‘Sir Humphrey wants to meet you both in person,’ Isaac announced on Wednesday afternoon, gesturing at Rachel and Jack as he breezed by. ‘He’s invited you for tea at his country pile this Friday. It’s a very good sign … The initial phone call with him must have gone well. It’s a bit of a trek, so let’s say you’ll both work remotely for the day. Just check in with your emails when you can and be back in the office with a full report on Monday.’
He clapped Jack on the back, pulled a trilling iPhone out of his pocket and then strode towards a vacant meeting room, his mobile already clamped to his ear. Rachel stared after him.
‘Where are we going?’ she said, peering at Jack over the top of her computer monitor. Thanks to Isaac’s reorganisation of the pro-social corner of the office, she now sat opposite her partner-slash-nemesis. They were separated only by screens, mugs full of pens, and piles of paperwork. Jack’s nearness was unsettling in ways Rachel couldn’t successfully explain, even to herself – but she was working on becoming blasé about it.
He looked up from his laptop. ‘Humphrey’s house. He did mention to me when I called to introduce myself that he thought an informal meeting might be nice before we present our plans. I told him we’d have to check our availability with Abraham.’ He grinned and made air quotes with his fingers.
‘Humphrey’s house?’ Rachel cried, ignoring the joke.
Jack’s green eyes flashed with amusement, crinkling at the corners as he smiled at her. ‘Exactly what is it about the concept of visiting someone’s house that you’re struggling with?’
Rachel shot him a dark look from behind a stack of notebooks. ‘What I mean is, what’s wrong with the BHGH office in Chelsea? It’s a tad more convenient for us, wouldn’t you say? Not to mention more professional – more appropriate.’
Jack arched a thick, chestnut-coloured eyebrow and said, ‘I don’t think Humphrey cares much about what’s convenient for people. Still less about what’s appropriate.’
Rachel sighed and scrubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘Yeah. I’m getting that …’
‘His place is right in the centre of the Cotswolds, I think. Nice area. Not too far from Bourton-on-the-Water.’
‘What?’
Jack was laughing now. ‘Rachel, did you bump your head on the way to work this morning? Do you need your ears syringed? You’re being strange.’ He cupped his hands around his mouth as though he were speaking to someone very far away, then repeated: ‘Bourton-on-the-Water.’
Irritated, Rachel threw a scrunched-up Post-it note at him and then immediately wished she hadn’t. To anyone watching – and there was always someone watching, she’d noticed – it would look like she was flirting.
‘My point,’ she said, ‘is that Bourton is bloody miles away! I went there once with my family for a weekend. It seems like a long way to go for a chat and a cuppa.’
Jack shrugged, his whole body radiating indifference. ‘Clients make ridiculous requests all the time … Humphrey’s are just more obviously ridiculous than most. Anyway, it’ll be nice; it’s a day out of the office. A trip to an area of outstanding natural beauty, no less. What’s not to like?’
Rachel decided not to answer this question, which felt deliberately provoking. Instead, she set about researching how long it would take them to get there. Jack was smirking in a way that suggested he was perfectly relaxed about the idea of an outing with her, at the same time as highly entertained by her discomfort at the prospect.
‘Oh my God, I’ve just googled …’ Rachel moaned. ‘There isn’t even a train station nearby. It’s going to be an absolute ass-pain of a journey.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll drive us. We can work out the details tomorrow.’
He smiled again, then looked down and resumed typing before she could argue. Of course he had a car, Rachel thought. Probably some ridiculous gas-guzzling beast of a four-by-four. Now he’d suggested driving within earshot of several colleagues, though, it was impossible to decline travelling in it. Taking the train to the Cotswolds would doubtless be more expensive and less convenient – and Isaac would never sign off on paying for rail fares if a cheaper alternative was on offer.
Rachel turned back to her computer and mapped the journey from North London to Bourton-on-the-Water, then felt her mouth fall open in horror as she stared at the results. By the fastest route it was a four-hour round trip – and that was if they got lucky and didn’t hit much traffic. Fuck. Ing. Hell.
