by Kait Jagger
‘I don’t need a personal assistant, Luna,’ he said eventually, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘And if I did I certainly wouldn’t pick you.’
‘Oh really,’ Luna replied archly, dialling the temperature down to Hallviken.
He quickly grabbed her hand and stood, pulling her to her feet. ‘Come look at something with me,’ he said, leading her to the small conference table. Rifling through a sheaf of papers, he extracted an organisational chart with the Lionsbridge coat of arms at the top, watermarked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
‘So,’ he explained, ‘I have been thinking. About how I divide my time between Arborage and my company, to make sure I don’t overstretch myself, but also to do what’s best for both businesses. For S L Associates, that means giving James greater authority, as well as creating a succession plan for my Stockholm office. For Arborage, it means putting in place the right management structure to allow me to delegate more. I asked David here today to offer him the role of Farms and Estate Director, South. And yesterday, I offered Gus the same role in the North.’
He paused, stroking his chin. ‘We are still discussing titles, but essentially, David will manage our tenant farms and the rest of our holdings south of Hadrian’s Wall. And Gus keeps his existing responsibilities in the North and also takes over our new Shetland holdings.’ At her questioning look he nodded and added drolly, ‘Yes, a little wedding present from your future father-in-law, who wishes me well in negotiating new tenancy agreements with the crofters up there.’
‘Gus and David have accepted your offer?’ Luna asked.
‘They have,’ he said, ‘which only leaves one vacancy at the top of my new structure.’ He pointed to a box on the chart that read Director, Arborage House & Gardens. And crossed his arms, glancing sideways at her.
Luna stared at him. ‘You can’t mean… I’m not qualified for that.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘And, you giving the job to me, what would people say?’
‘I honestly don’t care,’ Stefan said disdainfully. ‘I am the Marquess and it is for me and me alone to decide who manages Arborage.’ He hesitated, as if replaying his last words in his head. ‘Did that come across a little “lord and master-y”?’ he asked uncertainly.
‘It did, really.’
‘Well, see, this is why I need you, to keep my feet on the ground.’
‘But, running Arborage,’ Luna protested. ‘I have absolutely no management qualifications.’
‘So we send you on a management course,’ he shrugged. ‘Find you a few mentors.’
‘No experience of administering a budget.’
‘Which is why we have an accountancy firm.’
‘And, I mean, look at me!’ She held out her hands. ‘Who’s going to take orders from someone like me?’
‘I am looking at you, Luna. And I think you underestimate yourself, and the esteem in which you are held by staff here.’ Seeing the scepticism in her eyes, he changed tack. ‘On Shetland, when you were telling me about your work, you said that in challenging situations you had to pretend to be other people. Nancy, or Kayla, or me. But, Luna, you do see, don’t you, that you can’t pretend to have skills that you lack. You accomplished the things you accomplished there because of your own abilities, no one else’s.
‘You also,’ he continued, ‘have the two qualities I need most right now from my top team. First, you are scrupulously loyal, and second, you’re a worrier.’
Luna’s brow knitted at this and he wagged his finger at her. ‘See, see? You are worrying right now, aren’t you? All the best managers I know are worriers.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not pointless worriers or doom mongers. No, the best managers see a problem and they worry away at it till they fix it. They anticipate roadblocks and they work hard to resolve them. They worry about members of their staff, the way you did about Caitlin and Emma during the funeral, and Ashley after.’
‘But,’ Luna said, ‘you’re not a worrier. You never seem to worry about work.’
‘That’s why I hire people like you and James,’ he responded blithely. ‘To do my worrying for me.’
She opened her mouth again and he cut her off. ‘It’s okay. I know I’ve sprung this on you very suddenly. Take some time to think about it. I feel certain that once you’ve put it through that logical mind of yours, you’ll see it makes sense.’
‘And the board?’ she asked incredulously. ‘You think they’ll approve of this? What does your father think?’
In response, Stefan placed a hand on her shoulder and said patiently, ‘He’s the one who suggested it, Luna.’
Luna could think of no more protestations to offer, and settled for staring at him in utter dumbfoundedness.
