Finding Home (40 page)

As a distraction, I login to my personal email and look for the original message with the Edinburgh job description. Surely, I owe it to myself to give it a shot. At the very least, being back in academia should help me get my book published… that is assuming I can muster the will to finish it. Idly I skim over the new messages, deleting the huge amount of spam that has accumulated since I last checked the account. And near the bottom I see a message that's like a chill wind from the past. The subject is ‘Hey Stranger' and it's from Simon.

My hand on the mouse hovers the cursor between ‘open' and ‘delete'. I do a quick catalogue of my feelings, and discover that I feel nothing. Whatever my present woes may be, Simon no longer figures. I open the message:

Instead of counting up the number of things about the email that infuriate me, I calmly hit delete. Simon's a shit, and I'm well shot of him. In a strange way, I can see why Mrs Bradford didn't want to read the letters from Henry. As they say, you can't step twice into the same river. Some things are well and truly in the past.

And other, more important things are quickly slipping away from me in that direction. Just as I'm about to shut down my computer for the day, a reminder pops up on the screen. Tomorrow morning I'm scheduled to go to Mr Kendall's office. Hexagon is signing the paperwork to purchase Rosemont Hall. Despite my best efforts, there's been no miracle, no fairy-tale ending.

This, after all, is real life.

I arrive at Mr Kendall's office at a quarter past ten the next morning. The completion meeting is scheduled for half past. Mr Kendall's assistant, Colleen, gives me a kindly smile. ‘He'll be right with you,' she says. ‘He's just finishing up a call.'

I sit on the edge of the leather sofa. Idly I flip through the stack of
Country Life
magazines, but I'm not in the mood to read about rich people and their posh houses. Where are Mr Netelbaum and his henchmen? Shouldn't they be here by now? I check my watch. They're late.

The main door opens. My stomach plummets. But it's only the postman. He chats with Colleen and hands her a stack of letters. My eyes are glued to the door. I want to get this over with so I can leave. Where the hell are the men from Hexagon?

I drum my fingers on my knee, then take out my mobile and check for messages. There are none.

I pull out a pen and a small notebook from my handbag while I'm waiting. I keep meaning to start a ‘life plan' now that I'm once again back to square one – and it seems like now might be as good a time as any to put pen to paper.

The blank page stares back at me. I start trying to jot down a few bullet points:

One by one I cross out the things I've written. In truth, I'm feeling numb. I still have some grieving to do and I'm not quite ready to pull myself together just yet or face another ‘new future'—

The door opens. A small army of men in dark suits enters the office. Every muscle in my body tenses up. Nigel Netelbaum runs a hand through his greased-back ginger hair and gives me a nod. ‘Nice to see you again, Amy,' he says. ‘Let me introduce you to my colleagues.'

But I'm already staring at one of his ‘colleagues'. The sandy hair and boyish grin that once seemed endearing, but now seem more like a scary clown.

David Waters.

‘Hello Amy.' He has the nerve to wink – at me, but also towards the group. He's obviously told all of his new buddies about our past ‘association'.

‘Mr Waters,' I say through my teeth. ‘I see you've got a new job.'

‘Yes,' he says smugly. ‘I'm working full-time for Hexagon now. The design for the new golf course and clubhouse at Rosemont Hall is almost done. It's going to be all glass and mod cons – with a Georgian facade. Everything behind the front is going to go.' He smiles like he's thrusting a knife into me. Which he is. ‘I was going to ring and tell you,' he adds, ‘but somehow, it didn't
come up
.'

I give him a pained smile and force myself to make the further round of introductions. There are several names that I don't catch – but I think there's a CFO, a COO, and a couple of directors. Two of them have golf club ties. After the round of handshakes and exchange of business cards, I have the overwhelming urge to douse my hands with sanitiser.

‘Hello, everyone – sorry to keep you waiting.' Mr Kendall appears in the doorway of his office. For the first time since we've met, he seems a little flustered. I know that he's also sad to be seeing the back of Rosemont Hall. Though, when Hexagon completes, presumably, he'll be paid. That might go a long way to making him feel better. Lucky him. I force myself to walk the few metres across the floor to the conference room.

‘Please help yourselves to coffee and biscuits.' He gestures to the conference table. It's empty except for the coffee service and food. Where is the paperwork? I want to get this over with and leave as soon as possible; get on with my scribbled-out life plan.

The others help themselves. David Waters holds out the plate to me, still grinning wolfishly.

‘No thanks.' I look away.

Mr Kendall hovers by the door. He's making me nervous – why isn't he sitting down with the rest of us?

He clears his throat. ‘Thank you for coming, gentleman – and Ms Wood.' His glasses have slipped down his nose and he pushes them up.

‘Of course,' Mr Netelbaum interrupts. His voice sounds unnaturally loud. ‘We're all very excited about this project. Thanks to David here, the planners are more or less on board for our design, and we should be up and running in a few months.' He laughs.

‘And if the whole thing falls down first, we won't have to bother,' David adds.

He looks at me.

I glare at him.

‘Yes, well, umm…' Mr Kendall clears his throat again. ‘I'm afraid there's been a slight last-minute hiccup.'

‘Pardon?' Mr Netelbaum frowns. ‘What's that?'

Mr Kendall begins to pace. ‘Well, you see, one of the heirs has got cold feet.'

‘Cold feet? What's that supposed to mean.' Mr Netelbaum suddenly morphs into the wolf at the door.

‘About selling. To you – Hexagon – that is.'

I grip the edge of the table.

