by Wendy Holden
Nell smiled, doubting it. She would be going back to London tonight. Whether Rachel wanted to take her or not.
She noticed, on his little finger, an old signet ring flash as he slipped a hand inside his jacket. He produced a card, wrote something on it and presented it to her with a smile.
‘Our personnel department – which I must learn to call human resources – is looking for a new marketing and publicity person. I’d be honoured if you felt able to apply.’ With that, he hurried off.
Nell stared at the card in her hand. Under a gold coronet were the words ‘The Earl of Pemberton’ and under that, in black ink, was scribbled a number and a name. ‘Angela. HR.’
CHAPTER 26
They were sitting on the grass in the gardens of Pemberton Hall. A long strip of lake ran down the centre of a smooth lawn. Beneath the blue sky, it shone like stretched silk and at its far end rose the stately home; this side view scarcely less magnificent than the front. Nell, gazing down the water towards the domes and balustrades, wondered which of the long, elegant windows the Earl was behind, with his helicoptered lunch guests.
No doubt he had forgotten all about her now, as he poured the champagne or passed the peas. Which was fine, as she had pretty much decided that she didn’t want the job.
Nearer to where Nell and Rachel sat, some children were playing skittles. A tall blonde girl was bowling and Juno, eyes round and longing behind her glasses, was standing just shy of the play area. Nell felt Rachel tensing beside her, but then the girl looked up, smiled, and asked Juno if she wanted to join in. Nell felt Rachel exhaling with relief.
‘That would never happen in London,’ she remarked.
Nell wasn’t sure about the implications of that statement. London was where they were both going back to, after all. She decided that now was the time to tell Rachel about what had happened in the café.
‘The Earl?’ Rachel was amazed and excited in equal measures. ‘The Earl’s offered you a job?’
‘Well, I didn’t realise he was the Earl at the time.’
‘But – a job? My God, what are you waiting for?’
Nell did not reply. She might have guessed that Rachel would be in favour.
Juno and her blonde friend were now dancing around in the spray being whipped from a nearby fountain by the breeze. Rachel’s daughter was pointing into the shaggy trees crowning the escarpment behind the mansion.
‘There’s a tower! I can see a flagpole!’
‘It’s really nice,’ the girl told Juno. ‘We’ve just been walking in the woods up there.’
Rachel turned back to Nell. ‘Seriously, this new job. It’s just like I said. A new start. A new place. What’s not to like?’
‘They haven’t offered it to me yet,’ Nell pointed out. ‘If I wanted it, which I don’t. I’ve got to go and see the HR person.’
‘A formality, surely,’ Rachel breezed. ‘If the Earl’s asking you to apply and he owns the place, I’d say you had a pretty good chance.’
‘I’m not sure about it,’ Nell said stubbornly. She could feel the force of Rachel’s will, pushing her in a direction she didn’t want to go.
‘Well, wouldn’t you like to work here?’ Rachel threw out an arm which encompassed the fountain, several sculptures and an expanse of manicured lawn.
Nell shook her head. ‘I don’t need a new job. I’ve got plenty of catalogue work.’
‘But you hate that,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘You said you missed working with people.’
Nell said nothing. Silence was her only defence. Rachel would be bound to argue with anything she said.
‘So what did you say?’ Rachel pressed. ‘To the Earl?’
Nell glanced towards the splendid house. ‘Nothing. He went before I could.’
‘But why wouldn’t you want a job here?’ Rachel repeated her earlier remark.
Nell looked at her steadily. ‘Because I’m going back to London tonight. With you.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Rachel, equally steadily. ‘I’ve already told you. I’ve got builders.’
Nell stared at the canal. The breeze was ruffling the previously still, blue surface. ‘But I don’t want to stay here.’
‘Well, you’ve got nowhere else to go at the moment,’ Rachel reminded her.
‘Exactly. I need to go back and take my flat off the market.’
Rachel placed a persuasive hand on Nell’s arm. ‘Look. Why not stay for a couple of days? Go and talk to these HR people. You may as well hear what they have to say.’
