I return to the bedroom where at least it's warm. Heading towards the dim outline of the bed, I fail to spot the yellow dog that has entered the room and stretched itself across the centre of the floor. I sprawl across the room and end up flat on my face, setting off a cacophony of yelps. I feel hot stale breath, a cold nose, and a scratchy dog tongue on my back. I shriek. A light switches on.

‘Amy?'

David jumps up and pulls the dog off me.

‘I'm fine.' I lean over to pat the dog, but it growls – like it wants me to leave. I jerk my hand away.

‘Good.' David gets out of bed and helps me up. ‘I forgot to mention that Stevie likes to sleep here.'

‘I understand,' I say with an awkward laugh. ‘I'm just not having much luck with dogs lately. But there's no harm done… I guess.'

He kisses me again and lowers us both back onto the bed. But this time, I smile coyly and shake my head. ‘I need to get to work – do you mind if I have a shower?'

‘Do you have to leave so soon, babe?'

I cringe inwardly at the generic term of endearment – something I imagine Simon might say to ‘Ashley'. ‘Yes I do,' I say firmly. ‘But don't get up, really, I'll be fine in a taxi.'

‘Okay – there's a number by the phone in the kitchen.'

Although I'd planned to take a taxi anyway, he loses more points by not insisting that he drive me (nor has he repeated his offer of a cooked breakfast). I give him a perfunctory peck on the forehead, but he's already nuzzling into the indentation of the pillow that smells like my shampoo, and drifting easily back into sleep.

I return to the bathroom for a shower. The water alternates between freezing and boiling, and I get out more quickly than I got in.

In the bedroom, I reassemble all of my clothes (minus my tights which I can't find anywhere). I make my way to the kitchen (carefully avoiding the dog, which is glaring at me from its basket), find the number of the minicab which is written on a yellow sticky (I note with detached interest that there are two other yellow stickies by the phone with the numbers of ‘Susanna' and ‘Valerie' written on them with x's and o's), punch the number into my phone and let myself out of the flat.

The morning is wet and overcast as I emerge onto a non-descript street of terraced houses. The wind gusts in my face and I can smell the seafront. I walk towards the esplanade and ring the taxi. My feet and head both hurt, but somehow as I sit on a bench staring out at the leaden-grey estuary, I feel surprisingly serene – like I've been in a train wreck and walked away a different person. David Waters may or may not be the proverbial ‘One' – but regardless, I've fulfilled another leg in my post-Simon trinity: new job, new home, new man.

When the taxi pulls up and I get inside, I'm shivering from the cold but smiling too. I take out my phone and scroll down through the list of contacts. I come to ‘Simon Work' and ‘Simon Mobile' and hit delete. I know the numbers by heart, of course, but eventually I'll forget them. For once, I'm almost glad that there's no going back.

Two hours later when I arrive at the office, everyone is grumbling – even Claire – but no one tells me the reason. Eventually, I discover by osmosis that Mr Bowen-Knowles (working from home) sent everyone (except me) an email saying that in view of poor sales in the last quarter, there will be no Christmas bonuses this year.

‘And here I was assuming I'd at least get enough for the airfare to the Maldives…' Patricia complains. She takes a soggy mince pie from a box that someone brought in from Tesco and bites into it, leaving a smear of coral lipstick.

‘You haven't sold anything in two months,' Jonathan plays devil's advocate.

‘What about you?' Patricia says with her mouth full. ‘You wouldn't have made bugger all if Claire hadn't split the commission on those condos in Minehead.' She swallows and takes another mince pie.

‘Like I had a choice,' Claire mumbles.

‘What's that?'

‘Nothing.'

As I look back and forth between them, another email pings in, this time to me as well as everyone else. It's an invitation to a company Christmas party with two other branches of
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
, scheduled for next Saturday. If it's intended to boost morale, it has the opposite effect.

Claire shakes her head. ‘Doesn't he know that we'd all rather have a bonus? Who wants a party when there's so little to celebrate?'

Jonathan says something, but I don't hear it because I'm reading the invite details closely. Specifically, the line that says ‘Dear colleague + 1'. The dreaded plus-one! As the new girl, I'm obliged to go to the Christmas Party – that much I know. But should I ask David Waters, or some as yet unidentified Rebound Man 2, or just go it alone?

To get my mind off the dilemma, I spend the rest of the morning getting on with my cold-calling. The more calls I make, the more my mood deflates. But then, after leaving three messages in a row, my mobile rings, and a number I don't recognise comes up on the screen. My hopes instantly take flight. Is someone ringing me back about Rosemont Hall?

‘Amy Wood,' I answer breathlessly. ‘How can I help you?'

‘Miss Wood. Ian Kendall here.'

‘Oh, hello!' I say, trying to mask my disappointment. ‘How are you?'

‘Fine.' He clears his throat. ‘I've just heard from Mrs Bradford that you were over at Rosemont Hall yesterday.' He pauses. ‘I think her exact words were: “some chit of a girl who was asking questions and poking her nose where it doesn't belong”.'

‘No,' I protest. ‘I mean, I was there, but I was just showing the surveyor around. She and her humongous dog nearly gave me a heart attack.' I give an empty little laugh. The cheek of that old woman ringing the solicitor!

‘I understand,' Mr Kendall says. ‘But do keep in mind that Mrs Bradford is an important beneficiary under the Windham will. She's inherited the artwork and many of the personal effects.'

