‘But what about my three months to find a buyer?’ I croak. ‘A buyer who will restore it as a family home? Or... or even flats?’
Mr Bowen-Knowles laughs in my face. ‘Come on Amy, get a grip. If Hexagon wants to buy the place, then good riddance. As long as we get our share,’ he adds. ‘Besides, you’ve had plenty of time to make something happen with that place. Your efforts to date have been… let’s be frank… industrious, but also ineffectual.’
‘That’s not exactly true—’
‘You’ve had what – two viewings?’
‘One,’ I mutter. Cinderella’s clock has short-circuited, and all too soon, struck midnight. I can feel the chill seep into my bones as my dress shreds to rags and my golden coach turns back into a pumpkin.
He shrugs like he’s not surprised. ‘Either way, I realise that you’re the only one around here who’s shown much of an interest in getting the sale. So I’m going to allow you to stay involved – if you want to.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘Someone will ring you to arrange the viewing – probably mid-Jan. Until then, pull everything together: the site plan, the surveyor’s report, the probate petition. We’ll want to have everything ready to go once they make a formal offer. And get in touch with Kendall – make sure that his “Mr Jack” agrees in writing that we get our commission. These Americans can be such hard-arses.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘You can also help me with the paperwork on the Glastonbury place and…’
I stop listening. After all, what’s the point? I should be happy that he’s getting me involved and making me a part of things – wasn’t that what I was celebrating earlier? But now I feel like I’ve crashed into a cement wall. Once Rosemont Hall is gone with me failing to save it, I’ll be left, if I’m lucky, with the odd Mr Patel or two in between failures like the Blundells and all the rest—
‘Amy? Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?’
Given that ‘no’ is not an acceptable answer, I settle for a hoarse laugh. ‘Sorry Mr Bowen-Knowles,’ I say. ‘I’m happy to help out in any way I can.’
*
I seek the sanctuary of the disabled loo to hide tears that appear from nowhere as soon as I leave my boss’s office. I stay there until I begin to calm down, drying my eyes on a piece of rough toilet tissue. When I emerge, Claire is in the kitchen. ‘Are you all right, Amy?’ she asks gently.
‘Fine.’ I shrug off the question.
‘Did he say something about the Christmas party?’
‘No. It’s Rosemont Hall.’
She opens the cupboard, pushing aside the ‘I’d rather be ... GOLFING’ mug.
‘That was always going to be a long shot, Amy,’ she says.
‘I know. It’s just all got away from me so quickly. And Mr Bowen-Knowles is annoyed because we might not get any commission.’
‘Hmm, that would be bad.’
‘And the old woman hasn’t moved out – at least, I don’t think she has. She may be a bit unstable, but I feel sorry for her, and…’
Mr Bowen-Knowles’s door bangs open.
‘Amy—’ he bellows.
Good grief, what now?
‘Yes?’ I say wearily.
‘You need to go back to the house in Glastonbury — now,’ he orders. ‘The police are on their way. They’re going to clear out the junkies once and for all. Go there and make sure they don’t damage the house – we need to preserve Mr Patel’s investment.’
As the day goes from bad to worse and in order to safeguard Mr Patel’s dubious “investment”, I end up ducking clubs of broken beer bottles and police crossfire (in truth, all I do is sit in my car for what seems like hours while the police have an orderly raid, arrest the four squatting thugs, and do all the paperwork, including taking a statement from me and my new best friend Mr Patel), once again, I rue the fateful day that I ever set foot in the offices of Tetherington Bowen Knowles.
- Part Three -
As I stood there hushed and still, I could swear that the house was not an empty shell but lived and breathed as it had lived before.
Light came from the windows, the curtains blew softly in the night air, and there, in the library, the door would stand half open as we had left it, with my handkerchief on the table beside the bowl of autumn roses.
