by Lynda Renham
He shakes his head.
‘I’m afraid not. Now, if you could just prove you are who you say you are.’
Oh trust me no one would pretend to be me. I pull my passport from my handbag. He studies it intently before handing me a brass key. I feel like a character in a horror movie, you know the kind of thing, where everything starts off nice and calm in a solicitor’s office where they pass over the innocent-looking key which everyone knows will end in high-pitched screams and figures moving through the darkness. I shudder and pop it into my bag.
‘Now here are the directions to Driftwood and I hope it is everything you dream it to be.’
Now, that’s a typical line from a horror film if ever I’ve heard one. He points to a map with the tip of his pipe.
‘Thank you,’ I say, choking on the smoke.
I tuck the instructions neatly into the zip compartment of my handbag and fight back the impulse to jump up from my seat and shout YAY. I’m the owner of my own house. Okay, so it may not be in the best condition, but the important thing is it belongs to me.
Chapter Nine
‘I heard you broke up with Oliver,’ says Ben Newman, in what I presume is his sexy voice. ‘I’m not surprised, he was a bit of a wimp.’
I can’t believe the guy has the gall to phone me and insult my ex-boyfriend too.
‘I imagine you’re pretty desperate aren’t you?’ he drawls.
I’m desperate to get off the phone that’s for sure. This guy really is a professional pervert isn’t he?
‘For a job I mean darling. There’s a good one waiting for you here. I’m sure I could talk to the powers that be and get you a little pay rise, as well as a few other rises.’
It’s all I can do not to throw up into my handbag.
‘Thanks Mr Newman, that’s very kind of you but I think it is time for me to move on,’ I say haughtily.
‘Don’t be a fool Binki. This is a good opportunity I’m offering you. There are hundreds of women that would jump at this offer.’
Until they realise that you are going to be jumping on them.
‘Well, I’m happy to give someone else a chance,’ I say.
He sighs irritably.
‘I imagine there will be a little promotion in it for you too. All you have to do is a little overtime; help me get on top of things, so to speak.’
Oh God, he really is obnoxious isn’t he? And I can’t believe he is phoning me today of all days. I am going to see my house, my very own house, and I’m not going to let wanker Newman spoil it for me.
‘Mr Newman, I couldn’t possibly work for you again. You see, I find looking at you very difficult. I don’t know where you got your looks, but I hope you kept the receipt because you so deserve a refund.’
There is a long silence and I am about to hang up when he says in a sinister tone,
‘I hope you’re not expecting to find a job elsewhere Binki.’
Oh my God, is he threatening me?
‘Well I’m thinking as long as I avoid Warts R Us employment agency I’ll find something,’ I say, forcing bravery into my voice that I don’t feel. I know he is big in advertising but he can’t be that powerful can he? I push the thought from my head, it’s ludicrous.
He sighs.
‘It’s your decision Binki. Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be using temps for a few months. I can’t be fairer than that now, can I?’
The phone goes dead. I push it into my bag and glance at my map. My initial confidence has evaporated and I don’t expect Great Aunty Vera’s house to be anything more than a ramshackle old shack. I’d packed a suitcase because I’d figured if the house was habitable then I might stay the night. As much as I love Muffy, living with her is a nightmare. She plays Mahler in the mornings at full volume for Christ’s sake, and God forbid you criticise Mahler. Anyone would think she’d known him personally. All I’d said was,
‘Don’t you find Mahler a bit dramatic first thing in the morning?’
Only to be quoted by Mahler himself, through Muffy’s lips of course, just in case you thought we resurrected him.
‘To judge a composer’s work, one must consider it as a whole,’ she’d snapped.
I agree totally but personally I prefer to wake up to Robbie Williams and consider him as a whole rather than Mahler. It just proves that saying you never know someone until you live with them. But then again, I lived with Oliver and was sure I knew him. I so hope I can live in this house. I really can’t continue living with Muffy. Even if this house is all run down I can make the best of it. I must be positive and look on the bright side. My phone bleeps with a message. Oh God, I hope it’s not Ben Newman again. I fish for my mobile in my bag and squint at the screen. It’s from Oliver.
