Finding Home (28 page)

‘What do you mean?'

The circle of light from his torch begins to fade. His hand brushes my cheek as he leans very close to me and whispers in my ear.

‘It's a long story. But know this – I'm sorry if you're disappointed about the house – disappointed in me. I'm sorry for a lot of things… but not for this—'

And there in the darkness, his kiss sends lightning bolts of electricity through every nerve in my body. I want to melt into him, and our lips mould together like they were made to stay that way. His fingers are magic as they slowly trail down my neck, and my body is screaming to end what seems like years of drought. But, at the same time, my mind is screaming at me to stop, I can't do this, it will end in tears, I'm betraying Rosemont Hall,
and
…

He stops and draws back. My hands are on his chest and I've pushed him away.

‘I can't…'

I pull on my coat and scramble to my feet. I whip off the offending shoes and run stocking-footed across the cold marble.

‘Amy, wait. I didn't mean to―'

The slam of the door drowns out his words.

I haven't just made the biggest mistake of my life. I haven't ruined a perfect evening. And I know this because…

Reason eludes me as I nearly slam into the back of a lorry at a roundabout. Certainly, I've made lots of mistakes before – too many to count. Mistakes like not having a candid discussion with Simon about where our relationship was headed; or acting on impulse and committing an assault with mobile phone; or moving back to Somerset; or kissing Frankie Summers at age fourteen when he was at home with chickenpox. But running away from Jack Faraday is not another disaster of my own making.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I made the right decision. I was bowled over by the moment, and it was right to step back before I was swept away into the abyss of… what I really wanted to happen.

The miles between me and Rosemont Hall flash by. Jack Faraday is not a friend – of mine, at least. Rosemont Hall will be turned into a golf course, for the gleeful enjoyment of people like David Waters, Alistair Bowen-Knowles, Simon, and ‘Ashley'. Jack said himself that it's not about the money for repairs and upkeep. After all, he teaches at Stanford and works in Silicon Valley. He's successful, from the sounds of it. He could save Rosemont Hall if he wanted to.

When my mobile phone rings, my hands jump on the steering wheel. Should I pull off the road, answer it, and if it's Jack, give him a piece of my mind? Or should I pull off the road, turn around, rush back to the house and pick up where we left off? I nearly skid as I look for a verge that doesn't exist. The call goes to voicemail; I drive on. The lights of Nailsea shine cold and white in the distance.

Jack Faraday is nothing to me – and it's going to stay that way. He'll go back to America and his nice life in Carmel-by-the-Sea.

Leaving me…

Here.

My mobile rings again. I screech to the side of the road and scramble for it in my bag. It rings off before I can grab it. I turn it off, my hands unsteady as I drive the rest of the way home.

Mum and Dad are still up watching the news when I get back. I refuse the offer of a cup of tea, have a quick shower, and get into bed. I try to read a little; then turn out the light and put a pillow over my head. It doesn't matter who called. I toss and turn and pop in my earplugs.

The suspense is killing me. I sit bolt upright, creep out of my room and grab my handbag. I smuggle it back into my room and take out my phone. Three missed calls. Biting my lip, I check the number.

Yes!
My heart does a jig of glee. I turn off the light and lie in bed, trying hard to recover the mixture of confusion and outrage I'd so carefully concocted on my way home. But it's no use. I close my eyes and snuggle into the duvet, my body still tingling from the memory of his kiss.

*

After a night of pleasantly disturbing dreams, I wake up the next morning in a fog of disbelief. How could I have run away from Jack Faraday? How could I have been so utterly stupid?

It takes a cold shower and most of the drive to work before I can once again focus on the anger I feel towards Jack. He's hiding something about Rosemont Hall, I'm certain of it. Why didn't I get more information when I had the chance? Why on earth didn't I stay?

The day gets worse when I reach my desk and listen to my voicemails. The first is from the PA to one Nigel Netelbaum, Director of Regional Development for Hexagon UK. He wants an appointment to discuss the paperwork for Rosemont Hall. I hit delete.