~ Daphne du Maurier – Rebecca
- VI -
Letter 6 (Fragment)
A—
God forgive me, but I have been such a fool. He means to ruin our plans – but I won’t let him. We must play along with this little charade for tonight, but tomorrow—
- 21 -
In real life, there are no happy endings – only ups and downs and new beginnings, and loose ends, and a few laughs, and many tears. This I realise during the course of the next few weeks, which fly past in a blur. Christmas comes and goes (my parents and I exchanging gifts of socks and bath smellies), then New Year’s (my parents lamenting my poor taste in having jettisoned the most willing Scrabble player they’ve had in years). The holidays make me think of all the things that might have been with Simon, but, like the ghost of Christmas yet to come, turned out to be only in my mind. It’s a letting-go of a sort, and I feel more than a twinge of sadness. But I get through it.
As a break from the festivities, I begin transcribing the letters I found. The hours leading up to the ball and Henry’s cryptic last letter niggle in my head like an itch I can’t quite scratch. I look through the sketchbook again for any clues as to who the artist was, but there are none. All I know is that the artist was captivated by the image of Arabella Windham in her pink dress, and that he was most likely Spanish.
The keys to Rosemont Hall remain at the office, locked in a desk drawer. Viewings grind to a halt during the holidays, and in the new year, I’m kept busy dealing with people interested in putting their homes on the market. Just before the new year, I rang up David Waters (who hasn’t called me since our Scrabble night) and apologised for my behaviour. Admittedly, it was a relief when it went to voicemail. But as the days pass and he doesn’t ring me back, a tiny flicker of doubt sets in as to whether I let him go too easily.
He finally rings me back when I’m at the office. We make the obligatory small talk and harmless flirtations, so I automatically assume that he might be wondering if I’ve changed my mind about seeing him again. I almost do change my mind. But just when I’m about to suggest that we go out for a friendly beer, he asks to speak to Mr Bowen-Knowles. I realise that he’s not pining after me, and in fact, didn’t even ring to speak to me at all.
‘Oh, so you want to schedule another round of golf, then?’ I joke to hide my embarrassment.
‘Actually…’ his tone is deadly serious, ‘it’s not a golf round that we’re planning, but the golf course. I’m going to work on some costings. It’s potentially a great business opportunity for me if I can crack into golf course development.’
‘Just a minute, I’ll see if he’s available.’ Choking out the words, I transfer the call to my boss. In a way, I’m relieved. Nothing else could have done more to convince me that I no longer require the services of David Waters on either a personal or a professional level.
Things begin to look up when, a week later, Mr Patel completes on the Glastonbury house. My name goes straight to the top of the sales chart on the door of the disabled loo. It’s a good thing too – especially since everyone is murmuring about double-dip recessions. The winter days gradually begin to lengthen, and although I have several promising client viewings of ‘character cottages’, ‘charming semis,’ and even a ‘top-notch barn conversion’, I’m not one jot closer to finding anyone to rescue Rosemont Hall.
The long shadow of the meeting with Hexagon’s representative hangs over my head. Every phone call to the office; every email enquiry kindles my worries. Each night when I go home, I feel a sense of relief, like a prisoner having received a stay of execution. Each morning when I come into the office, I experience the same creeping dread that today might be the day.
> Then, on a grey Wednesday afternoon the last week in January, the axe falls.
I return from a lunch-hour spent browsing the last of the sales to find a telephone memo on my chair: Meeting confirmed for Rosemont Hall, Saturday January 31st 11 a.m. Mr Faraday.
Hexagon. At least now they have a name. I drop my other work and make one last Herculean effort to find an alternative buyer. I check all the website cookies for people who have clicked on the property particulars and phone them. But thanks to David Waters and his repair estimate, the precious few who might be interested are immediately put off. As a last resort, I even ring up Ronan Keene, the footballer. I’m surprised when he answers himself, and even more surprised when he remembers me.
‘Hullo Amy,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you called, in fact, I’ve been meaning to ring you.’
‘Oh, well, that’s nice.’ A splinter of hope pricks my heart.
‘Yeah. We looked on your website at that other place you mentioned – in Bristol. Crystal’s very excited. She thinks it might just be the place for us. What was it you said? – our “together home”.’
