Finding Home (25 page)

‘I just wish I had more time.'

‘That's something you don't have.' He goes over to the grotty en-suite bathroom and peers inside.

I don't know what to make of his comment, but my stomach feels liquid. I'm confused and flustered, and this man is entirely the cause.

He comes back over to where I'm standing. ‘You're obviously a passionate person, Miss Wood, and I admire that. But maybe you're also too quick to judge a book by its cover.' He smiles like he's won a victory over me, and at that moment, I do hate him a little. I maintain a discrete distance as he walks through the rest of the rooms on the second floor. He doesn't speak and seems to be lost in thought, touching a damp spot here, a crumbling window frame there.

We go up another flight of stairs. He quickly tours some of the servant's bedrooms and we head up into the attic. He walks over to the huge, round window, at the centre of the house, and looks out at the view over the parkland beyond. I walk over and stand beside him. Far below where we're standing, the fountain crumbles in the forecourt, and beyond, the long tree-lined drive snakes downwards from the house into a little valley. A cloud of dust rises, and I can almost see Rochester riding furiously towards Thornfield, his horse wild-eyed and lathered, straining at the bit; when all of a sudden, he encounters Jane Eyre on the path—

‘Damn,' he mutters beside me, and I realise that there is no horse and no Lord of the Manor, just a car coming up the drive. Immediately, I snap back to my senses.

‘If you'd like, Mr Faraday,' I say, making every effort to sound professional, ‘you can take your time looking around and I'll go down and see who it is.'

‘Fine.' He smiles at me. I get a sense that he sees everything – from my ridiculous fantasies with him in a starring role to how much I wish they could be true. And I can't bear to think that he might be laughing at me, thinking I'm pathetic and eccentric – or worse.

‘Fine,' I repeat. I leave the room and the spell that he has cast over me, rushing down the stairs two at a time. As I reach the lower staircase landing and the portrait of the lady in the pink dress, the front door creaks open and slams shut. Immediately, I tense up. The last thing I need is a visit from Mrs Bradford and Captain. I head quickly down the stairs to stop her at the pass.

As I reach the bottom step, a woman enters.

‘Oh, hello,' I blurt out.

It isn't Mrs Bradford, but rather, the Windham heir, Ms Flora. I had no idea that she was back in town. She looks as polished and perfect as before, this time wearing a dark green Burberry coat, black stiletto boots, and a black pashmina.

‘Hello, Miss Wood.' She unbuttons her coat. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm fine, Mrs MacArthur,' I say, returning the smile. ‘I'm just showing around one of the executives from Hexagon. We won't be much longer – is that okay?'

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Hexagon? You must be joking.'

‘No, not at all—'

‘Actually, Miss Wood,' she interrupts, ‘you can go now. I'll lock up the house. I need to speak to my brother in private.'

Brother?

As soon as Flora says the word, the penny drops. Mr Faraday is not, in fact, an executive from Hexagon, but the second American heir – Mr Jack – and now that I know the truth, it seems blindingly obvious. I rewind the sequence of events: my boss telling me that an executive from Hexagon was planning to schedule a viewing at some unspecified point in the future, me jumping to the conclusion that Mr Faraday was said person. But though the wires were crossed, Jack Faraday must have guessed my mistake – how dare he deceive me like that?

Finally, I have a good reason to hate him.

But when a few seconds later he comes down the grand staircase, his sheer
je ne sais quoi
hits me all over again. I feel like Jane Eyre after she's been half-flattened by Rochester's horse and lashed with his whip. His blue-grey eyes flick from me to his sister.

‘Hello Flora. Glad you could join us.' He sounds anything but.

‘Sorry to blow your cover. But I'm not going to let you play Lord of the Manor.' Tension crackles in the air between them. She turns to me like she's dismissing a servant. ‘Can you see yourself out?'

I look from her to Jack. He shrugs like Flora's in charge and it's nothing to him anyway. ‘Thanks for showing me around, Miss Wood,' he says. ‘It's been interesting. I'll call your office tomorrow, okay?'

‘Sure, no problem,' I say through clenched teeth. I hurry to the door and practically run to the car.