‘What?' Mr Netelbaum slams his coffee cup down on the table. ‘What do you mean –
to us
? We've been in discussions with Jack Faraday. Where the hell is he? Get him on the horn.' His minions scramble for their BlackBerries.

‘Mr Jack is sorry he can't be here today,' Mr Kendall says. ‘Believe me, he would have liked to be. But the truth is, we've received a higher offer. A better offer.'

I stifle a gasp.

‘That's outrageous,' Mr Netelbaum stands up angrily. ‘We're signing the paperwork now. The funds are all approved and ready to be wired. They can't just back out.'

‘Actually they can,' I cut in. ‘No contracts have been exchanged yet, so technically, the heirs can sell to whomever they like. I'd say you were gazumped.'

Mr Kendall nods sheepishly.

‘You!' Nigel Netelbaum turns the force of his anger at me. ‘You've been playing us all along. Don't think I don't know it. David here – he's told us all about you. That you were opposed to us from the start. And how you were even willing to take your clothes off to get him onside. You're nothing but a back-stabbing little tart.'

‘How dare you—'

‘Gentleman, that's really not called for,' Mr Kendall says, calmer now. ‘I agree it's an unfortunate situation, but in the end, they just didn't feel that your plans were the right outcome for Rosemont Hall. The house has been part of their family history for 200 years, and they've decided that they
do
care what happens to it.'

I feel like I'm floating above the table.

‘So I think we're done here,' Mr Kendall says. ‘My secretary will validate your parking on the way out.'

‘Take the house and shove it up your ass,' Mr Netelbaum practically spits. ‘Come on,' he gestures to his colleagues. ‘We've wasted enough time here.'

The army of suits rises en masse and storms out. David Waters' face is red and he doesn't look at me.

‘Have a nice day,' I say brightly. ‘Good to see you again, David.'

The group goes back out to the waiting area. A door slams.

Mr Kendall and I both let out a breath. He sits down opposite me, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes his brow.

‘Sorry about that,' he says. ‘It really was a last-minute thing. I didn't have time to cancel with them or tell you.'

‘But Mr Kendall, I don't understand. Was that all true? Has there really been a higher offer?' My elation turns to silent panic as I realise that things are now even more unsettled. What will the house become now? Flats? A conference centre? Nothing?

He sits back and steeples his fingers. ‘Everything I said was true. The offer was confirmed yesterday. I've been up most of the night preparing the new paperwork. It's one of your clients, as it turns out.'

‘One of
my
clients?' I lean forward. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘Well, maybe not a client exactly, but the buyer is insisting that any commission goes to you.'

‘Commission? Me?'

‘It was you that convinced them to make the purchase. Here, have a look.'

He stands up and goes over to the credenza at the side of the room. He takes out a thick stack of papers and sets them in front of me. He points to the cover page. ‘This is the charter of the new Rosemont Hall Charitable Trust,' he says. ‘Not all the paperwork has been filed, of course, but once the financing is confirmed, all that will be left is to dot the i's and cross the t's.'

‘But… I don't understand.'

‘You sure you don't want something to drink?' He opens another door of the credenza and takes out a decanter of brandy and two glasses. He pours and hands me one. I don't refuse.

‘Now, I'll explain…'

And my eyes widen as he talks about the new charitable trust that is buying the house. ‘So you see,' he says to sum up, ‘the trust benefactor decided that the house should be saved. It will be restored and opened to the public. That's the idea anyway. There are still lots of details to be sorted out in the final business plan – the idea is to make the house self-supporting once it's restored. Tea rooms, adventure playgrounds, wedding and film bookings – whatever. As for the details, that's where you come in.'

‘Me?'

‘Of course.' He looks surprised that I'm so dim. ‘Didn't Jack mention any of this?'

‘Jack?'

The truth dawns like a desert morning.

‘Well, of course. Maryanne Bradford is the principal benefactor. She'll be funding the purchase of Flora's share of the house with the proceeds from the Rembrandt when it's sold at auction next month. Jack has decided that he will be keeping his share. He will be the main trustee in charge of operations.'

‘Keeping his share?' My heart feels like it's going to catapult out of my body. Jack Faraday is keeping Rosemont Hall. Jack Faraday and Mrs Bradford – who will be able to buy her share of the house because of the ‘buried treasure' that I found. Jack Faraday wants me involved with sorting out the details. Jack Faraday wants
me
.

‘Amy?' he says. I realise that my mouth is gaping open like a zombie. ‘Would you like another brandy?'

‘Yes please – I think I need it.'

Two brandies later, I leave Mr Kendall's office in a minicab. I'm tipsy, overwhelmed and still trying to make sense of all the emotions swirling around in my head. The world looks different as we whizz by buildings and people. It's bright and clear; full of life and colour. Full of potential for a future I couldn't even have dreamed of. Enthusiasm is fizzing in my veins as I ponder the things that Mr Kendall has told me.

Apparently, Jack and his grandmother envision me taking charge of the trust and renovating the house. Then it will open to the public. I'll be a paid employee of the trust – full- or part-time, depending on what I choose (or – if I choose to accept, as he put it). But clearly, Mr Kendall doesn't know of our past ‘association', so I can't ask the real questions that are burning in my mind: does Jack intend to live over here, at least some of the time, and if so, does that mean he wants something more than the few nights we've had together? And why the hell didn't Jack tell me all this himself (I try to summon the appropriate level of indignation on this point, but frankly, I'm feeling way too happy to do so)? There's clearly a lot I need to think about, and a lot of details to be ironed out, but for now, none of that matters. The pieces are falling into place – I'm on the verge of a future I could hardly dare to dream of.