Beneath the Water

by Sarah Painter

  Stella told herself not to be overawed. It was a very nice house. A very large house, certainly, but that did not mean that the man she was about to meet was any better than she was. Stella was determined to grow into a strong woman, the kind who was calm but outspoken, but she mostly felt like an uncertain girl, tugging on the skirts of life and asking to be allowed to join in. She didn’t know if this was because of her sheltered upbringing, or whether most people felt the same way inside.

  Stella searched in vain for an entryphone or something to indicate the main entrance. She walked through the archway, hoping she wasn’t about to be shot for trespassing – there were far too many shotguns in this part of the world for her comfort – and into the gravelled courtyard. Steps led up to a grand entrance with a heavy wooden door which was wide open, revealing a tiled vestibule and a closed inner door. A tremendous barking came from somewhere in the house, and Stella steeled herself to be jumped on. Ben’s parents had a rescue greyhound and it never failed to greet Stella by putting its paws onto her chest and licking her face. It was disgusting, but nothing Mr and Mrs Dawson did could stop him.

  A single rowan tree stood in the middle of the courtyard and the wind sprang up, shaking the branches and blowing a flurry of leaves like a sudden, red-and-orange snowstorm.

  The door opened and a woman with grey hair and a rosy complexion frowned at her. ‘Can I help you?’ She spoke in a tone that suggested this was unlikely.

  Stella peeled away a stray orange leaf which had stuck to her cheek, and tried to look capable. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Munro. At ten.’

  The woman nodded. ‘You’d better come in, then. He’s in his bath at the minute.’

  Stella didn’t know how to respond to that piece of information, so she said nothing.

  The woman turned her head and said something in a firm voice to the unseen dogs, who fell instantly silent. Stella followed the woman up the steps and into a wide hallway. There were oil paintings of seascapes and lochs and mountains, and an old oriental runner in red and gold. The house smelled of wood and neroli and wax polish, and classical music was playing somewhere in the house. A cello concerto, Stella thought, maybe Elgar.

  ‘You can wait in here.’ The woman gestured to a closed door. She was wearing a padded navy gilet and warm-looking trousers, and close-up Stella could see that her hair was actually a mix of white, silver-grey and pewter and rather beautiful. She wore it swept back off her make-up-free face. It wasn’t much warmer inside the house than it had been outside, and Stella took her coat off with reluctance. She had borrowed a shift dress from Caitlin and it was a bit of a tight fit. She hoped the long grey cardigan she had put over the top was keeping her decent.

  ‘Thank you . . .’ Stella said, leaving a pause at the end of the sentence for the woman to fill in her name, but she had already turned away. Stella watched her retreating back for a moment before opening the door.

  If the hallway had been exactly what Stella had expected from a house of this size and age, this room was less so. She wondered if she had even been directed into the right place, as it was full of packing boxes and dust sheets. A large cardboard box was on its side, open with foil packets spilling out, and there was a rack of what looked like torture devices pushed in front of a beautiful carved-oak fireplace. There was a single chair. Modern moulded plastic and uncomfortable-looking. The sort of chair which had a woman’s name like Alexis and cost more than a small car.

  A door slammed above and there was a thundering of footsteps. It was so loud and energetic that Stella expected a troop out on manoeuvres, and not one single man bounding into the room, droplets shaking from long wet hair and a deeply carved frown. ‘Am I late? Sorry.’ He stuck his hand out. ‘I’m Jamie.’

  ‘Stella,’ she said, taking the proffered hand. It was surprisingly cool.

  ‘Who?’ He dropped her hand like he’d been burned.

  The expression on his face was unnerving and it made Stella stutter over her words. ‘I thought I was here for an interview,’ she managed.

  ‘How the hell did you find me?’ His voice was low and furious. ‘Was it Magnus?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Stella took an instinctive step back. He stood there, running a hand through his sopping-wet, reddish hair and scowling in her direction. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘A lady let me in,’ Stella managed. ‘I didn’t catch her name.’

  He turned, his mouth open as if ready to shout, when a different look came across his face. It was like watching the sun rise. ‘Ah. Hang on. Did you say Stella?’

  Stella nodded.

  ‘You’re here about the job,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Stella said. ‘I’m here for an interview. I thought you said ten.’

  ‘Screen reader said you were Sarah. Or I misheard it. I was working out.’

  There was an awkward pause.

  Stella was pretty sure she didn’t want to work for this man, that she couldn’t deal with his flakiness and nervous energy. She felt exhausted by him.

  ‘I’m really sorry. Can we start again?’ He held his hand out. ‘I’m Jamie Munro.’

  He smiled. It was a good smile, and Stella thought it had probably been getting him out of awkward situations for a long, long time.

  She ignored the hand. One of the few advantages to having her life implode was that she no longer felt the need to waste time on doomed pursuits. ‘The purpose of a job interview is for both candidate and employer to decide if they are a good match. I don’t believe that’s the case, so I won’t waste any more of your time,’ she said.

  Stella walked to the door before she could ruin the effect by bursting into tears.

