Finding Home (27 page)

‘It all sounds lovely,' I say truthfully.

‘I thought you'd like to hear about the details. It shows that I'm not a complete architectural and historical Neanderthal, I hope.'

‘No,' I risk a little laugh. ‘I guess I was wrong.'

He opens the bottle of wine and pours some into a glass.

‘Your sister said that you're in computers,' I say. ‘And that you teach at Stanford. That's impressive.'

‘Is it?' He hands me a glass to taste. I sniff it like I know what I'm doing and then take a little sip and nod.

‘Well, I think so. Stanford is a great university and all.'

‘Yes, it is,' he agrees, pouring the wine into both glasses. ‘And I'm lucky to have the job. It's fun. Some of those kids are so smart that I'm not sure who's teaching whom. We're working on a new design for micro-processing board circuitry.'

‘Umm, what's that?'

‘Basically, components found in all microchips,' he adds. ‘That's what my company did before I sold it. Now I'm mostly freelance.'

‘I'm not quite sure what to say.'

He laughs. ‘Don't worry. I don't expect you to be interested in computer chips. Business is business, and I make a point not to mix it with pleasure.'

My cheeks flare with warmth. He looks at me intently and takes a sip of his wine.

‘What most people don't realise is the creativity that goes into even simple devices. It's that creative part that I enjoy now more than anything. If my team succeeds with this patent, it could be revolutionary.'

As I'm trying to take this all in, he clinks his glass to mine.

‘But I must be boring you silly,' he says. ‘Sorry about that. It's just habit. We computer geeks don't get out much.'

‘I'm not bored.' How can I be when each detail adds to my mental picture of him? I want to know everything about him. I want—

‘Good.' He smiles like he's read my mind.

I swallow hard. ‘And what do you do when you're not working?'

‘Well,' he takes a sip of wine, ‘after my wife died, I kind of shut off from everyone and focused on work mostly. It's only in the last year or so that I've enjoyed doing anything again. I suppose most of my hobbies are solitary – art galleries, walks by the sea, reading books – nothing too exciting. I guess a geek is as a geek does.'

‘I'm sorry about your wife,' I say. ‘Not that sorry is any good in these situations.'

He swirls the wine in the glass. ‘Maybe not. But I'm getting past it. It was cancer. She's been gone for three years now.'

Frowning, he takes a handful of plastic cutlery out of the bag. I want to reach out and grab his hand – comfort him somehow. His story has plucked a chord that resonates inside of me. My loss was nothing compared to his, but still, I know what it's like to have one's world and one's life turned upside down. I feel like I've known Jack Faraday for much longer than just hours. It's strange and implausible, but it's like he's been there all along.

‘It was awful, of course,' he says, ‘and time isn't the great healer that people say. It's like you're waiting every day for something to happen. Some days, you wait for the person to come back. Other days, you're waiting to forget. Months pass, then years.' He sighs. ‘And then one day, out of the blue, a stranger with an English accent called up looking for a “Mr Jack and Ms Flora”. At first I thought it was a wrong number. But it turns out that my sister and I had inherited a crumbling mansion in England. It didn't sound like the thing I was waiting for… in fact, the whole thing sounded like a damned nuisance.' He shakes his head and passes me a plate. ‘But the lawyer, Mr Kendall, seemed like a decent guy. He told me that he'd met an estate agent who was passionate about the house – and finding a buyer who would restore it. I admit, I was very sceptical.' He gives a little laugh. ‘In fact, I pictured you as looking like that woman – what's her name? – Camilla Parker Bowles – tweed suit, sensible shoes, big hair.'

‘Really?' I laugh too.

‘So you can imagine that when I finally met you, I was pleasantly surprised.'

‘Me too,' I say. ‘I won't even go into what I thought you might look like.'

He smirks. ‘Bill Gates, maybe?'

I grin. ‘Something like that.'

‘Well, I guess we were both wrong. But enough about me. Tell me about Amy Wood.'

‘Oh… uhh…' Nerves robotically commandeer my body. I should make up something interesting about myself – pretend I'm an Olympic triathlete or studying to be a barrister or a brain surgeon, or campaigning to save polar bears. But Jack has been honest with me; I decide to tell him the truth.