‘Did she inherit the painting on the stairs?'

‘Yes.' He hesitates like he's given away something he shouldn't have. ‘But that doesn't concern the sale, Ms Wood. And that's what I'm ringing about. Mr Bowen-Knowles told you, didn't he, that one of the American heirs, Mr Jack, is very keen to move things along with the sale of the house.'

‘We all want that, surely…'

‘He's been negotiating with Hexagon directly. I understand they've had a number of conference calls to discuss the terms. Hexagon is definitely interested in the land for their golf course development.'

‘But you said that I had three months,' I protest. The Cinderella clock in my head begins to race forward in double time.

‘I thought that at the time. But if Mr Jack and Ms Flora can get Hexagon to make an offer they can't refuse, then they'll go with it, naturally. But I thought I should check in with you to find out the status of your marketing efforts. Just to see if there's anything else on the table.'

Steeling myself, I smile down the phone. ‘Oh yes, definitely.' The lie escapes my lips in effortless
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
style. ‘You can tell your Mr Jack' – I practically spit out the name of this blight on the future of Rosemont Hall – ‘that I've been busy making contact with clients whom we know are looking for this sort of property. And there are at least two private buyers who are interested in seeing the house – maybe as early as this weekend. After all, it is a “historic gem with lots of potential for flexible, family accommodation”. It's practically selling itself.'

There's a moment of silence at the other end of the phone and I wonder if I've gone too far.

‘Fine.' Mr Kendall says. ‘You may as well go ahead with that. Hexagon wants to meet with the planners before they make a formal offer. See what kind of hoops they'd have to jump through. They've got a meeting scheduled for next week.'

‘Next week? But how can Mr Jack just agree to let them do that? I mean, the estate isn't even probated is it? And Hexagon doesn't own the site. And…' I crawl out onto a narrow limb, ‘they won't ever own the site. Please tell your client that I'm going to find a buyer that will fix up the house – or I can tell him myself if you give me his email address.'

‘I don't have the authority to do that at this point,' Mr Kendall says. ‘But I will speak to him and tell him what you said. And in any case, Amy, I hope you get lucky.' I detect a strong note of doubt in his voice.

‘I guess I'd better get to it then.'

‘Fine. Oh, and one more thing. The other heir – Ms Flora – is coming over to go through the personal effects at the house…'

‘That's good.'

‘…to see if there's anything valuable enough to auction.'

‘Oh.' So much for hoping that the female heir might have an ounce of sentiment that I could appeal to. I'm all favour of a little decluttering, but from the way Mr Kendall speaks of the heirs, I fear the worst.

I reimagine ‘Mr Jack' – the shrewd businessman. Maybe he's a hot-shot investment banker in New York. He'll live in an ultra-modern penthouse apartment on Park Avenue with a doorman in a red coat who tips his hat and calls him ‘Sir'. He'll have a driver that takes him to work each morning on Wall Street, wearing his thousand-dollar Armani suit, Bill Blass tie, and Ferragamo loafers. Then dinner and theatre in the evening with his underwear-model girlfriend. And on the weekends? A drive to Long Island or the Hamptons for a little sun and a round of golf. Golf – it always comes back to golf.

And meanwhile, back in Blighty, the last of his family history is slowly slipping away towards the unforgiving oblivion of time. The house will be ‘modernised' into something unrecognisable. The girl in the portrait will be dispossessed of her rightful place above the staircase landing, ending up in some new-build banker's mansion in Surrey.

It just seems so
wrong.

‘Anyway,' Mr Kendall says, ‘I just wanted to let you know in case you run into her.'

‘Thanks,' I say. ‘But what about Mrs Bradford?'

‘I'll make sure she knows that you may be about the place doing your viewings.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘But surely she needs time to adjust to what's happening. She seems to be taking everything pretty hard.'

Mr Kendall sighs. ‘It's kind of you to show an interest, but I'm afraid that she's none of your concern. I believe she's already moved out, though she still may be around from time to time.'

‘I just feel sorry for her, that's all. Plus, she seems to know a lot about the house and the Windhams. I didn't realise that she was there as a girl when Sir George was alive. She must have seen some fascinating things—'

He clears his throat. ‘But as I said, that doesn't have anything to do with you selling the house.'

‘Of course – sorry.' I accept the rebuke. It's not my job to learn the truth about the Windhams and Rosemont Hall. It's not my job to spend time there; soak in its atmosphere; or uncover its history. It's not my job to placate displaced old ladies; play tour guide to an appreciative audience; or find someone who will take on the house as a labour of love. It's my job to sell the house to whoever offers the most money for it. Thus, while I've mentally cast Mrs Bradford as the unstable housekeeper, Mrs Danvers
,
in reality, I'm the one acting irrationally. If the two American heirs, the solicitor, my boss, and the eighty-four people I've phoned don't care about the fate of Rosemont Hall, then I've got no business doing so.

Except, I do.

‘Mr Kendall,' I say stoically, ‘I completely understand what you're saying. It's my job to sell the house and I need to do so quickly. And I will. We've got a lovely brochure printed up with a nice photo of the front aspect. The quantity surveyor should have his estimate for the repairs today. I've got a lot more people to ring who might be interested, and I will find someone. Just give me a chance. Please.'