by Anna Premoli
“Okay. Well, when you can—” he says coldly, before disappearing.
Michael laughs behind me.
“I picked up some… interesting vibrations,” he teases, continuing to stir a coffee that he is obviously never going to drink.
“I told you so, big brother. There's really nothing to worry about”.
He stands in front of me and looks me straight in the eyes for a long time, trying to get some kind of answer.
“Well, we'll see… In a few months, when I get back, let's have lunch and you can bring me up to date on everything I've missed. Ok?” he proposes.
“Deal,” I reply. Partly because there'll be nothing to bring him up to date on.
I take the coffee out of his hand and, driven by a sudden burst of generosity, throw it away. I'm almost tempted to drink it myself, but I'm way too edgy today and I don't need any additional doses of caffeine.
We walk to the lift together and I hug him and promise to write to him as soon as possible.
Once Michael has gone, all that's left for me to do is find out what Ian wants. The day has already been heavy, but, obviously, it can always get worse.
I arrive at the door of his office, passing in front of a stunned Tamara. I'd forgotten that I'm in enemy territory, and seeing me here is cause for alarm. I knock decisively and without waiting for an answer walk into the room.
There are some habits you just shouldn't change.
Ian's office is an exact copy of mine, except for the desk which is certainly antique and probably priceless. He must have brought it from home.
He's on the phone and my sudden arrival irritates him. That's nothing new, but today small certainties are good for my mood. He covers the mouthpiece with one hand and says, “Next time don't even bother to knock, please”. I look at him surprised, as if I didn't understand what he was saying and plop myself down gracelessly on the leather chair.
“Can I call you back?” he says to the person on the phone, with an acid smile.
Good, that's what I needed, because I don't want to think about the kiss and the feelings that it triggered in me. Better to focus on more useful feelings – such as anger, to be precise.
He says goodbye and hangs up abruptly. As theatrical as ever.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I ask him with the utmost innocence, determined not to be disconcerted by his attitude.
For a second it almost seems to me that Ian is about to kick me out of his office, but apparently, at least for now, reason will prevail.
“I don't want to talk to you at all, but unfortunately I have to.”
Here comes a comment and a tone that re-assures me. It's clear that the relationship between us has gotten a bit too friendly in recent days. Too friendly for my liking, at least.
“So, did you need to talk to me?” I re-phrase the question, not at all affected by his tone.
“Yes. Has Colin told you?” he asks coldly.
“I haven't seen Colin yet today,” I tell him.
Ian looks quite downcast. “Great, of course. Let the messenger take the flak—” he mumbles.
“Oh c'mon. I'm not even armed,” I say.
“If voodoo was still fashionable, I'd be long dead.”
I don't deny it and just give him a smile. I'm enjoying this quarrelsome exchange so much that I could practically jump for joy.
“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject, “we have a commitment this weekend. In part it has to do with our work, and in part with our agreement.”
More fool me for agreeing to help him.
“What is it?” I ask suspiciously.
“Work, because Beverly is one of the guests and has peremptorily expressed the wish to see us,” he explains, leaning back in his chair. “And it is also partly linked to the other issue, because the hunt takes place on my grandfather's estate, and obviously I have to be there.”
“A hunt?” I repeat with a tone of horror.
“Yes, the Duke of Revington's annual hunt,” the one who one day will bear that title says, sounding bored.
“I will not be participating in a hunt—” I murmur, as though that settles it.
Ian frowns at me. “Of course you will. Not to mention that you have to.”
Clearly we haven't understood one another. “I'm a vegetarian and an animal rights activist too. Supporters of animal rights don't participate in hunts. Supporters of animal rights try to sabotage them.”
I must look pretty menacing because Ian pushes back into his chair. “Then just… pretend to participate in the hunt,” he proposes.
And I thought he was intelligent. “You're out of your mind: my family would stop talking to me if I set foot on the Duke of Revington's estate! And they'd be right!”
Ian snorts annoyingly. “So are you saying that I should look after Beverly? Completely? Because he'll want to discuss work during this bloody hunt,” he reminds me, his tone petulant and vindictive.
“No, you can't look after Beverly! You promised to keep out of my way in return for my help! And to think that I even kissed you to make sure you wouldn't get between me and my client, for God's sake!”
As I'm saying it, I get up from my chair, realizing that my words don't exactly sound like a compliment to his skills of seduction – but damn it, he's asking for it!
Ian jumps up from his chair too and leans menacingly towards me, saying, “Let's get one thing straight – the revulsion was mutual!”
During this battle the only thing keeping us apart is the antique desk, and our hands brush lightly by accident. In that moment it is as if a one million volt shock runs through my whole body, from my toes right up to my neck. I feel goose bumps come up on my arms.
When I look away from my arms to his face, I'm stunned by his damn blue eyes. Help! Why does this man have such a disorienting effect on me?
All I can do is snatch away my hand from his and back off a bit. There must be space between us. A continent's worth sounds about right, considering how I'm feeling at the moment.
The only small satisfaction is that his face shows some confusion too. Serves him right, I reflect happily.