‘I used to teach in London…' I begin. I tell him about my former job, and then move on to the juicier bits: viewing the flat that I thought could be our perfect home, discovering the truth about Simon and Ashley, getting sacked, and moving back in with my parents, in their 1970s two-bed bungalow. My life… warts and all.

Jack listens to my every word, slowly sipping his wine. I take a little sip from my glass to moisten my throat, determined not to get too intoxicated to drive.

I come to a pause and he shakes his head. ‘Sounds like you've had a hell of a time.'

‘Oh,' I shrug breezily, ‘it did hit me pretty hard. But it feels like ancient history.' With him sitting across the table, it feels true.

‘Sounds like you're better off without your ex- but it is a shame about your job. English literature…' his eyes twinkle. ‘I should have guessed. This place is straight out of a novel, isn't it?'

I nod, disconcerted by his insightfulness.

‘Maybe
Jane Eyre
or
Pride and Prejudice
– something like that.'

‘You've read those?'

‘Hasn't everyone?'

‘No,' I say. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, my wife had all those books. After she died, I went through a phase of reading the classics. They may be old-fashioned, but the themes still resonate today, don't they?'

I nod.

He leans in on his elbow, staring at me as if something doesn't compute. ‘And then you became an estate agent?'

‘I didn't plan on it. I mean, who would? I don't know what it's like in America, but over here, they have a certain… reputation.'

He laughs. ‘Tell me.'

‘I'm afraid there's a certain tendency to, shall we say, overstate the good and downplay the bad.'

‘You mean they lie in order to get a sale? Yeah – they do that everywhere.'

‘I guess so.' I sigh. ‘And of course I would rather be teaching literature, or history – anything, really. But I was lucky to find any job around here and I was determined to make it work. Then on my first day, when the solicitor called about Rosemont Hall, it seemed like fate. When I saw the house, all I could think about was how much I wanted to find someone who would bring it back to life.' I shake my head. ‘It sounds naff, but I feel a strong connection with Rosemont Hall.'

‘I can tell,' Jack says. His lips narrow. ‘Despite the fact that you were trying so hard to make me hate the place.'

‘Well that's because…' I stop.

His smile fades. He takes the food containers out of the brown bag. ‘Shall we eat?' he says.

A cold wave of reality hits me. This man may not be from Hexagon, but he is not some kind of romantic hero. He is not going to restore and nurture the house that's been handed to him on a silver platter. In fact, he's the one who contacted Hexagon in the first place. In between creating his revolutionary microchip, cooking chilli con carne, reading the classics, and taking walks by the sea, he's been dealing with the devil. Whatever happens to Rosemont Hall – if it becomes a golf course, or just crumbles away to dust – will be entirely down to Jack Faraday.

He opens up the white cartons of steaming food. ‘I got chicken, beef, and vegetarian. A little of each?'

Biting my lip, I nod. He scoops the food onto my plate.

‘Flora and I are selling the house.' Looking at me intently, he hands over the plate. ‘To Hexagon. It seemed the best result under the circumstances.'

I take a bite of chicken chow mein, but it turns to paste in my mouth. The whole evening is a pointless charade – with any romantic happy endings purely the product of my imagination. Not that I had the right to expect anything different. For one evening, as Flora said, Jack Faraday is playing
Lord of the Manor
. I let him play me in the process.

‘I can't agree that it's the best result,' I look him squarely in the face. ‘If you gut this house and turn it into a golf clubhouse or flats, it will be lost forever. It will, Jack…' I set down my fork. ‘And all the computer chips in the world won't be able to save it once it's gone.'

He rests his chin in his hand. ‘Okay, Amy Wood, you're the estate agent. Tell me – what's the alternative?'

‘Well…'

I should have the perfect answer prepared. I should have the perfect buyer lined up. But I haven't found that person. The failure doesn't just rest with Jack Faraday. It rests with me too.

‘Once it's fixed up it could be self-supporting,' I grasp at straws. ‘Lots of estates like this are. It would make a lovely home for the right person, or perhaps be opened up to the public.'