  ‘Wait,’ Jamie said. ‘Won’t you at least give me a chance to make a better impression?’

  He looked amused. As if she were a puppy who had done a trick. She felt a twist of anger in her chest and the answering tightness. On the other hand, she needed a job and they weren’t exactly abundant in this part of the world. Arisaig was wet and cold, but there was something about it, something that meant she wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet.

  ‘Would you like a tour?’ Jamie was saying. ‘I can show you around, explain what I need help with, and you can tell me if it’s something you think you’d like to do.’

  He was being charming now. He’d switched to that mode as easily as breathing.

  ‘All right,’ Stella said. At least she’d seen the real man first.

  If she hadn’t, she might have found him attractive.

  ‘And I can ask you questions as we walk, get to know you. It’s better if we don’t sit. Sitting is killing us all.’

  ‘So I’ve read,’ Stella said. ‘I’m pretty sure breathing is killing us, too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  We’re all dying. One breath at a time. ‘No point worrying about it,’ Stella said. ‘The alternative is rubbish.’

  He gave her a strange look. It made Stella feel less like a clever puppy and more like one that had just widdled on the carpet. He started to speak but stopped abruptly, took a visible breath and started again. ‘As you can see in here, I haven’t unpacked properly, yet. So I need help with that.’ He walked out of the room and Stella followed, curious despite the almost-certainty that Jamie Munro was rude and self-centred.

  The hallway that Stella had already seen stretched the length of the building and was studded with doors, mostly closed. The end of the hallway opened into a large dining room with a polished table, big enough to seat ten people with room to spare. A gigantic antique cabinet with glass doors was filled with delicate patterned china and shining silverware. It was like something from a stately home. ‘I don’t use this room,’ he said. ‘I don’t use half of the rooms. Probably more.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Stella said, giving credit where it was due. The windows in the dining room held views of the land tumbling down to the ocean. The grey-blue of the water, merged with the silvery sky and the dark shapes of the islands, Muck and E
igg, and, in the distance, Rùm. Stella would’ve liked to stay looking at the view for longer, but Jamie had already disappeared through yet another doorway. This one led to the kitchen. Stella didn’t know if this had been the original site of the kitchen, but it had certainly been refitted. It was modern and industrial-looking, with a stainless-steel island and a rack hung with pots and pans. The cooker was enormous, with several burners, and there was a fridge that a small family could make into a comfortable home.

  ‘In here, you’ll need to find your way around my routine,’ Jamie was saying. He kept speaking as if he’d already offered her the job and she had accepted. Stella didn’t think it was a done deal, just that it was his style. More charm. More confidence. ‘I eat the same things at the same time every day.’ He gestured to the shelves in the fridge. There were lots of labelled plastic containers and a drawer full of dark green salad. ‘I drink rocket fuel in the mornings, and after two o’clock I switch to this.’ He picked up a plastic beaker with a lid. It was filled with something the colour of urine.

  The charm offensive was wearing. ‘You want me to prepare your food?’

  ‘No. Not at all. I just need you to know my nutrition routine and my meds. I shouldn’t need any help, but it’s just in case. And you’ll be in charge of ordering supplies so it’s a good idea to be familiar with the products and to have the background so you know why these things are so important.’

  The word ‘meds’ stabbed Stella and she felt a shimmer of sympathy. Being sick wasn’t fun, and if Jamie Munro was dealing with some long-term condition alongside his hectic schedule, it might explain some of the curious specifics of his routine. She didn’t want to be interested, didn’t want to feel sympathy, but she immediately began guessing. Diabetes? Epilepsy?

  After the kitchen, Jamie showed Stella the garden, from which you could see the tennis court. ‘You’d be welcome to use that whenever I’m not.’ And an outbuilding which was filled with weights and gym equipment. Back in the main house, Jamie hesitated outside a closed door. ‘This is my office. It’s got a desk for you but I don’t want to show you this space unless you’re going to take the job. It’s private.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Stella said.

  ‘Privacy is very important to me,’ he said. His voice was light but his expression intense. ‘Discretion is probably the number one trait that I require in my team. Are you discreet?’

  The question seemed to come suddenly; after all the talking Jamie had been doing, he’d barely asked her anything about her work experience or background.

  ‘Very,’ she said.

  He nodded, probably waiting for her to elaborate, but Stella’s mind had gone blank. How did you convince somebody you were trustworthy with words? A few phrases popped into her mind but they felt second-hand. Stella worried that anything she said would sound as if she were trying too hard to convince him.

  After a moment, in which Jamie Munro appeared to be staring into her very soul, he turned away from the office door. ‘Every team member signs an NDA. Nothing that goes on in this house is to be revealed to anybody outside this house.’

  Stella was looking around, trying to soak up a few details of the beautiful interior before she was ejected. When she looked back, Jamie was looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Non-disclosure agreement. It’s legally binding. Think official secrets for private business.’

  ‘I know,’ Stella said.

  She waited for him to say something else.