*

‘Shit, shit, shit!' As soon as I'm out of sight of the house I bang my fist on the steering wheel. I can't believe some of the things I said:
Luckily, the smell has dissipated
!

And to be fair, while Mr Faraday didn't come clean and say that he was co-owner of the house, in fact, he never denied it either. He might even have assumed I knew.
Aren't you supposed to be selling the place?

Shit. I take my foot off the accelerator. The view of Rosemont Hall in the rear-view mirror will surely be my last.

After two sleepless nights and a miserable Sunday afternoon spent helping Dad demolish the old garden shed, when Monday morning rolls around, I still feel furious, embarrassed, and every other negative emotion in between. I seriously debate taking a sickie. But in the end, I can't stand the thought of sitting at home stewing in my juices while Mum potters around and Dad waits for the Argos delivery of a new pre-fab shed. Besides, since I'm obviously going to have nothing more to do with Rosemont Hall, I may as well give Jack Faraday a piece of my mind if he does ring the office.

Jack Faraday. I think back to all my ludicrous imaginings of him: fat and middle-aged, a New-York ball-buster; Bill Gates – all golf-playing, and all based on nothing at all. Whereas in reality, I now know that he's devious, underhanded, and… beautiful. Every nerve in my body tingles when I recall the sound of his voice; the electric moment when we shook hands.

Which is just ridiculous.

I try to force him from my mind with a cup of hot coffee and a piece of toast. It doesn't work. How could he, of all people, be the one person who feels a connection to the house? And feeling that connection, how could he betray it? He's even worse, much worse, than I thought.

And so much better.

I change my outfit three times, but I'm no less distracted. Then, as I'm about to leave the house, I can't find my pink cashmere scarf, which was a birthday gift from the first and only class I taught. I'd be sorry to lose it. I've a vague recollection that I wore it to the Rosemont Hall viewing. It's another freezing morning, so I grab one of my mother's chunky knit snoods instead. I'll call Mr Kendall to arrange to get it back – sometime when I know for sure that Jack Faraday won't be there.

At the office, I try to lose myself in the task of checking the latest property stats on Rightmove. I'm not going to think about him. Full-stop.

Mid-morning, an email I wasn't expecting pings in. It's from my former graduate thesis advisor. It twigs that I asked him a few months ago to send me information about teaching jobs he heard about, but that he hadn't responded before now. He's attached an advert for a job opening in Edinburgh, teaching literature at a private school for girls. ‘Happy to put in a word for you,' his note reads. I stare at the screen, the realisation dawning about how much my life has moved on over the last few months. I think of the Blundells, David Waters, Hexagon, and Rosemont Hall. For all the toil and trouble I've encountered at
Tetherington Bowen Knowles,
I have a strange notion that for the first time, I've been experiencing life, not just reading about it. And then there's Jack Faraday. I shiver at the memory of the brief, fleeting ‘realness' of him.

Get a grip!
I scold myself. My fingers tap out an email to my former advisor: ‘Thank you! The job sounds perfect. I'll definitely send in my CV'.

The phone rings. I stare at the blinking light on the switchboard. It's
him
– I just know it.

The light stops blinking but doesn't go out. From the bowels of Mr Bowen-Knowles's office, I can hear his muffled voice – he's picked up the phone. I've missed my chance to do damage control. But that's fine, because I'm not going to think about him.

The phone rings again. My heart leaps into my mouth. Maybe
this
is him.

I jerk the phone off the cradle. ‘
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
, Amy Wood speaking.'

It's Ronan Keene ringing to schedule a viewing at the Bristol flat. We go through all the details and arrange it for that same afternoon. Which is fine by me. Anything to get my mind off –
other things
.

When I hang up the phone, Mr Bowen-Knowles's line is still lit. The suspense is killing me. I stand up. ‘Anyone for Starbucks?' I say. Over the last few months, my willingness to do the coffee run has somewhat defrosted the hearts of my colleagues, but today, I just need to clear my head.

Everyone orders their usual (skinny double decaf latte for Patricia; lemon poppyseed muffin and Earl Grey tea for Jonathan; Americano for Claire) and I leave the office practically at a run.