‘Of course,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘if you’re worried you won’t be able to separate your work and private life, that’s a different matter.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she replied tartly.
‘I’m a very attractive man, I understand that.’ He gestured from his face down to his torso. ‘I can see how it might be hard for you to keep your hands off me in a professional setting.’
‘Oh, I think I can manage.’
‘Speaking of which…’ He consulted his watch. ‘I believe business hours are over.’ And smiled his best, most saturnine smile.
*
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Luna said, standing in the exact same spot in the office two weeks later. Around her, Roland, Caitlin and the rest of Arborage’s seven department heads were sitting at the conference table or on the sofa.
‘Marta’s arranged a taster session for the new autumn menu in the restaurant, so we’ll be heading there in a few minutes,’ she said. ‘But I wanted to start the meeting here.’ She gestured toward the anteroom, currently full of builders. ‘As you can see, we’re doing a little home improvement. The outer office is being converted for use by the Marquess, and I’ve also made a special request of my own.’
She nodded toward the handyman currently unscrewing the hinges on the oak door to the office. ‘I’ve decided to institute an open door policy, literally. What this means for you is that you are welcome to come to me on an ad hoc basis when you have something you want to discuss, rather than wait for regular catch-ups. Which I propose scrapping.’ Luna paused, allowing this to sink in. She smoothed a hand down her new crimson shift dress, then went on, ‘I trust each and every one of you to manage your own priorities. The less time you spend in meetings with me, the more time you’ll have to focus on your jobs.’
A few nods around the room, plus a cheeky, surreptitious wink from Caitlin.
Luna added, ‘I’ll also be making a point of having lunch in the staff cafeteria or one of our restaurants at least twice a week, and my open door extends to that as well. I would ask that you communicate this to your teams, tell them they are always welcome to eat with me, particularly if they have ideas they want to share, or questions they want to ask.’
She watched as every single manager in the room scribbled this down in their notepads, an utterly surreal moment for the woman who this time last year was note-taker in chief. Gathering her thoughts briefly, she concluded, ‘On a personal note, I’m very excited about working with you all. We’re at the start of a period of real growth and change at Arborage, and each of you is a critical part of that.’
With that, she clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s get a move on,’ she declared, and walked out of the office, gesturing for them to follow her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Before Stefan said it, Luna wouldn’t have characterised herself as a worrier. ‘Conscientious.’ That’s the word she’d have chosen. ‘Diligent.’ But first day bravado notwithstanding, the subsequent weeks stretching into late summer were suffused with near constant anxiety; that she was doing things wrong, not learning fast enough, not even beginning to fill the Marchioness’s enormous shoes.
She threw herself headlong into a ‘back to the floor’ exercise, spending a day filling vol-au-vents in the kit
chen, a day weeding with Nigel and his gardening team, and a day cleaning toilets in the ten public restrooms across the property. She spoke on the phone with Gus and David at least once a day. She reached out to executives at some of Arborage’s contemporaries in the historic preservation world, and arranged trips to visit them. And finally, she attended a two-week management course in London, driving home each night to catch up on her paperwork and emails.
When, late one night after she’d crawled up to their bedroom and collapsed on the bed, Stefan had the temerity to grouse about how little he saw of her these days, she gave him a gimlet-eyed look and remarked, ‘What can I say, my boss is a slave driver…’
To her disappointment, her new duties and an outdoor festival at Arborage at the end of August meant she had to miss Stefan’s uncle’s annual Crayfish Party, and that their visit to see Sören and Christian in Stockholm had to be pushed back to September.
A flying visit, it turned out to be, with Luna and Stefan arriving late on a Friday night at his father’s house on Södermalm, an island to the south of the city centre, home to Stockholm’s arty intelligentsia. ‘Worried’ didn’t even begin to cover the intense nervousness she experienced as they walked into the bright, airy living room to find the two men out in their terraced garden, drinking beer.
Clutching a bouquet of Arborage roses and other flowers from the gardens, Luna approached Christian, an extremely fit forty-year-old with short-cut, curly grey hair and trendy black-framed glasses.