  He dipped his head. ‘So, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Jamie smiled a little. Not a smarmy smile or a particularly confident one. Stella would lay money that he’d practised it in front of a mirror, but it was very effective nonetheless. ‘Do you think you could put up with me?’ Then he named a starting salary which exceeded her best-paying temp job to date. ‘I know that sounds generous, but it reflects the demanding nature of the job. I know that I’m quite intense.’ Here he gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. ‘Obsessive, really, and I think it’s only fair to properly compensate my team. Also, there will be some out-of-hours work. If you need to communicate with people in other time zones, for example. I don’t mind if you want to work flexitime in those instances or to claim overtime, whichever you like.’

  ‘Don’t you want to ask me questions about my experience? Software packages I’ve used . . .’ Stella waved a hand, unable to believe that anything good could be this easy.

  ‘I read your CV,’ he said, appearing mystified. ‘It’s a waste of time to get you to rehash it.’

  Stella opened her mouth and then closed it again.

  ‘Besides, you’re a friend of Rob Baird. He’ll vouch for you, no doubt.’

  ‘Rob?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Everyone knows everyone in a place like this. He used to come to Hogmanay here with his family. Everyone in the village did.’ Jamie smiled, but she could tell he was already keen to move on to the next item on his list for the day. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. ‘So, what do you reckon? Give it a go?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stella said, before her brain could argue.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Stella arrived for her first day, Jamie Munro didn’t waste time on polite chitchat.

  ‘This way.’ He strode along the hall and into the dining room. Neat piles of paper were laid out on the shiny surface of the table, presided over by an enormous pair of stag’s antlers jutting out from the wall. ‘Contract, NDA, bank information.’ Munro stabbed a finger. ‘It’s no problem if you want to take the contract away and have it checked by your lawyer, but the NDA has to be signed right now. Is that going to be an issue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  He pulled the chair out and Stella sat down, dropping her handbag onto the floor. She hadn’t even taken her coat off but there was a sense of urgency. Munro stayed behind the chair, looming over her as she bowed her head over the paper. She read the NDA as quickly as she could, glad that it was a single page, and then signed using the fountain pen provided. The language was clear enough; it prevented her from speaking or writing about anything which occurred within Munro estate or anything she discussed with her new boss, regardless of the location of their conversation. There were another two copies to sign and date, and then she felt the air in the room change.

  Jamie gave her a tight smile. ‘Now I can show you around properly.’

  Stella could understand why Jamie kept his office private. It wasn’t that the room was embarrassingly messy or that the warnings from the locals about ungodly goings-on were founded, but it was distinctive. Jamie Munro might not have finished unpacking the rest of the house, but this room had clearly been his priority. There were large whiteboards on one wall, covered in writing in different colours. A standing desk with an exercise mat and a balance ball stood in the middle of the room with a television screen on the wall opposite.

  There were books everywhere, stacked on every available surface, including the floor. Another desk, with a complicated-looking ergonomic chair, was against the far wall. In stark contrast to the modern equipment, there was a deep bay window with velvet curtains and a large fireplace with a carved wooden surround. Lined up along the mantelpiece was an assortment of what looked like antique scientific equipment, including a set of glass flasks. Stella wanted to step forward and examine the strange collection – her love of history was still sparking underneath its winter coat of office work and life trouble – but she forced herself to look away, not wanting to appear nosy.

  ‘Through here,’ Jamie said, opening a door to an adjoining room. ‘It’s a bit small.’

  It was hard to say what the room had been in the past – an under-butler’s snug? A gun room? Now, it was a square space, with eau-de-Nil walls and a couple of gently moulting antique armchairs. Marooned in the middle of the carpet was a landline telephone on a charger stand, the cord snaking into a newly installed point on the wall
. ‘Your first job will be to get a laptop,’ Jamie said, running his hand through his hair. ‘Or a desktop. I don’t care, whichever you prefer. And some furniture. I recommend an adjustable standing desk and a balance ball but it’s personal preference. In the meantime, feel free to grab whatever table and chair look like they might be the right height. Take regular breaks, though.’

  Stella waited for a break in his flow. ‘Haven’t you had an assistant before?’

  ‘Loads. Back in San Francisco. And when I was in London. Not here, though.’

  Stella asked the obvious question. ‘Why not keep your existing assistant? If they didn’t want to move, I’m sure they could work remotely. Skype and email and all that.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve kept him on. Guy’s great. You’ll meet him at some point. But I need somebody physically here. Skype isn’t secure, for one thing. Hacking is a real issue.’

  Stella forced herself not to smile. To hear Jamie talk, you would have thought he was an international spy, not writing a diet book.

  ‘Besides,’ Jamie said. ‘You should always employ local. It’s one of the rules somewhere like this. Shop local, employ local. The economy is in the toilet, so it’s the very least I can do.’

  Stella felt a stab of guilt alongside a grudging respect for his attitude. ‘I’m not local. I’m a visitor.’

  ‘Local enough for my conscience.’ Jamie darted back into his office and came back with an iPad. ‘You can use this to order stuff.’

  He scribbled a figure onto a piece of paper and gave her a credit card. ‘That’s your budget. Don’t skimp on the hardware.’

  Stella felt like she ought to sit down. She stared at the number but it remained the same.