I’m really beginning to hate Humphrey, Rachel thought, and I haven’t even met him yet.
She pushed her headphones into her ears and fired up Spotify, wishing that Tom’s latest alt-pop playlist could drown out the awfulness of what she’d just tacitly agreed to.
Four hours, minimum, alone with Jack in a confined space. A whole day together, most of it spent at close range. Endless, excruciating minutes during which she’d have no one to look at or speak to but him.
Since coming to London, Jack had moved into an apartment in Highgate. Rachel had originally argued that it made sense for her to meet him there on Friday morning, since it wasn’t far away from where she and Anna lived. In the end, though, his insistence that she save herself the trouble (plus the extra half-hour in bed this promised) proved impossible to resist. She agreed to let him pick her up at 9 a.m. at the flat.
The day was clear and bright, so Rachel decided to wait for Jack outside. Within a few seconds, she realised this was a mistake. It was freezing and she wasn’t wrapped up as warmly as usual, having decided that her usual attire of jeans and a chunky jumper might be too homey for high tea with a baronet. Instead she’d opted for a demure dove-grey dress – long-sleeved, high-necked and made of thick fabric, with a flattering skater skirt cut just above the knee. With it she wore black tights and her high-heeled ankle boots, which remained uncomfortable despite repeated attempts to break them in.
Rachel felt put together in a way that she hoped wouldn’t seem overdone, and reasoned that at least the blister-inducing footwear wouldn’t be a problem. After all, most of her day would be spent in Jack’s car. She was trying to stay calm about that.
As she leaned against the aged wall that separated the flat’s tiny yard from the street, she heard the front door bang. Will, who’d been locked in the bathroom when she left, was loafing towards her.
‘Still here, then? Is he late?’ he said, joining Rachel on her perch.
She checked her watch. It was 9.06. ‘Hmm. By a few minutes. How come you’re not at work already? No company mergers or hostile takeovers to negotiate today?’
‘I’m going to Edinburgh for a meeting. Just waiting for a taxi to the airport.’ Will patted a canvas overnight bag that she hadn’t noticed until now, then placed it on the pavement. Even almost four years into knowing him, Rachel couldn’t quite picture Will in his role as a corporate lawyer – firstly because he was so placid, and secondly because, in his personal life, he had a tendency to say daft things where silence might have sufficed.
‘God, I need a coffee,’ Rachel groaned. ‘I should have brought one for the road. And to think, Anna probably has a class full of kids staring at her by now. I don’t know how she does it.’
‘Me neither,’ Will said, misty-eyed and shaking his head as he smiled. ‘She’s a dynamo. Ah, here’s my cab. And … fuck me. Is that your lift?’
Behind the Uber that had just turned the corner onto the street, some kind of vintage car was cruising. Jack was driving it. For shit’s sake … Why hadn’t she seen this coming?
‘It would seem so,’ Rachel said, feeling strangely embarrassed. Why did everything about Jack have to be so … much?
Will picked up his bag and waved at the taxi driver. ‘That’s an MGA Roadster,’ he said to Rachel, awestruck and gesturing at Jack’s car. ‘Gorgeous and very rare. You’re going to freeze your tits off in it, I should think, but it’s a beauty.’
‘Do me a favour, Will – don’t be too impressed. We hate this guy, remember?’
>
‘Oh yeah. Got it,’ he said, and laughed as he mock-saluted her. Then he pulled her in for a big-brotherish hug and kissed her cheek before opening the door of the taxi. ‘See you in a day or two.’
Rachel turned and strode towards Jack, who’d parked a little way down the street. The car was red and shiny, and it had one of those squashy retractable roofs. Why had she ever supposed he’d drive a Range Rover? This made so much more sense.
Jack leaned across the gearstick and opened the passenger door for her. Inside, the car was all wood and polish, circular dials and soft tea-coloured leather. It was lovely, but she was damned if she’d say so out loud.
Rachel sat down, cursing the low ride of the car. It was conspiring with her high heels and hemline to expose more of her legs than she’d like.
‘Morning,’ Jack said, smiling. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. I needed to get petrol and thought coffee might be a good idea too.’ He gestured to a cardboard holder that was wedged between the seats, inside which sat two tall takeaway cups.