“Right, ok, let's try and think things through,” says Ian, “and forget everything we've just said. Can we get back to the problem? If you want to deal with Beverly, you'll have to stop being the committed activist for a few hours and agree to be the guest of my grandfather, who is certainly intimidating, and who has certainly never met an animal rights activist in his life, but who has also never forced anyone to participate in a hunt either. Just stay in the garden and read a book, or whatever you like,” he says, sounding vexed.
I admit that in that way it might actually be feasible, but I really don't care much for mingling with the nobility of half the country for a whole weekend.
“I could come—” I venture, “but only if I really don't have to participate. I want your word on that.”
Ian seems cheered by my relenting.
“I promise. You can do whatever you want,” he says, “as, indeed, you always have.”
That's a bit of a cheap shot, but maybe he's right this time.
“Ok, what's the plan?” I ask resignedly, leaning back in my chair.
“The hunt is going to be held at Revington Castle. It's about a two or three hour drive from London, depending on the traffic. We can leave on Friday evening. Some of the guests will be arriving on Friday, others on Saturday morning, but it's probably best to take our time about everything,” he explains. “Saturday is dedicated to 'socializing' and Beverly wants to take advantage of the day to do a bit of work with us. In the evening there'll be a formal dinner and dance.”
Did I mishear or he actually say 'dance'? Again? Why am I so unlucky at the moment!?
“The hunt itself is going to be on Sunday, and afterwards there'll be a kind of lunch in the early afternoon and then we can head back to London. All right?” asks Ian, who hasn't sat down and is now towering over me beside my chair.
I nod. All right.<
br />
But then I remember something important. “And what about our 'relationship'? Are we going put it on hold over the weekend?”
Please say yes… please!
I see Ian squirming. “Erm. Well, no, Katie and her parents have been invited as well.”
What have I done to deserve all this? I flop down onto the desk and hide my face in my arms.
“Not thinking of throwing yourself into the Thames, I hope?” asks Ian.
“That's exactly what I'm thinking of—” I moan, refusing to lift my head.
“Come on, it could be worse,” he whispers with a soft laugh.
I lift up my head. “Hardly. And don't you contradict me!” I warn, holding up my index finger.
“I wouldn't dare,” he re-assures me. Ah, really?
“Of course you would. You'd dare anything. I know you. Right, well, now that you have dumped this on me, I'll be getting back to work.”
I get up from the chair and walk sadly to the door. “It was a pleasure, as always,” I say, sarcastically.
Ian laughs, amused. “The pleasure was all mine.”
And the idiot even gives me a bow.
Chapter 13
“Come on girls, put your backs into it! We absolutely have to get this damn bag closed!” I beg my friends.
“Darling, if you weren't taking so much stuff with you—” Laura points out crossly.
I look at her with indignation. “It was you who bullied me into bringing all this stuff!”
Vera laughs. “Actually, you're right – it was us.”
Laura doesn't look convinced, though. “We only put in the clothes you're going to need. She must have put a load of totally useless junk in here too.”
“Like what?” I ask, insulted.
“Like your bloody financial newsletters, for one! And don't you deny it!” shouts my friend.
“As a matter of fact I did notice some paper in there,” says Vera, angrily.
I raise my hands in defence. “It's only what I absolutely need. Come on, push!”
“The clothes are strictly necessary, paperwork is for the office,” says Laura. God, she's grumpy today.
“Have you had a fight with David?” I ask her, because it is clear that my suitcase can't be the only reason for her mood.
“Of course I've had a fight with David!” she says grimly. “When haven't I had a fight with David?”
Ah. That explains everything.
Eventually, after a long and tiring struggle, we manage to get my bag closed.
“Finally!” sighs Vera, sitting down on the floor in exhaustion. “You really must really buy a bigger suitcase.”
“This one has always been big enough and it'll continue to be big enough!” I say.
But Laura agrees with her. “No, it's not big enough, not if you're going out with the Earl of Langley and have to go to the castle of Revington.”
“First of all, I'm not going out with Ian at all,” I say firmly.
“Of course not – you're just kissing him!” Vera interrupts. I throw a pillow at her and carry on.
“As I was saying, I'm not going out with Ian. And secondly, what kind of castle are you imagining Revington is going to be? It'll be a country house, just maybe a little bigger.”
Laura laughs uproariously. “Do me a favour. You've never opened a gossip magazine in your life and insist on ignoring the realities of this country: when you arrive and see Revington castle, would you kindly give me a call, just to tell me your initial impressions?”
Just what I needed to calm me down.
“Is it really a castle?” I ask hesitantly.
“It's a massive castle” my sadistic friend says.
My face contorts in a grimace of pain. “If my mum found out she'd probably give up her rule of not eating meat – she'd probably stick me in the oven with an apple in my mouth.”
“Why, what excuse did you give her?” asks Vera.
“What do you think? That I'm going away for work. Full stop. By the way, if she calls here and starts asking questions, you don't know anything, please!” I beg.
“Of course we don't know anything! Don't worry” she re-assures me.
