‘Hotels are magic, Jim,’ said Simon, as if he were reading his thoughts. ‘Growing up, I slept on a mattress on the floor with my two brothers. There was no running water in our house, no glass in the windows. But the view – you should have seen it.’ He sighed softly. ‘From our front step you could see the turrets of the Jaipur Palace, the most beautiful hotel in the province, and every night I wondered what it would be like to step inside, how soft the beds would be, what they ate for supper. But after a while it wasn’t enough to wonder. I decided to find out for myself what it was like, so I worked for two whole years to afford a night in the smallest room.’
‘And was it everything you’d hoped?’ smiled Jim.
‘It was. I felt like a king. I thought, “What if anyone could have this? What if living like a king was available to everyone, if only for one night?” That’s where it all started. Within ten years, I’d bought the Jaipur Palace.’
‘You’re such an old romantic,’ grinned Jim, finishing off the last of the champagne.
‘I was a shrewd businessman.’ Simon shrugged nostalgically. ‘So where next?’ he asked a little more brusquely.
Jim cleared his throat. ‘Well, there’s an excellent property coming on the market in Hvar. Personally, I think it’s the new Saint-Tropez. It’s beachfront, a twenty-five-acre site . . .’
Simon shook his head. ‘We have four of the top properties in Europe, Jim, all within two hours of one another. Where we need to expand is in North America.’
‘America’s a saturated market.’
‘It’s a mature market for sure,’ said Simon, ‘but it’s still the biggest travel market in the world.’
‘So where were you thinking?’
‘Somewhere it’s warm all year round. When it’s five degrees on the Hudson, we want somewhere people from New York and DC can escape to that doesn’t involve putting on a goose-down parka.’
‘Florida?’ suggested Jim. ‘Though most of the interesting properties in Miami have been sold, and we’d be paying top dollar for any strip of coast.’
Simon put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m not interested in those beachfront carbuncles. Look at this,’ he said, nodding towards the ramparts. ‘Omari properties have history. They are properties of significance.
‘I was thinking the Deep South,’ he said after another moment. ‘Wide terraces, iced tea and linen suits. The things I used to dream about when I was a child. The things that made me feel like a king.’
Jim rubbed his chin, an uncomfortable memory stirring, but Simon was still talking.
‘I’m thinking of a grand Deep South plantation house with a mile-long driveway flanked with trees covered with those plants that look like cobwebs.’
‘Spanish moss,’ said Jim, glancing across.
‘So you know exactly the type of property I am looking for,’ said Simon, reaching in his pocket for his phone.
Now Jim was really off balance.
‘Simon, the fireworks are finishing, I have the bar to check on, I’ve lost the piper—’
‘I’m thinking of a property like this,’ Simon said, ignoring Jim’s objections and tapping at the screen.
Jim frowned at the image he had called up. ‘That’s Tara. The house from Gone with the Wind,’ he said, recognising the iconic plantation house.
‘Tell me what you know about this type of house,’ said Simon.
Jim felt himself shiver in the cold Scottish night air. ‘Well, it’s Greek Revival in style. Early nineteenth century. Graceful proportions, low-gabled. They were built as a backlash against British style, hence the pillars, the nod to Greek architecture. They were popular with wealthy Deep South businessmen, cotton growers, which is why they were known as plantation houses. If you look, you can often see the darker side to these properties – slave cottages in the grounds and so on.’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘I spent a summer living right by one.’
Simon looked up at him with interest. ‘Where was that?’
‘Just outside Savannah. Georgia,’ said Jim, torn between the discomfort he felt and the desire to impress Simon.
‘Was it your family’s house?’
‘Hardly.’ He laughed awkwardly.
‘But isn’t your father a famous writer?’ asked Simon. Three years working side by side and this was the first time he had asked about Jim’s private life.
‘Writers generally can’t afford houses like Casa D’Or,’ Jim said, looking down at the cold stone beneath his feet.
‘Casa D’Or,’ repeated Simon. ‘What a beautiful name. What does it mean?’
‘The House of Gold.’
Simon began typing, and another image appeared on the screen, one that made the alcohol residue burn in Jim’s throat.
‘Is that it?’ he asked. Not waiting for Jim’s reply, he pointed at the web page he had called up. ‘“Casa D’Or was the winter home of David Darling, the American railroad magnate and art collector”,’ he read aloud. ‘“Alongside Hearst Castle and the Biltmore, it was considered to be one of the great entertaining houses of the twentieth century. It was sold in the 1940s to the Wyatt family, who have owned it ever since.”’
He looked up, his face lit by the light of the screen. Jim had seen that look before: desire.
‘Do the Wyatts still own it?’
‘As far as I know. But it’s been a long while since I was there.’
‘But you know these people, the Wyatts?’
Jim paused, took a breath. ‘I used to,’ he said, stiffening in his seat.
‘Do you think they would sell?’
‘Simon, it’s their family home. You know how sentimental people get about places.’