‘Oh my God, yes,’ Rachel said in a rush. ‘Definitely.’
‘Take either,’ Jack said. ‘Both generic service station lattes of questionable quality – but the left-hand one has sugar.’
Without hesitating, Rachel picked up the cup with sugar. Today was going to be difficult enough without caring about empty calories.
She took a large, grateful sip, then remembered herself. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘This was … nice of you.’
Jack smiled and nodded, turned the key in the car’s ignition and started driving.
As they waited at a set of lights a few minutes later, he twisted in his seat to look at her and said, ‘I’m still waiting for you to say it, Rachel. I can feel it killing you, not saying it.’
‘What are you expecting, exactly?’ Rachel asked. His eyes were dancing and she felt her face split into a smile before she could stop it.
He used to do this all the time: call her out on some snarky thing she was thinking so she’d give in and say it out loud. Back when they were first friends, Rachel had thought that taking the piss out of Jack’s vanity, pretensions or the parade of worshipful women he dated was protective. Every jibe was supposed to armour her – remind her of the reasons why he shouldn’t be remotely alluring to someone as sensitive as she was.
Once, when he’d asked her why she was so rough on him, she’d half-truthfully explained that his persecution was in pursuit of universal balance. The world was quite kind enough to Jack Harper without Rachel being nice to him as well – and God knew he loved himself more than enough for the both of them.
Now, Rachel sighed at the memory of her own stupidity. Her engagement in their merry war of wit had merely exposed how much she noticed about Jack – galvanised him into flirting with her harder. It had finished with them tangled and breathless, kissing in a corner at a house party. Even at the time, Rachel had been unsure whether she’d won or lost the fight.
‘I dunno,’ Jack said as the MG picked up speed, a riot of noise rising from its gut as he pressed down on the accelerator. Rachel blinked, brought back to reality. ‘I predict something sarcastic,’ Jack went on. ‘Something cutting. Something like, “Nice car, you flash wanker.”’
‘Ha!’ Rachel laughed, vaguely irritated that he’d called her reaction to it so accurately. He’d always been sharper than he looked. ‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she huffed.
Jack kept his eyes on the road, brows raised in anticipation of the takedown he knew was imminent.
‘It is a nice car,’ Rachel said, ‘if you’re into that sort of thing, which I’m not. What I actually wonder is this …’
He glanced at her briefly and grinned.
‘Why can’t you just drive a Ford Fiesta like a normal person? At least in winter? This is a glorified icebox on wheels. We’re going to be frozen fucking solid before we even hit Watford.’
Jack roared with laughter that was almost immediately drowned out by more engine noise, and Rachel felt a little sick.
She didn’t know whether to put her queasiness down to the motion of the car or annoyance with herself for sparring with him; sparring with him and enjoying it.
Sir Humphrey Caldwell’s house looked like a boutique hotel, or one of the lesser mansions in a Jane Austen adaptation.
It wasn’t a Pemberley in size or splendour, but Fawcett Park was large, elegant and beautifully kept: a three-storey late-eighteenth-century manor with enormous sash windows, built of Cotswold stone that had been bleached pale cream by more than two hundred summers.
Rachel felt intimidated by it, which she hated. Pull yourself together, she told herself. You’ve met plenty of posh people – you practically live with one. There’s also one sitting right next to you, driving this ridiculous vehicle.
‘Nice place, isn’t it?’ Jack said as the car crawled up the long, sweeping drive. Rachel laughed at his understatement – a genuine assessment that she knew was only possible because Jack had grown up in a house like this.
She’d stayed quiet for much of the journey, answering questions when Jack asked them and trying to keep the stilted conversation focused on work. Merely a week after being paired up, and despite her resolution to detest him, she and Jack were already too familiar with one another.
It had been easy to slip into something resembling their old dynamic this morning. Scarily easy and very stupid, Rachel told herself – even though it had just been for a few minutes. She needed to put the brakes on. Keep her guard up. Both.