‘Tack så jättemycket för inbjudan,’ she enunciated carefully, presenting him with the bouquet. At this Christian exchanged a look of barely contained amusement with Sören, and Luna glanced anxiously at Stefan, wondering if she had inadvertently misspoken.
‘Varsågod, Luna,’ he responded formally. ‘Du är mycket välkommen.’ And kissed her hand. Then turned to Stefan and embraced him in a bear hug, saying, ‘She is as beautiful as you said.’
Within minutes of their arrival, Stefan and Sören decamped to the basement to play video games, leaving Luna with Christian, who refused all offers of help in the kitchen, sitting her down on a bar chair next to the concrete island and pouring her a glass of Chablis.
‘Your house is incredible,’ Luna said, taking in the frankly jaw-dropping view over the Riddarfjärden to Stockholm’s brick town hall in the distance.
‘We like it,’ Christian said modestly, chopping spring onions as he heated oil in a wok. A shout followed by laughter filtered up from the basement. ‘So, Luna, tell me more about you…’
The ensuing conversation was more than a little uncomfortable for her. Oh, Christian was very pleasant; a natural listener, Luna thought to herself as she did her best to answer his questions. The problem was she wasn’t a natural talker, not when all the questions seemed to revolve around her life experiences and interests. And she began to suspect that there was a hidden agenda at work when Christian eventually said, ‘It’s good to see Stefan so happy, especially after last winter. He’s more of a – “sensitive soul”, is that what you English say? – than he lets on. But you know this, I’m sure.’
Later, the four of them sat around the table after they’d finished eating, Sören’s arm slung around the back of Christian’s chair and Luna gripping Stefan’s hand for dear life under the table. Sören mentioned a patient of Christian’s in passing and Luna said, ‘I hadn’t realised, you’re a doctor?’
‘A counsellor,’ he clarified. ‘I specialise in cognitive therapy.’
He looked at Luna. And she looked at him. And a wall immediately went up.
‘He doesn’t like me,’ she said to Stefan later in bed.
‘Nonsense,’ Stefan scoffed. ‘Christian thinks you are wonderful.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will have a word with him.’
‘You most definitely will not,’ Luna responded, sitting up in bed. ‘I love that he’s protective of you.’
Stefan made an impatient noise and pulled her back down, climbing on top of her. ‘You two make me sound like a piece of bone china.’
‘Mmm,’ Luna said, pressing herself up into him, reaching down to caress his waiting hardness. ‘Why don’t you show me just how… durable you are?’ And raised her mouth to his neck, biting it.
Still, the visit shook her a little. And she returned to Arborage that Sunday night in a pensive mood, eager to head straight to bed to recharge for the work week ahead. She and Stefan had just arrived home, lingering in the front hall to examine progress on the renovation, when a member of the household staff approached and said, ‘Lord Wellstone, your mother is here.’
*
The woman standing in front of the window in the family’s private drawing room was statuesque and stunning, with a bone structure even Kate Moss might envy. Karoline Lundgren turned and held out her arms as Stefan approached, her lips parting in a bedazzling smile. ‘Min gulleplutt,’ she purred fondly as he kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Mamma,’ Stefan said, ‘this is—’
‘Your fiancée,’ Karoline finished for him. And extended her hand to Luna, giggling, ‘As if I wouldn’t know.’
‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs Lundgren,’ Luna said, taking her hand, surprised to find it every bit as cold as her own.
‘Oh no, no,’ Stefan’s mother interjected, pulling a horrified face. ‘You must not call me that. You will make me feel old. Call me Karoline. Or Karo.’
They sat on the floral sofas and drank coffee, there in the heart of what Luna still viewed as exclusively Augusta’s domain. She felt entirely ill-prepared, and dearly wished she was wearing something more dressy than her trainers, boyfriend jeans and t-shirt. Especially when she set herself beside Karoline Lundgren’s blonde, gamine haircut, flawless tanned skin, and effortlessly stylish capri pants teamed with sleeveless silk top. Luna calculated her age at fifty-two, but she could easily pass for late thirties.