A mallard was now pecking inquisitively about their feet.
‘I don’t want to,’ Nell said, aware she sounded petulant.
‘Here, ducky ducky!’ enticed Juno.
Rachel waited a few beats before speaking. ‘I worry about you.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘In particular I’m worried,’ Rachel added gently, ‘that you may be missing an opportunity.’
‘And I think,’ Nell returned, ‘that I’m the best judge of that.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Look, I realise your confidence is a bit low at the moment.’
‘Low?’ Nell said angrily. ‘Why would it be low? I’ve been dumped by my fiancé at the register office, I’m potentially homeless, and now you’re forcing me to make some snap decision about my whole future. One that would make me leave behind everything I know. What’s there to feel low about?’
There was a pause. Then Rachel said, ‘You’re scared.’
‘Scared?’
‘You haven’t been out in the world for a long time. You’ve been shut in that back bedroom. Writing about snakeskin Birkenstocks.’
Nell stared at her, mouth open. ‘Can’t you make any allowances for what I’ve been through?’
Another silence. They both stared at the water. While Rachel’s expression remained calm, fury coursed through Nell.
Then Rachel spoke again. ‘After Charlie died, I felt I’d been let down by everyone. The doctors, the hospital. I had enough cause for anger to last me the rest of my life.’
Nell stared at the grass. She resented the Charlie card being played; on the other hand, it was a strong one.
‘And sometimes,’ Rachel continued, ‘that’s all I wanted to do. Blame other people. Be negative. Feel sorry for myself and expect everyone else to feel sorry for me too.’
Nell’s self-righteous anger was draining away. ‘But you didn’t,’ she said slowly.
Rachel shook her purple-tinted curls. ‘I wanted to. It was so tempting to turn my back on the world. To hate anyone who was happy. And everyone seemed to be.’ She paused. ‘Until you’ve lost your husband you have no idea how many happy couples there are out there.’
‘So how did you not?’ Nell asked, feeling a mixture of shame and curiosity. ‘How did you keep going?’
‘Because there’s no way back from that anger. You think it’s helping you but it isn’t. It’s your enemy, not your friend. Anger begets anger. You never get to the end of it. It just keeps generating more. You don’t feel any better, you feel worse.’
Nell rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that she no longer wanted to return to London. But did she have the courage, still less the energy, to stay here and start all over again?
Rachel was speaking again. ‘And of course, I had Juno. I couldn’t give in. I still have moments when I hate everyone, though.’ She stopped, biting her lip.
Nell thought that it was impossible to imagine Rachel hating anyone. She was one of the most positive people she’d ever met. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I’m being an idiot. Of course you’ve suffered more than me.’
Rachel turned to her, eyes flashing. ‘That’s not what I’m saying! This isn’t a competition! Your problems and disappoin
tments are just as big to you as mine are to me. I’m just saying that you have to keep cheerful. And try and recognise an opportunity when it’s staring you in the face. This job at Pemberton is exactly what you want. Writing, but with lots of people to interact with.’
Nell pulled a face. ‘Maybe.’
Rachel gave her a nudge. ‘No maybe about it. Come on, Nell. A new start, in a new place, where nobody knows anything about you. What are you waiting for?’
It was just before six that evening and Jason was settled happily behind his flap in the Edenville Arms. He sipped a decaf cappuccino as he prepared the bills for next morning’s departures. He liked to write these out by hand, not just as an excuse to showcase his painstaking copperplate but in the belief that a bill on thick cream paper itemised in flowing Victorian script added a touch of old-fashioned class to the transaction. Handwriting made the eventual amounts – invariably enormous – look less stark; it also added to the establishment’s USP. Few hotels had their bills raved about on TripAdvisor as his did.
The inn was quiet apart from the scratch of Jason’s nib and the distant, comforting sounds of chefs preparing the service in the kitchen. The old grandfather clock in the hall ticked comfortably in its polished mahogany case. A scented candle on Jason’s desk spread a warm, pleasant perfume through the air. He worked steadily on, pausing occasionally to reflect that tonight was Ryan’s shift and he would be here in less than an hour.