The next message is from Mr Kendall asking me to ring him as soon as possible. I stall – make some coffee, run out and grab a muffin, eat it slowly at my desk. While I'm at it, I google Jack Faraday.

There are a lot of hits. Jack Faraday is officially a rich and successful computer geek. I find a picture of him in the
San Francisco Chronicle
giving a $100,000 cheque to a cancer charity. There's another article on the sale of his company with figures involving more noughts than I can count on one hand. I was right all along: Jack Faraday has the money to keep Rosemont Hall and save it.

But he isn't going to.

As I close down the website, my phone rings. I recognise Mr Kendall's number.

I grab the phone. ‘Hi Mr Kendall,' I say. ‘I was just about to ring you.'

‘Hello Amy.' He sounds cordial as usual, if a little chilly. He tells me that since we're no longer instructed on the sale of Rosemont Hall, I don't need to deal with Hexagon; he'll take care of Nigel Netelbaum himself. All he needs from me is the keys back as soon as possible.

‘Sure,' I choke, ‘I can drop the keys by your office.'

‘All right then, if—'

I cut him off. ‘You know, Mr Kendall, I tried to convince Mr Jack that he should keep the house – it's part of his family heritage and all that. I think he could afford to fix it up, if he wanted to.' I give a weak laugh. ‘But I couldn't persuade him.'

Mr Kendall sighs – he obviously thinks I've got way too big for my knickers. ‘Not everyone is like you, Amy. Why should Mr Jack and Ms Flora – two people who have their own lives in America – want to keep a house that they've never visited before – maybe never even knew existed.' He begins to sound perturbed. ‘You may not know it, but they're running out of time before they will have to pay the estate debts and the first instalment of a whopping inheritance tax bill.'

‘Oh.'

‘Besides, not every family history is a happy one. The Windhams may have owned a grand house, but in the end, it's just a house. What about the people who lived there – aren't they more important? And believe me―' he pauses as something beeps in the background.

‘Yes…' I coax. ‘Please… I'd really like to know more. So I can understand.'

‘Sorry Amy, I've got another call that I need to take. You know – don't worry about dropping off the keys. I'll send someone round later today.'

‘No really, it's―'

The phone clicks off.

My chest feels like a black hole, but for the rest of the morning it's filled with other matters. Ronan Keene phones, and (miracle of miracles) puts in an offer on the Bristol flat. I ring the vendor myself and come back with a counter-offer, engage in some toing and froing on the price, and finally an agreement is reached. My co-workers are hanging on with bated breath while I close the deal. By the time I get started on the paperwork, once again my name is heading to the top of the sales chart on the door of the disabled loo.

That
should
make me happy. I
am
happy. So why don't I
feel
it?

I check my mobile, hoping Jack might have rung again. He hasn't. I debate ringing him. I don't. After all, what's the point? Jack Faraday will go back to America. Rosemont Hall will be sold. I'll still be here at
Tetherington Bowen Knowles
.

Unless I do something about it.

Luckily, I know just the thing. It's as if the universe has sensed my wayward path and is now catapulting me in the right direction. I've been playing estate agent and old-house advocate for long enough. It's time for me to go back to my true vocation – teaching literature. If nothing else, it's much less painful than real life.

I spend an hour dusting off my CV and writing a cover email to the headmaster of the school for girls in Edinburgh. I wax lyrical about how I've always been inspired by setting as a ‘character' in fiction, and how I'm looking forward to exploring with my students works that evoke the wilds of Scotland –
Rob Roy, Ivanhoe,
the poetry of Robert Burns. By the time I've written my piece, I've almost managed to convince myself.
Almost.
My throat is tight as I press send.

At lunchtime, Claire asks if I want to grab a sandwich. I don't much feel like it, but I'm desperate for someone to talk sense into me. As we stand in line at Pret, I tell her the latest on Rosemont Hall (leaving out certain relevant details about my dinner with its reluctant heir).