‘Great.’ I cross them off as ‘possibles’ for Rosemont Hall, but business is business. There’s a right property for everyone, and I want to find it for them.
‘You know the one I mean, yeah? The penthouse apartment?’
‘I certainly do.’ An image forms in my mind of Fred Blundell sitting in jail. He and Mary had been so excited on their one viewing – when they’d found ‘the right home’ for them. And promptly lost it again. Criminal or no, I know how that feels. I wish things – a lot of things – had turned out differently.
‘It’s very much a showpiece flat,’ I tell him. ‘Ultra-modern, lots of light, great for entertaining. And brand new,’ I emphasise. ‘Not pre-lived in. I’m sure you and Crystal will love it.’
I gush a little more about the Costa Coffee and Pizza Express, the pool and gym in the basement, and the roof terrace. He seems delighted with my descriptions. We make arrangements for a viewing. I feel confident that I’m well on the way to matching up Ronan Keene and Crystal with their perfect flat. But as for Rosemont Hall, I’ve singularly failed.
- 22 -
The dreaded day dawns bright and clear with a dusting of snow on the ground. I give myself plenty of extra time to drive to Rosemont Hall because the roads are slick, and cars are skidding all over. I’m so early that I stop off in Little Botheringford for a coffee and muffin to calm my nerves. There’s a twee little tea shop called the ‘Cup o’ Comfort’ that looks welcoming and smells delicious. There’s nothing like fresh baked scones with currants and cinnamon to perk up a cold morning. I park the car in a loading zone and run in. The tea shop is nearly full with older people and families taking advantage of the £3.95 full English advertised on a blackboard outside. A rather harried, white-haired woman serves me a huge scone that’s dripping with fresh butter on a willow-patterned plate. There’s an embarrassing moment when I remind her that I’ve asked for it to take away, and she purses her lips and chucks it into a paper bag. The ‘Cup o’ Comfort’ doesn’t have any takeaway cups either, so I decide to skip the coffee.
By the time I emerge from the café, the sun has disappeared and the sky is a strange purple-brown colour that means more snow. I begin to hope that Hexagon’s stooge will be put off by the weather and not turn up. If he does turn up, I’m secretly glad that the place will not be looking its best.
With the hour upon me, I drive the rest of the way to the house. There’s already a good four inches of snow covering the drive. However, my car ploughs through it easily, so undoubtedly, if this Mr Faraday is so determined, he’ll be able to make it too.
When I pull up in front of the house, I’ve still got a few minutes before the viewing. I go inside and deliberately scatter some of the papers and books so that it looks even more cluttered than it is. I note that more of the rooms look and smell clean, and there’s a bag of knitting next to one of the threadbare sofas. I tiptoe up the stairs to Arabella’s room, but thankfully there’s no sign of Mrs Bradford. The book is gone from the nightstand, and the bed has been remade. Back downstairs, I go from room to room pulling the curtains shut, making the house seem dark and forbidding. Not that my efforts to jinx the viewing will make one jot of difference to a golf course developer. Feeling chilled to the bone, I decide to wait in the car, where at least there’s a working heater.
Mr Faraday is late. I sit staring at the house through foggy windows. Twenty minutes go by. The knot in my stomach begins to loosen slightly – if I left now, surely I’d be in the clear. At the very least I could inconvenience Mr Faraday, put him off, make him schedule another viewing.
Just then, a car drones in the distance. I watch in the mirror as it tops the rise of the hill. A blue Vauxhall Corsa – a slightly newer model than mine. Not the flash sports car or monster SUV I’d expected a Hexagon executive to drive.
The car pulls up next to mine. A man jumps out – I glimpse a red ski jacket and dark hair. I walk a few steps towards his car.
‘Mr Faraday? I’m Amy Wood the—’
I stop.
He stops.
Our eyes meet.
‘—Estate Agent…’ I finish to break the remarkable silence. In an instant, the world has shrunk into a bubble around me and this stranger. He stares back at me, his sharp-chiselled face framed by soft, dark brown hair. I begin to shiver, but not with the cold.