The day is grey and foggy, but nonetheless, Bath is buzzing with tourists and shoppers. The traffic crawls by, people push past me, and I feel like I'm in a bad dream where I'm being chased through the woods but my feet are too heavy to run. The dreadful mistake I made on Rosemont Hall continues to loom in my mind. As does the delicious and unscrupulous Jack Faraday.

I enter Starbucks and take my time staring up at the chalkboard. ‘Next please,' the barista says with disinterest. I place the office order and add a mint hot chocolate for myself. As I wait at the coffee bar, I'm startled by a tap on my shoulder. ‘Amy Wood – is that you?'

I turn around. It's Mary Blundell. She smiles at me, looking fresh-faced and rosy from the cold. She's wearing an old coat and a knit scarf similar to my own, and once again I'm struck by her homely openness that seems in such direct odds with her being married to an art thief and falling in love with an ultra-modern penthouse flat.

‘Hi Mary,' I say with real enthusiasm, ‘how are you getting on?'

‘Fine – we're fine.' By some unspoken cue, we both collect our drinks and sit down together at a little table by the door.

‘I can only stay a few minutes,' she says. ‘I'm on my way to London to visit Fred at Pentonville.'

‘And is Fred doing… okay?' I figure I can ask since she brought him up.

‘Yes, he's good. He's using his time inside to finish up a business plan for a new gallery we hope to open.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. The prison has a good library, and he's making lots of good contacts.'

‘Oh,' I say, a bit less enthusiastically. ‘How interesting.'

‘We were both gutted to lose the flat in Bristol,' Mary adds. ‘As soon as Fred's out, I'll ring you. We'd still love a flat like that – on a bit of a smaller budget.' She winks.

‘Sure.' I smile. She may have criminal associations, but still, I'd like to help her and Fred find their perfect ‘remand home'. I decide to come right out and ask her how her husband got into his – ‘business'.

Mary sips her coffee thoughtfully. ‘Fred always loved art,' she says. ‘Did you know – he studied to be a painter in Madrid.'

‘Really?'

‘Yeah. But he was rubbish at it. His flatmate had an uncle who was an artist.
Tio Francisco
. The uncle was a hero during the war – World War Two. He helped wealthy Jewish families smuggle their art to safety from the Nazis.'

‘Wow,' I say. ‘That
is
interesting.'

‘But after the war,
Tio
Francisco
had to go back to more mundane things. Art smuggling and that sort of thing. He taught his nephew, Fred's flatmate, the tricks of the trade. They started a business together.'

‘And it's been… uhh… lucrative?'

‘No risk, no reward, Amy,' she says good-naturedly. ‘Fred's a good man. He sees it as his mission to help make sure great art gets appreciated.'

‘Umm... how's that exactly?'

‘Well, let's face it – who do you think will appreciate a great piece of artwork more – a collector who loves it and is willing to pay for it, or your average member of the public day-tripping through a museum?'

‘I admit I've never thought of it that way.'

‘It's all a matter of perspective.' She grins. ‘You say “tomato” and all that—'

Just then, her phone beeps in her pocket. She rummages for it and frowns at the screen. ‘Sorry Amy, I should go. Flipping French postal workers – always striking when you need them.'

I don't dare ask her what she means. With a conspiratorial grin and a little wave, she walks briskly out of the café.

*

Everyone's coffee is cold. Back at the office, I dole out the goods and collect money (today I end up short-changed by 22p). Mr Bowen-Knowles's phone line is still lit and his muffled voice seems louder than usual. Meeting Mary Blundell was temporarily distracting, and it was interesting to hear about Fred's art ‘career'. But I still have the Jack Faraday debacle to deal with. I sit down at my desk, skim through my emails, and wait for the inevitable to happen.

The inevitable takes exactly seven minutes to occur. I'm sipping the last of my hot chocolate when Mr Bowen-Knowles's door opens with a smack against the wall.

I look up. He frowns at me with his usual irritated disdain.

‘You,' he points, ‘in here.'

I am thus summoned.

All eyes are on me as I embark on the familiar walk of shame. Though the Christmas Party ‘incident' has never been discussed, mentioned, or repeated, fleetingly, I wonder if my colleagues think I'm putting in a little ‘overtime' behind closed doors.