‘I think you’ve gone mad. Since Christmas you’ve been acting really strange. Maybe even before that Chrissie said. No wonder I went a little crazy at Christmas. Chrissie says it was to be expected.’
Who the hell is Chrissie? If I don’t know her how can she know whether I’ve gone mad or not? Jesus, is he telling the whole world and his dog about us?
‘Oh well,’ I text back. ‘If Chrissie says it was to be expected than I suppose it was okay for you to hump some tart then.’
I click send and instantly regret it. I hear my mother’s voice echo in my head don’t be so impetuous Binki, stop and count to ten, and she is quite right of course. I frantically punch the keys in a vain attempt to stop it sending. Shit and double shit. I must not feel guilty. I wasn’t the one bonking my boss was I? I push the image of Ben Newman from my mind, start Kandy and continue on with my journey turning left as instructed by the satnav. The road curves and I pass a little white house with smoke billowing from the chimney. That’s a thought. It will be freezing in the house. I wonder if there is a fireplace. Maybe I should get some logs, but then again, it may have electric heaters, but the electricity is probably disconnected, best to wait and see. I drive for another thirty minutes down a quiet secluded lane before the satnav announces that I have reached my destination. I stop the car and stare breathlessly at the driveway. Oh my God, the house is beautiful, a chocolate box cottage with clean white walls. My excitement is soon quenched when I see a group of workmen drinking tea by some outbuildings, and a blue Lamborghini parked at the side of the cottage. I should have known. I am about to reverse when one of the builders approaches.
‘You alright love, you look a bit lost?’
Don’t you hate it when men think that because you’re a woman you must be lost? I mean what a bloody cheek. Except the truth is, I have no idea where I am going. If this isn’t Driftwood then where is it?
‘I’m fine thank you,’ I say, feeling as far from fine as fine can be.
‘Where you aiming for?’ asks another.
Driftwood I want to say but they’ll probably think I’m mad. I am also terrified to ask where Driftwood is in case I make a fool of myself and it is actually the shed at the bottom of the garden, but Mr Hayden did say it was a house didn’t he? I decide that looking a fool is preferable to driving around all afternoon.
‘I’m actually looking for a house called Driftwood I say, fumbling with the solicitor’s letter.
‘Let’s have a butchers,’ he says, snatching the letter from my hand.
I look on as all five builders have a so-called butchers. After examining my letter I am half expecting them to rummage through my underwear bag but they simply grin at me.
‘This is Driftwood’, says the one I think is the main man. He is wearing loose jeans and a baggy top but I can still see his belly. They all look towards the white house.
‘Yup, this is it,’ he says in that tone that hints at wanting to know more.
‘Thanks so much,’ I say.
I park next to the Lamborghini. Bloody hell, what are they paying builders these days if they can arrive at work in sodding Lamborghini’s. Perhaps I should train to be a builder. I mean how hard can it be? I debate asking who owns the outbuilding they are working on, but thin
k better of it. I jangle the key in my hand and climb from the car. This is amazing. I never dared even dream it would be like this. Oliver will be so sick with envy. I walk towards the door with the workmen staring at me over their steaming teacups. I turn the key in the lock but the door is already open. A little wave of panic washes over me. I walk straight into a cosy living room. Katie Melua is playing and I feel like an intruder. My God, someone lives here. Strewn across what looks like a new couch is a briefcase and numerous papers. Mr Hayden was quite insistent that no one lived here, unless the house had a poltergeist. It seems this one likes Katie Melua. I must have the wrong house. As I try to get my head around the situation I hear movement from upstairs. A man looks down from the landing wearing a bath towel, and chats animatedly into a mobile phone. He sees me and waves.
‘Hold on a sec,’ he says into the mouthpiece.
He looks vaguely familiar. Don’t I know him from somewhere? And what is he doing in my house? What’s more, what is he doing in my house half naked?
‘Oh good you’re here. Can you start in the bedroom, the cleaning materials are under the sink and the kitchen floor needs a good scrub,’ he says casually before slamming the bathroom door behind him.