Simon gave him a level look. ‘And I’ve also seen how quickly sentiment fades away when you open a chequebook.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘But what, Jim?’ said Simon. ‘Is there something about this place you’re not telling me?’
You have no idea, Jim thought, getting to his feet.
‘All I’m saying is let’s not jump the gun. Casa D’Or isn’t the only house in the South. Let me put out feelers and see what else there is. Omari properties have to be the absolute best in class.’
‘Precisely,’ said Simon, putting the phone back in his pocket. ‘Best in class, and if Casa D’Or is being mentioned in the same breath as Hearst Castle and the Biltmore, that excites me.’
Jim could feel his control slipping away.
‘Look, the place has history,’ he said cautiously. ‘There was an accident there once. Someone died . . .’
Simon looked at the younger man directly, unbothered by the concerns he had just heard, the look in his eyes indicating he was only concerned with getting his own way.
‘Where do you see your future in this company, James?’ he said evenly. It was a straight question, but one loaded with meaning. Simon was a fair employer, but no billionaire got to the top of that golden pyramid without having a streak of ruthlessness. And while Jim had carved out a personal niche in the Omari property portfolio, the first rule of business was that no one was indispensable.
‘I love working for Omari,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s my life.’
Simon nodded. ‘You’ve been here from the start, grown the Omari business. And I want to reward you for your vision and your loyalty.’
‘I’m flattered, but—’ began Jim.
‘No buts. I want to open the best hotel in the Deep South and I want that hotel to be Casa D’Or. Make it happen and I will make you CEO of Omari Hotels.’
Jim could feel his eyes opening wide.
‘CEO?’
Simon looked at him, his gaze intense, and for a moment Jim’s own eyes sparkled with desire. Then there was a whoop and a cheer from the terrace and the moment was gone. Simon smiled and raised his glass.
‘Well, I think you’d better go and find the piper, don’t you?’
Chapter Two
He needed new curtains: that was
his first thought. Sunlight was leaking in over the top of his Swedish drapes and straight on to his pillow, rousing him much earlier than he had planned. Turn off your phone: that was his second. Jim scrabbled for the mobile buzzing on his bedside table. ‘M’ read the screen. ‘Not now,’ he groaned, clicking it off and shoving it under his pillow. He pulled the duvet over his head, but he knew it was too late: he was awake. So much for his idea of sleeping till noon, reading the paper: finally a couple of hours to relax.
Brrring.
Jim groaned again. The doorbell now.
He rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and shuffled towards the front door, jabbing a finger against the intercom button when he got there.
‘What?’ he growled, his voice still craggy with sleep.
A voice. Impatient, annoyed.
‘Jim, it’s me. Let me in.’
Shit. Melissa. He glanced across at the clock above the hob in his open-plan kitchen and rubbed his eyes. Five o’clock? Could it really be that late?
‘Crap,’ he muttered, pressing the door release. Working over New Year was one thing, but still being in bed when your girlfriend came to see you? Jim was no expert at relationships, but even he knew that was considered a big no-no.
Footsteps coming up the stairs. No time to think of excuses.
‘Don’t you ever answer your phone?’ asked Melissa, striding into the flat.
‘I got the late flight from Inverness last night,’ replied Jim, stifling a yawn. ‘Didn’t get home until one, couldn’t sleep.’
‘Really? You could have fooled me.’
‘I’m knackered, Mel. Munroe, the launch . . .’
‘I know it’s tough.’
He didn’t miss the sarcasm.
‘Happy New Year,’ he said, pulling her in and kissing her softly on the lips. There was a moment’s resistance, then he felt her relax.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said simply as she nuzzled into his neck.
Her hair smelled fresh, clean, delicious. It smelled of anxiety and effort and it made him feel guilty. Maybe he should have invited her to Munroe. Then again, he had made it clear from the start that his job had to take priority, and besides, he was taking her to his father’s seventieth birthday party that very evening. That meant something, didn’t it?
‘You look great,’ he said, stepping back to look at her. Her pale green dress was fitted and to the knee; her blond hair bounced over her shoulders. It was a look designed to impress his parents, but she still looked incredibly sexy.
‘You think? I didn’t know how formal this party was going to be.’
‘The Hampstead literati aren’t known for their dress sense,’ he smiled. ‘It’s either bow ties or moth-eaten cardigans mostly.’
She looked anxious. ‘So you think I’m overdressed?’
‘I think you look perfect,’ said Jim, pulling her closer and whispering, ‘Although I can’t wait to see you looking underdressed later.’
She untied his dressing gown and pressed against his bare chest, grinning.
‘Why does it have to be later?’
It was almost 7.30 by the time the taxi pulled up outside Jim’s parents’ house in Hampstead, and already the party looked as though it was in full swing. Every light in the property seemed to be switched on, and they could see the outline of guests at each golden window. A particularly decorous holly wreath was hanging on the polished black front door; with the street’s faux gaslight reflecting off the frosty pavement, it looked like the front of one of the Christmas cards still standing on Jim’s mantelpiece.
‘Just grab this a minute, will you?’