Bursting, suddenly, into this order, industry and calm came a mighty roar from the vicinity of the Edenville Arms car park. It sent Jason’s pen skittering messily across the foot of a newly completed account, one that had involved the computation of heavy use of the minibar over the space of a week’s stay, plus three meals a day washed down by wines from the south end of the list. The bill had been a work of art and now it was ruined.
Jason hurried to the window of Pumps and saw that the battered red Land Rover was pulling out of the car park. Nell Simpson’s friend Rachel, the small woman with the purple hair, was leaving for London. They had informed him of this earlier; Nell had offered to move into a smaller room if it was more convenient for Jason. She had seemed almost disappointed when he had assured her she could stay in the honeymoon suite.
Jason was not sorry to see the Land Rover go. He liked Rachel, but her vehicle was no ornament to its surroundings. While by no means as bad as Dan Parker’s, it had nonetheless stuck out like a scratched, unpolished thumb among the other gleaming conveyances in the car park.
Rachel seemed to be taking her time leaving. Nell remained beside the vehicle and there was a lot of shouting over the engine noise. The manager raised a slow, subtle hand and unfastened the catch on the pub’s front window. The gesture was a practised one; he had overheard numerous conversations this way.
‘Ring me as soon as you’ve seen Angela Highwater!’ Rachel was yelling out of the driver window. ‘I want to know everything!’
Jason stifled a squeal. Angela? Whyever was Nell seeing her? Suddenly, the manager wanted to know everything too.
He rushed back to his cubbyhole and lifted the phone. It was Sunday evening, and Angela would be at home in her Chestlock mill penthouse. Except that she wasn’t; the answerphone clicked on. ‘You hev reached Ingila Haywater . . .’
It was a sunny evening, warm and golden. She must be out on her roof terrace, which he had visited a few times. Given that the context was an eighteenth-century spinning mill, Jason had found it, with its patio heaters, palm trees and elaborate sunloungers, a tad anachronistic.
He looked up as the entrance now darkened. Someone was coming in; silhouetted against the brilliant evening sunshine and splitting it into rods of light. It was a woman, and Jason’s first, alarmed impression was that it might be Angela. But it was Nell, looking preoccupied.
She gave Jason a distracted smile as she passed his cubbyhole and started to mount the stairs.
Her mind was tumbling with doubt. Had she really wanted to make an appointment with the Pemberton human resources department? But Rachel had refused to take no for an answer. Or acknowledge there were any difficulties in the way at all.
‘But I haven’t got a CV. I haven’t needed one for years,’ Nell had objected. ‘I can’t even remember what my GCSE results were.’
Rachel had brushed this aside. ‘No one wants all that exam stuff,’ she said. ‘You just need to put a paragraph together about your experience.’
Nell could see that she had no choice. She would ring Angela Highwater first thing in the morning. She would go to the interview and see what happened. But for now, she was going to have a long, hot bath, a room-service supper and an early night.
It had taken almost an hour, but Jason had rewritten the spoilt bill. His pen was poised over it, preparing to administer the final detail, his own signature.
‘Cooeee!’ Someone now bustled noisily in through the door. Jason, startled, felt his pen slide and the nib dig into the paper, making a large and inky tear.
The estate’s Director of Human Resources trotted over the age-worn flagstones of the doorway. Her progress, Jason noticed, was less commanding than usual. She appeared to be hobbling. ‘Done something to your foot?’
Angela tossed her head. She had no intention of revealing that the previous afternoon’s recce to Bess’s Tower had ended in a painful encounter with a grill pan. Maintaining power was all about maintaining the fears of others. ‘Is he here?’ she demanded.
‘Dan Parker?’ Jason asked.
Angela’s eyes flashed. ‘Not him,’ she snapped. ‘I’m over him. Now he’s gone off with that woman.’