“You make it sound easy… If only you knew how worried I am! For some reason, I've got a weird feeling about this weekend. As if something really, really bad is going to happen. And, to be honest, I have already been through plenty… I could do with a break.”
And I'd carry on moaning if my phone didn't beep.
I read the message aloud. “'I'm outside. Come downstairs'. He could have said 'please', don't you think?” Even his supposedly aseptic messages make me angry.
“Never mind,” warns Vera, who gets up to walk me to the door, “it's just the way he was brought up. He's used to giving orders.”
As if that justified it. In my eyes, it only makes it worse.
“Try not to argue,” says Laura, before seeing my expression and adding, “… well, not too much. Just a bit.”
“We'll try,” I say, sounding unconvinced, as I wave goodbye.
As I close the door behind me, I see Ian's Porsche parked in front of the house.
“I'd give you a hand with the suitcase, if you were a normal woman. But considering how things are, go ahead alone,” and on saying so, he pushes a button that opens the boot.
I quickly put my suitcase inside and hasten to get into the passenger seat.
“Don't worry, I always do things on my own,” I reply, as I fasten my seatbelt.
“Ready?” he asks, putting on a pair of fashionable sunglasses.
“Not really, but let's go anyway.”
*
It's almost midnight when we pull up outside Revington. The trip was quite hard work – not because of the traffic, but because of the company. Three hours of uninterrupted conversation with Ian is far too much, and should probably be prohibited by law.
We have argued pretty much all the time – and we only spoke about the NHS and school reform! We'd probably better stick to more neutral topics during the trip back, like music and world peace, although to be honest I imagine we could even end up strangling each other over those.
“Welcome, Miss Percy” says an impeccable and absurdly genteel butler as he opens the car door.
We've barely had time to turn off the engine and we're already being waited on hand and foot. I see someone else behind me who is already getting my suitcase out of the boot. I haven't had to lift a finger.
“Thanks,” I say with embarrassment. I am not accustomed to this type of treatment.
“I'm James, Miss,” says the butler.
“Thank you, James,” I reply, totally stunned. I am staring at one of the biggest castles I've ever seen.
Towers, turrets, walls and a white marble entrance that looks like a cathedral. Good God, I'm going to be sick.
“Good evening, James,” says Ian.
“Lord Langley, as always it is a pleasure to have you back home.” True! This is Ian's 'home'. Which is quite bewildering. “Thank you. Have many guests arrived?” he enquires. “Some, but most of them are expected tomorrow morning,” confirms the diligent butler. “You needn't have waited up. I'd imagine your alarm's set for dawn tomorrow, James. I'd have played host,” says Ian, showing me the way into the immense entrance to the castle.
“I have my usual little room, I suppose. Where's Jennifer sleeping?” he asks, turning around as he tries to work out where to go.
And then something strange happens – the butler freezes and blushes. Visibly. I wouldn't have thought it possible, so impassive does he look.
“The entire west wing of the castle is being renovated,” explains an embarrassed James. “There was a terrible storm last month and we were forced to close several rooms. And with so many guests arriving, the Duke imagined that it would be acceptable for Miss Percy and yourself to share a room.”
“What?” I shout in a very unladylike way.
All three turn to look at me, and Ian shoots me a dirty look
of warning.
“I mean, 'what'?” I say, much less loudly.
“Is there a problem, sir? The Duke saw your pictures in the paper and thought you would have preferred it—” explains James, turning more and more red in the face and getting increasingly agitated.
It is clear that for a sixty year old butler, talking about sharing rooms presents serious etiquette issues.
“Not at all,” confirms Ian, giving me a withering glance. Of course – as long as he sleeps on the floor, I think to myself. “So, if we're both in my room there's no need to rob you of any more sleep. You go to bed,” Ian dismisses him.
The butler and his silent aide thank us and disappear quickly, leaving me alone with Ian, who, not at all surprised, walks towards the white staircase in front of us. That must have been the fastest exit that I have ever witnessed. Poor James, it was clearly too much for him.
“Are you coming or are you going to sleep here?” he asks, without even looking round at me.
I grab my bag angrily and follow him. “I'm coming, I'm coming,” I say, with a snort.
We cross a long, picturesque corridor on the first floor until we reach an old, white door.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” says Ian ironically, because there's nothing humble about that room. Not even the air.
This 'little room' is the size of my flat, not to mention that the walls are covered in stucco and gold. The style is clearly neoclassical and my attention immediately goes to the most beautiful parquet floor that I've ever seen, partly covered by a huge rug. I wouldn't dare walk on it! The ceiling must be inspired by the Palace of Versailles, I think to myself, and in fact I can spot some resemblances. There are two large sofas in the centre of the room and an ancient inlaid table. I also notice a modern crystal desk with a computer and a printer on it in the corner. It must be the work desk.
Across the room is a huge, old, very plain bed. At the back on the right there's a door that must lead to the bathroom.
I get the feeling Ian doesn't like showing off. This is an amazing room, but it's also somewhat functional and, all things considered, sober.
“It is to your taste?” asks my host.
“Of course. Especially the sofa where you're going to sleep,” I answer quickly. Better get straight to the point and not waste time on pleasantries.