As expected, she's less than sympathetic to my plight. ‘God, Amy, you've really got to get a grip,' is what she says.

‘Yes – I want to. But how?'

‘Well, you can start by facing the facts. If the house is sold, then it's sold,' Claire says. ‘It may be a shame, but no one's died… I mean, other than the last owner. But
you
need to move on. The heirs have every right to sell it if they don't want it.'

‘I know, it's just…'

‘It's just what?' She cocks her head, frowning. ‘There's something you're not telling me. Is it the old lady who's been turfed out? Or something else?'

I realise that someday, Claire is going to make one hell of a barrister. ‘Well, there is one other thing that might be worth mentioning…'

‘Yes?'

‘The heir: Jack Faraday.'

‘What about him?'

‘We had dinner. And a long talk.'

‘Dinner?'

‘I think I might be falling for him.'

Claire's mouth becomes a lip-lined ‘O'. ‘Please say you're joking.'

‘Well I certainly don't want to! I despise him: he could save the house if he wanted to.
We
could save it.' I tell her about what Jack Faraday said. About walking through the house and having the history seep into his bones. I tell her that he feels a connection just like I do.

‘But he's not going to save it, Claire. None of it makes any difference.'

‘That's his prerogative, I guess. But for the record, did he say why not?'

‘He said that people in the past had been hurt.'

‘Which means what?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘Then ask him! Come on Amy – this isn't the nineteenth century. You have to stop thinking like Jane Eyre and start thinking like Ruth Watson – you know, the woman with the big beads who used to be on
Country House Rescue
?' She tsks. ‘You're a beautiful, professional woman with a great sense of dedication. Make a business plan for saving the house and present it to him. And if he still says no, then you can always get down on your knees and beg.'

A plan – a business plan? Why didn't I think of that before?

‘Get the facts down on paper,' Claire says. ‘Crunch some numbers. Show him how the house can make a profit on its own – if it can. Convince him that he's better off keeping it than selling. If he's a techie, then he ought to appreciate things like that.'

‘Yes,' I say brightly. ‘Numbers. That's what I need. But how do I get them?'

Claire rolls her eyes. ‘Haven't you learned anything from our delightful boss? Make them up. All you need to do is get something down on paper. A spreadsheet. Something that will get him thinking.'

‘I've never written a business plan before, but I can give it a try.'

‘I'll cover for you at the office – tell them you're taking one of my viewings. Go to the library – find a book. There must be loads.'

‘Thanks Claire. I owe you big time.'

‘I won't forget.' We smile at each other and eat our sandwiches.

Claire is a genius. After lunch we go our separate ways – she back to the office and I to the tourist information office. I pick up some leaflets on historic homes in the area that are open to the public – like Longleat House. They have a zoo and a safari park, loads of activities for kids, eateries, gift shops – it looks like the place is definitely paying its way.

Maybe Jack and I could go and visit the places together and I could convince him of the possibilities. I picture us in a little open-top car, driving through country lanes, my hair tied up in a scarf, him wearing his red jacket and sunglasses. We'd visit Longleat in the morning and Sudeley Castle in the afternoon, stopping for lunch at a rambling little country pub where we'd sit outside in the garden and Jack would sample the local bitter. And at night when the sun went down, neither of us would want the day to end. We'd have supper together in the restaurant of his hotel and talk about our day, and all of the plans we could make for the future of Rosemont Hall. And gradually, we'd make more plans of our own – little trips we could take, other places to see… and one thing would lead to another, and—

‘Hey, watch it,' someone yells.

I look up and realise that I'm in the middle of a crossing, about to get run down by a ‘Hop on, Hop Off' open-top city tour bus. A group of Japanese schoolgirls snap me with their iPhones. At least if I'm flattened, there will be plenty of witnesses.

My fantasy in tatters, I walk down the road to the public library. The librarian points the way to the relevant section. I grab a book called
Business Plans for Complete Idiots
and a free table. I tackle chapter one:
Brainstorming
. I take out my notebook and begin jotting down a few ideas.