There was something in her vehemence that made Jason doubt that she had got over it. He put it aside, however; he’d identified the person she was after now. ‘Mr Greenleaf is up at Bess’s Tower, I believe.’
Certainly, Greenleaf had left the inn after breakfast and had not been back. Hopefully he wouldn’t be, ever, and to make extra sure of this, Jason had earlier sent an estate handyman up to check that all was well in the tower kitchen. He had come back reporting that he had been unable to gain entry; Greenleaf’s car was outside, and presumably he was inside, but the door was locked. It was the handyman’s guess that he was asleep.
The handyman had found a grill pan in the grass at the rear of the building. Nearby had been some very burnt bacon. This intelligence had filled Jason with alarm; if Greenleaf really couldn’t cook, he might be back tomorrow morning. Or even tonight.
He needed to come up with a plan for that. But for now he had a potentially disappointed Angela to deal with.
She had, Jason saw, made even more sartorial effort than usual, which, again, wasn’t a good sign. Her hair was newly dyed a powerful black and crimped and scrunched into wild and writhing locks. She wore a dress cinched tightly at the waist and clinging to her hips and breasts. Brightly patterned in aqua and coral, it looked like something one might wear to the beach. Her toes were painted coral to match; two of them, Jason noticed, had plasters on them.
He decided to try and distract her. The story of the women shouting her name in the car park would do. Hurriedly, Jason told it, embellishing it as much as he could. He watched with dismay as Angela’s eyes slitted with anger and her pout compressed to a hard, tight line.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jason asked, realising he had only made things worse.
‘The matter,’ Angela said, biting out the words one by one, ‘is that His Lordship has told me to interview that blonde one – Nell whatsit – for a job.’
Jason was bewildered. ‘How on earth does he know her?’
‘Met her in the café,’ Angela growled.
‘What café? I didn’t know he went to cafés.’
‘The stable-yard café.’ Angela huffed. ‘Doing his secret shopper bit.’
‘Secret shopper?’
‘Oh, for God’s sa
ke,’ Angela shouted, with a suddenness, volume and fury that made Jason’s head spin. ‘Do you have to repeat everything I say? He goes into the café now and then to check it. Mingles with the cake-and-a-crap-crowd.’
‘Cake and a . . . ?’
‘The tourists!’ Angela screamed.
Jason looked about him. It was clear that his colleague needed a drink. He could do with one himself. His heart tightened; had Ryan arrived yet? He craned his neck; it seemed not.
‘Two large Chardonnays!’ he hissed at a passing waitress, a newly hired local teenager called Georgia.
‘Coming right up!’ Georgia hissed back. She was as good as her word. She brought glasses, and also the bottle. Jason nodded at her approvingly. Where Angela was concerned, you needed to cut out the middleman.
‘So,’ Angela snarled, after a copious swig, ‘His bloody Lordship met Nell whatsit having a cup of coffee. They talked and now he’s got it into his bloody head that she’d be a good replacement for Ros. But I’m the best judge of that,’ the Director of Human Resources stormed. ‘I’m the personnel professional.’
‘Yes,’ Jason agreed hurriedly. ‘Absolutely. You are.’
‘Said he wanted to help,’ Angela ranted, refilling her glass. ‘But it would have helped a bloody sight more if he hadn’t sacked Ros in the bloody first place.’
Jason could not agree with this statement, so asked more questions. ‘Why does he think Nell could replace her? What does Nell even do for a living?’
‘Marketing, apparently. PR. She was very rude about the estate bumf. The cheek!’ Angela raged. ‘Thinks she could do better, she said.’
Well, she certainly couldn’t do worse, Jason reasoned. ‘So you’re going to interview her?’
‘Haven’t any choice.’
‘When?’
Angela took another swig. ‘God knows. She’s supposed to be calling me to make an appointment. Which means tomorrow, I suppose. I can’t bloody wait!’
Mercifully, at that moment, Ryan appeared in the restaurant and Jason’s feeling that the world was a difficult place became the certain knowledge that it was a wonderful one, and no spot on it was more wonderful than this one.