Chapter Ten
Cleaning materials? Do I look like a scrubber? I feel myself seethe with anger. What a sodding cheek, and how dare he shut the door on me. Who does he think he is, and what the hell is he doing in my bathroom and what’s more, wearing what is obviously one of my towels? Well I will soon sort him out, sodding builders. He can get back to work right away. I have had enough men shit on me in the past few weeks. I’m buggered if I’ll let another one do it. I throw my handbag onto the chair and march upstairs to the bathroom. It’s like an oven in here. I hope I’m not going to be paying the heating bill. I pull my jumper over my head and fling open the bathroom door only to find him completely naked.
‘Oh,’ I squeal, my eyes inevitably dropping to you know where, well that’s what happens right? It’s plain inevitable isn’t it? God, he’s got firm thighs. I blush and open my mouth to speak but he holds a hand up to stop me. What a rude bugger. A well hung rude bugger admittedly.
‘Just a sec,’ he says dismissively, grabbing a towel. ‘I’ll need to get back to you Nathan. In the meantime go with that price if you feel comfortable.’
He lowers his eyes.
‘Right, erm, what’s going on?’ he says hesitantly.
What the hell’s going on indeed? And why is he staring at me like that. I follow his gaze. Oh Jesus, I’d only gone and pulled off my shirt with the jumper. I stare horrified at my pink and white spotted bra and cringe. Shit shit, of all the times for that to happen.
‘Sod it,’ I mumble, fumbling with the shirt and pulling it over my head, grateful to have my red face covered if only for a short time. ‘It is hot in here.’
His phone trills again.
‘I’ll get back to you Nathan,’ he says abruptly and then turns to me. ‘You are here to clean right? You do know that?’
Oh hell, he thinks I’ve followed him into the bathroom because I’m after his cute body. How arrogant is that, and why does that name Nathan ring a bell? Then I remember where I’ve seen him. He’s the guy who sent me reeling outside the solicitors. What the devil is he doing in my house?
‘I remember you,’ I say. ‘What are you doing in my house?’ My feet slip on the wet floor and I grab the sink for support while thinking what a nice bathroom I have. Just a shame Mr Lamborghini is standing in it.
‘You’re not the cleaner?’ he studies me.
I inhale the fresh smell of him and pull myself up straight.
‘Do I look like a bloody cleaner?’
‘I’ve no idea, do they have a special look about them?’ he says in an upper class drawl.
I feel my hands turn to fists.
‘I own this house and I’d like to know what you’re doing in it?’
He smiles indulgently and glances at his phone as it rings again. He clicks it off.
‘I don’t know what house you own but I assure you it isn’t this one …’
What an arrogant little git. How dare he patronise me.
‘You’re so bloody arrogant. First you toss fifty quid at me like I am some peasant to be paid off and now you treat me like a cleaner. You’re a real arsehole.’
‘You swear a lot don’t you?’ he states.
I blush. He turns to study me and I see recognition spark in his eyes.
‘I’m phoning my solicitor,’ I say storming past him. ‘My Great Aunt Vera left me this house. I demand you leave immediately.’
‘Hang on a sec,’ he says so casually that I am left speechless. He disappears into another room, which I presume is the bedroom, my bedroom. Honestly, only I could have a poncy squatter. He returns a few minutes later wearing jeans and a blue short sleeved shirt. His hair is swept back and his cheeks are still slightly flushed from his shower. He’s incredibly good looking and he knows it. His phone trills and he holds a finger up at me before taking the call.
‘Hi, Anna, yes of course we are. Can I call you back? I’ve got a bit of a situation here.’
Oh, so I’m a situation now. He clicks the phone off and turns to me.
‘Aunt Vera did you say. Would that be Vera Cramton by any chance?’
I gasp. He knows her. How can that be possible? Before I have time to reply he says in a cold voice,
‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re up to or what you stole from me in that little incident in town, but you can leave now. I’m not easily fooled. Now if I were you I’d go quietly or I’ll have no choice but to call the police.’