Jack Faraday looks for a second like he's about to laugh in my face. Instead, he folds his arms and sits back. ‘And how do you propose that it gets “fixed up”, as you say? I'm sure you've seen the figures just to get it watertight, not to mention the rest of the work, plus the annual upkeep. Then there's the inheritance taxes and other debts of the estate.'

‘There are grants and things, and bank loans, and…'

I trail off, completely embarrassed. After all, if
I
had inherited Rosemont Hall, even with the best will in the world, I couldn't afford any of those things.

Jack sighs. He picks up his glass and takes a sip of the wine, savouring it on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it.

‘Tonight before you got here, Amy, I spent a couple of hours here in the house, just walking through the rooms. As I told you the first time we met, before I came over to England, I had never really had much time for history. My life was all about the future. But being here, it feels like something inside me has opened up. And the house – well, it seeps into you, doesn't it? It's that comfortable feeling of having eaten a big meal at Christmas and then sitting before a roaring fire with a glass of wine, surrounded by the people you love most.'

‘
You
feel that way?'

‘Don't get me wrong, I mean, it sounds crazy. I don't think you can just turn up at a place and have it feel like home.'

‘But it does, doesn't it?' I whisper.

There's a long moment. My heart begins to kindle and flare up with a dangerous fire – that thing called hope.

But then Jack turns away, severing the connection. Slowly, he turns back and shakes his head. ‘I admire your passion.' He sighs. ‘Don't think I don't. But real life is more complicated than fiction. In this case, there are no heroes or villains – I hope you can see that.'

The lid on Pandora's box shuts firmly. Hope? Silly me. ‘You're right, Jack,' I say. ‘Life is complicated. I'm sorry that I've wasted your time.' I push my chair back and get ready to leave. It's the only thing left that I can do.

Suddenly, the lights flicker overhead. We both look up at the cobweb-laced chandelier. There's a loud popping sound and the whole house goes dark. The hum of the heaters stops. Everything is deathly quiet.

‘The heaters must have blown a fuse.' I grip the table to orient myself.

‘Amy… wait,' Jack says softly. His hand finds my arm.

I jump up. ‘Thanks so much for dinner, Jack. It's been great.' I take a few steps in the direction – I think – of the newel post with my coat. ‘I don't think there's much you can do about the lights tonight. The cellar's a bit of a maze – probably best to leave it until tomorrow. Oh, and the housekeeper, Mrs Bradford – I think she might still be living in the house some nights – just so you know.'

‘Really? She told me she'd moved out.'

‘Oh, you've spoken with her? Well, anyway, I don't know.'

My heels echo on the marble. The staircase isn't where I thought it was.

‘Let me help you.' Jack says. He flicks on a tiny pen-sized torch.

‘I'm okay—'

My heel catches one of the cracks in the marble tiles. The next thing I know, the cold floor comes up fast and hard against my face.

‘Owww!' I yelp. The darkness is spotty before my eyes.

Strong arms help me into a sitting position.

‘Amy! Are you hurt? Your ankle?'

I can just make the outline of my heel – half-twisted off. But nothing is seriously damaged other than my pride – and my foolish illusions.

‘I'm fine,' I say. ‘I just need my coat.'

‘Sure, I'll get it.'

His arms release me, and he goes over and gets my coat and scarf. I will myself to get up and leave, but my ankle
does
hurt – a little. But more than that, there's a strong force deep inside me that's battling for me to stay.

Jack wraps the coat around my shoulders and plunks down beside me. I'm acutely aware of his proximity. He flicks the tiny beam of his torch absently over the floor.

‘It's bad timing,' he says with a little laugh. ‘After all this time, I finally meet someone, invite her to dinner, and forget the candles just when they would have come in handy.'

I process the salient piece of information:
meet someone
.

‘Don't worry, Jack. It was a nice surprise – thank you. I hope I haven't offended you.'

‘No Amy, you haven't. I hear what you're saying about the house. And part of me agrees with you. But it isn't just about the money for repairs and upkeep. There are other things – other people in my family who have been hurt over the years. I can't explain it to you. Not in a way that would make any sense. But I think it's best if our family is shot of this house.'