Stefan’s mother led the conversation with disarming, somewhat overwhelming charm, telling them both about her recent holiday in the south of France – ‘Such blue water! Such Gallic charm!’ – her two Siamese cats, Borr and Búrri – ‘Naughty boys, so cheeky, but I adore them!’ – and her recent shopping expedition in London. She reached for Luna’s hand and added, ‘You must come to my room later and I will show you all my new treasures.’
‘So,’ Stefan said cautiously. ‘You are staying here tonight?’
‘Tonight and all week, my liten prince,’ Karoline trilled, and Luna swore she saw a muscle in Stefan’s cheek twitch. His mother twittered on, ‘The minute I heard that Augusta had abandoned you, I changed my entire schedule to fly to your side. It is too much, this big house, for a young man like you, with all your other commitments.’
‘I assure you, Mamma, it is not,’ Stefan disagreed. ‘Besides, I have Luna here to run the house.’
Karoline placed a perfectly manicured hand on her chest, protesting sweetly, ‘And I am sure she does a wonderfully efficient job of it, but…’ She cast her eyes around the room and suddenly Luna saw it through her eyes: expensively decorated but… faded, tired. ‘This place needs a mother’s touch.’
And then she was off again, talking a mile a minute, like some kind of unholy cross between a Valkyrie and a hummingbird. Luna, who had said nary a word since they sat down, smiled and nodded, fielding occasional hapless glances from Stefan. Particularly when the topic turned to his mother’s new boyfriend, a property developer and international man of mystery, judging from Karoline’s breathless, coquettish description.
‘Oh, he is so strong, so manly, my Freyr,’ she gushed as her son stared up at the ceiling, looking as though he had entered the seventh circle of hell. ‘A man’s man. I feel so safe when I am with him. You understand what that’s like,’ she said as an aside to Luna, who nodded and opened her mouth, only for Karoline to carry on. ‘Though Stefan, he has always been more gentle. He is soft, like his father.’ Luna looked at her sharply, but Karoline was smiling, her expression guileless.
‘I don
’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve this,’ Stefan despaired in the privacy of their bedroom late that night. ‘For months, years, I see hardly anything of her, and now suddenly it is all, “I’m here to save you, liten prince.” I’ll tell you another thing, those cats of hers, fucking little devils, both of them.’
‘Look,’ Luna said, taking a deep breath. ‘I can carve out a little time this week, here and there. Why don’t you leave your mother to me?’ To a look of such profound gratitude from her betrothed that she managed, just, to ignore the fact that every last one of her spider senses was tingling at the prospect.
So, what did Luna discover about Karoline Lundgren in the days that followed?
Karoline loved to shop.
Really loved to shop. Luna managed, with difficulty, to dissuade her from embarking on a full-scale redecoration project in the private quarters, citing vague (and entirely specious) concerns about the need to ensure that any new furnishings complied with the house’s Grade I listed status.
So that left clothes, ‘treasures’ for Karoline’s own home in Stockholm, and feline gifts for her two little darlings. Luna herself had about as much interest in shopping as she did in girly chat (which Karoline liked to indulge in while she shopped), but she gritted her teeth and pasted a smile on her face. And endured.
She knew nothing about Luna.
Or this is what Luna assumed when Karoline suggested a lunch with her mother to discuss wedding arrangements. To her credit, she had seemed mortified when Luna explained why this wouldn’t be possible, and thereafter she made no further mention of Luna’s family.
She wasn’t a fan of the Marchioness.
It became clear during one of their many one-sided girly chats that Karoline blamed Stefan’s sojourn at Arborage as a teen, and more particularly Augusta’s undue influence, for his subsequent decision to move out of her house and in with Sören. Stefan’s mother also took frequent oblique digs at Lady Wellstone, couched in the form of helpful advice about the need for Luna to defer to Stefan in all matters relating to the estate. ‘It’s so ugly, I think, when women who marry into privilege start behaving as though they were born to it,’ Karoline observed over afternoon tea at Claridge’s. With no apparent sense of irony.