He walks downstairs, holds my handbag out towards me, opens the front door and gestures for me to leave. I feel my mouth open in shock. What a nerve. My God, the guy is unbelievable. First he treats me like a prostitute and then a scrubber and now a bloody thief. The builders watch intently. Great, this is so not what I was expecting. I snatch my bag and pull out the letter from the solicitor.
‘How dare you accuse me of theft? That’s outright slander. Here is the letter that says I own Driftwood.’
He studies the letter casually, closes the door and then punches the solicitor’s phone number into his phone. The builders resume their hammering.
‘Let’s get this cleared up once and for all shall we, and then you can leave,’ he says, his voice cold and his sultry blue eyes hard. His cupid’s bow lips are drawn tight. I feel like slapping him. How dare he call me a fraud?
‘Ah, yes. Hi, Mr Hayden please. It’s regarding Mrs Vera Cramton’s will and her supposed legacy to Miss …’ he raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Binki Grayson.’
Supposed legacy? I feel myself fume even more and if I fume much more I am sure I will self-combust.
There is a short pause.
‘Yes that’s right, Binki,’ he adds. ‘My name is William Ellis.’
He studies me intently and I fidget as though guilty. What am I doing, it’s my bloody house isn’t it? Maybe I should get the burly builders to throw him out. That would wipe that arrogant smug smile off his face. I watch as he listens to someone at the other end of the phone.
‘When was that?’ he asks, his brow creasing.
Oh yes, got you now you poncy squatter.
‘I see and there is no mistake? Right, thank you very much.’
He hangs up, hands me the letter and shakes his head.
‘It seems Vera did leave the house to you,’ he says grimly. ‘She was …’
Before he can finish I have opened the front door. The builders stop work and turn as if I am about to make the announcement of the century.
‘Now you can leave,’ I say angrily. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to but if I were you I’d go quietly or I’ll have no choice but to call the police.’
I make no attempt to hide my smirk.
‘And take your phone and bloody Nathan with you.’
The builders glance at each other. Mr Lamborghini smiles
and his eyes sparkle. It’s all I can do not to slap his face, in fact, perhaps I should. I’m not likely to get arrested for slapping a squatter am I? Even if he is a posh upper crust squatter that drives a Lamborghini. Honestly, they say those with money are the worst don’t they?
‘It seems we have a situation,’ he says, waving to the builders.
We have a situation all right and I’m about to remedy it.
‘Okay to make a cuppa Mrs Ellis?’ responds the builder.
I reel round. Mrs Ellis? Is he having a laugh? Do I look like the kind of woman who would marry an arrogant ponce?
‘I’m not his wife,’ I say haughtily.
‘And thank goodness,’ retorts Mr Lamborghini. ‘Go ahead Andy,’ he tells the builder.
Excuse me, this is my house.
‘Hang on a minute Andy,’ I say forcefully.
Andy stops halfway to the house, mugs in hand. The other builders are giving me daggers. Who are these bloody builders anyway? And didn’t they have a tea break just a few minutes ago? I look down at his muddy boots.
‘You can’t come in here with those muddy boots,’ I say primly.
‘It’s not a problem,’ says Mr Ellis Lamborghini. Not a problem? No, it wouldn’t be for him would it? It’s not his house. Andy looks first at Mr Lamborghini and then at me. He finally turns and shrugs his shoulders at the other builders. Right, I need to stand my ground here. Be firm and strong. I pull my shoulders back. At that moment a Mini pulls into the driveway. We all turn and stare as a petite young blonde climbs from it.
‘Hi,’ she says cheerfully, obviously oblivious to the atmosphere. ‘I’m from the cleaning agency. Sorry I’m late. Where would you like me to start Mrs Ellis?’
Mr Lamborghini’s face lights up.
‘Great, can you start in the …’ he begins.
‘I’m not Mrs Ellis,’ I snap, ‘and can you all just hang on a minute.’
This is getting out of hand.
‘Right,’ I say, taking a deep breath. All eyes are now focused on me. I turn to Andy.
‘Andy, why are you working here? This is my house and I didn’t hire you.’