‘Hello,’ he says, his voice deep and penetrating. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Thanks for coming out in this weather.’
I blink hard and, immediately, time comes rushing back. I remember who I am and what I’m doing, who this man is, and why this can’t possibly be happening.
‘Oh, no problem.’ I stammer. ‘It’s my… pleasure.’
I can’t meet his eyes – a soft blue-grey like the winter sky. Looking past him, I hold out my hand. He takes it and our fingers touch. He’s smiling at me; the puffs of our breath mingle as he speaks: ‘To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this snow. The rental car’s not really cut out for this weather…’
A few things register: Accent = American. Our hands = still together.
I jerk mine away.
- 23 -
I don’t like him. He’s anathema to everything I believe in. He’s an unfeeling Neanderthal who’s come to ravage a piece of history. I’m determined not to like him.
It’s just…
I’m acutely aware of his presence as we trudge through the snow towards the front door. I don’t speak – I can’t speak. I know I should start talking my spiel about the house. Try to appeal to his humanity, if he has any. But the words won’t come.
As we reach the front door, he points to the frost-caked stone crest above.
‘Is that the family crest?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I look up at the stone lintel to avoid glimpsing the face that might bewitch me. ‘The house came into the Windham family in the early 1800s – not long after it was built. I believe the owner added it then. It’s eroded, of course, but originally it was a dog and unicorn.’ I purse my lips. He can’t possibly be interested.
‘A dog and unicorn?’
‘It stands for fidelity and virtue.’ Infuriatingly, I blush.
‘Fidelity and virtue.’ He says under this breath. ‘That’s odd.’
‘Odd?’
He turns towards me. I take a quick step back.
‘I guess that’s the wrong word.’ He laughs lightly. ‘It’s just that I wasn’t expecting the place to be quite so…’
I exhale a long breath as a wave of relief passes over me. The place is way too rundown for anyone to bother with. Hexagon can develop a golf course somewhere else. I can go home now and try to forget that I ever laid eyes on this man who’s―
‘…beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’ Warmth oozes through my veins. ‘You really think so?’
He laughs again. ‘It’s obviously a bit of a fixer-upper, but the outside is pretty amazing. I
guess maybe because you’re English, you see these things every day and don’t notice them anymore.’
‘Well actually…’
‘Where I’m from, ancient history starts about 1900,’ he says. ‘I was never that interested in exploring Europe – it’s a typical American attitude, I’m afraid. We’ve got our own history, and lots of interesting things in our own country. And when I learned about European history at school, all they really focused on were the wars, the beheadings, and Henry the Eighth’s six wives. None of it seemed very “real”, if you know what I mean.’
‘No… I mean – yes.’ I fumble in my handbag for the keys. ‘And I suppose people can play golf anywhere.’
He raises an eyebrow as if studying me. He seems to come to some unreadable conclusion. ‘I guess that’s true,’ he says. ‘Though I don’t play myself.’
‘Really?’ I narrow my eyes, assuming that he’s joking.
‘No – never got into it. What was it that Mark Twain said? “Golf is a good walk spoiled”?’
I stare at him, in surprise. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s right.’ I turn the key and the lock grinds open. All this must be a ploy – some dirty little trick of Hexagon to catch me off guard; lull me into a false sense of security.
We step inside the hallway. It’s freezing, but even so, the air seems unnaturally heavy. I loosen my pink cashmere scarf and drape it over the staircase banister. I wait while Mr Faraday looks around the room. He lets out a low whistle.
‘This place really must have been something in its heyday,’ he says. ‘Can’t you just picture it? Ladies in silk gowns, gentlemen in top hats. Servants scurrying about… Amazing. I mean, you see places like this on TV and read about them in books. But to actually be here… it’s completely different.’ He smiles wistfully. ‘If the house could talk, I bet it would have some interesting things to say. You can practically feel the history crackling in the air, can’t you?’
Finding Home Page 18