Humphrey didn’t answer his own front door, which Rachel immediately realised should not have surprised her. The rail-thin, spiky-looking woman who showed her and Jack into a drawing room seemed more likely to be a housekeeper than his wife. She wore a businesslike black skirt suit that emphasised her every angle: elbows, cheekbones, jutting clavicles, shoulder blades.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs Davidson – definitely staff, then, Rachel thought – and invited them to sit by the fire. Rachel must have looked as cold as she felt, huddled deep inside her coat and scarf. Reluctantly, she handed them over when Mrs Davidson offered to hang them for her.
Jack’s eyes swept her outfit and she wished she hadn’t noticed him looking. Her dress didn’t show much skin, but there was no hiding her curves in anything clingy. Rachel’s preference for comfortable clothes was only partly responsible for her usual, lazier look; she felt less exposed, less obviously fleshy, when she wore boxy sweaters and flat shoes. Also, random men catcalled at her less.
She looked around the room. The fireplace was of ornate carved stone. The walls were painted pale yellow and the windows were hung with heavy egg-yolk-coloured drapes. Every gilt knick-knack and piece of furniture in here looked precious, antique; the books stacked on a corner table were probably first editions.
Displayed on a walnut sideboard were several (no doubt priceless) nude sculptures. Rachel felt a ‘You don’t find those in the IKEA market hall’ joke forming in her mouth and swallowed it.
Humphrey appeared in the room a moment later, shook Jack’s hand as though they were old friends and let his eyes linger on Rachel’s chest before looking her in the face and briefly grasping her fingertips.
Not a great start.
He was only a little taller than Rachel, and his enormous belly and comparatively tiny, turned-out feet made her think of a walrus.
His shiny black shoes were like wet flippers slapping across the oriental rug as he made his way to a winged armchair. He had iron-grey hair combed over a shining bald spot, and wore charcoal wool trousers with a maroon sweater that looked impossibly itchy.
Once Humphrey had settled comfortably, he turned to Jack and said, ‘So, you’re a Harrow man? Thank God. Someone who’ll speak my language at last.’
Jack nodded. ‘Yes, I was there – but longer ago now than I care to remember.’
Humphrey laughed, a brief, brisk boom. ‘Ho! Truer for me than for you, my boy! But before we stumble down mem
ory lane … who is this lovely young lady you’ve brought with you today? Your glamorous assistant?’
Oh God. Assistant?! Rachel bit back an outraged groan.
‘If anything, Sir Humphrey, I am her humble servant,’ Jack said, laughing. ‘Rachel is our very experienced editorial strategist – you might remember I mentioned her when we spoke on the phone. She and I will be working together to help deliver what British House and Garden Heritage is looking for – a plan to tell your story as effectively as possible to a new generation of visitors.’
Humphrey smiled, seemingly impressed with Jack’s chivalry. ‘Always good to get a female view on things, I suppose,’ he said with a shrug. ‘More insight into the mysterious womanly mind!’
Rachel blanched at this blithe yet consummate dismissal of her professional expertise. Entirely dishonestly she managed to mumble: ‘Hello, Sir Humphrey. It’s nice to meet you.’
As Rachel reminded herself that she would definitely be sacked for throwing one of Humphrey’s own objets d’art at him, Mrs Davidson reappeared with a silver tray bearing tea things, crustless finger sandwiches and a selection of tiny cakes.
For a split second Rachel panicked that, as the sole female member of this party, she’d be expected to play mother. Mercifully, Mrs Davidson stuck around long enough to furnish everyone with their preferred refreshments before scurrying from the room.
Jack and Humphrey discussed various old schoolmasters and traditions as they nibbled egg-and-cress sandwiches. Rachel ate a crumbly scone smothered in clotted cream and jam, and wished that the tea in the pot weren’t a pungent, perfumey Earl Grey.
As she felt the conversation between Jack and Humphrey begin to progress towards a conclusion, Rachel couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or horrified that she’d had no part in it. Either way, based on what she’d overheard, Humphrey hadn’t revealed anything today that she and Jack didn’t already know. This meeting had been about sizing them up, checking that their faces fit – not providing a more detailed brief.
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