Jim handed Melissa the bottle of Scotch, his father’s birthday present, as he leaned forward to pay the driver. When he looked back at her, she was already on the street, gazing up at the house.
‘Nice place. When did they buy this?’ she said as Jim slammed the taxi door shut.
‘In the days when you didn’t have to work two hundred and fifty years just to afford the deposit. Apologies beforehand if my father tries to snog you, by the way.’
‘I’ve met him before.’
‘Yes, but you’ve never experienced the true horror of what he’s like when he’s had a drink and he’s showing off on home turf,’ smiled Jim as he banged the big brass door knocker.
‘Darling! So glad you could make it.’ Jim’s mother stepped forward and air-kissed him, wafting them both with Chanel. Elizabeth Johnson was thinner than the last time he had seen her, possibly a little more drawn, but she was hiding it well in a beaded cocktail dress and the clanging bangles that always sheathed her wrists. ‘And Melissa, so lovely to see you again.
‘Come through,’ she trilled over her shoulder, as if she were guiding them into a strange new building rather than the house where Jim had grown up. ‘You know Tony and Claire, of course, and the Gillans are here.’
Jim had no idea who she was talking about, but it was something he was used to. The endlessly shifting literary and arty circles Elizabeth and Bryn Johnson moved in meant that the faces were constantly changing, one leading light or hot name being replaced by another. Only his father remained a fixed point around which everything else revolved.
And there he was, just where Jim had known he would be, one elbow leaning on the marble fireplace, his free hand gesturing with a half-full glass, an admiring group surrounding him.
‘Jimmy!’ he bellowed, breaking off mid-anecdote. ‘Come on over, my boy, let the dog see the rabbit.’
He seized Jim in a bear hug, slapping him on the back.
‘Drink?’
‘What are we celebrating?’ asked Jim, smiling.
Bryn Johnson looked at him for a second, then burst out into laughter.
‘Trust a Johnson to cut straight to the chase. Everyone else has been tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, giving me guff about entering a golden age, telling me how well I look.’
‘You do look well.’
‘Considering I’ve just been butchered. Pretty good for a walking corpse, yes.’
He was being provocative; his default setting. In actual fact he did look well, despite his heart attack only four months previously. When Jim remembered his father in that hospital bed, his skin grey, tubes curling out of his nose and chest, he barely looked the same man. He’d always been strong, like a bull in both body and attitude towards life, and it had upset Jim more than he liked to admit to see him lying there weak and vulnerable.
‘Dad, you remember Melissa.’
‘Of course. We all went to lunch. The duck was very good, if I remember rightly.’
As he stepped forward to kiss her, Melissa blushed. Over the years, Bryn Johnson’s extraordinary good looks had been much remarked upon: the striking blue eyes, the jet-black hair. Even at seventy, he could still have an effect on women.
‘For you,’ said Melissa, handing over the bottle of Scotch, which Bryn examined with careful eyes.
‘Twenty-Five Year Old Talisker single malt. Very nice. It must be my birthday.’ He looked at Jim. ‘Nothing from you?’
‘It’s from both of us,’ said Jim, shifting uncomfortably. ‘The sommelier at Munroe got hold of it for me. It’s excellent. A vintage year. Only a few thousand bottles were ever laid down,’ said Jim, but his father had already put it on the mantelpiece.
‘Francis, Edward, Peter. Come here. I don’t think you’ve met James Johnson. The very fruit of my loins. Isn’t he handsome?’
Hasty introductions were made to three men: a publisher, a sculptor and a playwright.
‘Are you a writer too?’ asked Edward, the wiry white-haired sculptor.
Jim shook his head. ‘I work for a property company.’
‘Property? I thought it was poetry.’
‘He showed tremendous literary potential at university,’ said Bryn, interjecting. ‘Saul – that’s my American agent – wanted to sign him, but Jimmy wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘That was a long time ago, Dad.’
‘Instead he became a wage slave. Scandalous, isn’t it?’ he said. His laugh was loud and raucous.
Jim wasn’t sure if his comment had been designed to wound. In his black moods, Bryn Johnson could be brutal, merciless, picking at any aspect of your personality until you felt worthless. On the other hand, just a few generous words from him and he pumped you up until you felt full of air. Jim had spent his entire childhood swinging between the two extremes, although these days he found the most hurtful treatment from his father was his ambivalence to the career he had worked so hard for.
‘Good turnout,’ he said.
‘It is my seventieth.’
‘Is Ian coming?’
Ian McConnelly was Jim’s godfather. A friend of Bryn’s from their Cambridge days, he had gone on to have a hugely successful career writing a series of quirky comic novels that were considered the literary successor to P. G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves stories, but which Bryn privately dismissed as ‘populist crap’.
‘I’ve got to congratulate him on the knighthood. It’s amazing,’ said Jim, who had been texted the news by his godfather and had been delighted for him.
‘Someone at the Palace probably felt sorry for him,’ said Bryn with an ill-disguised huff.
‘Really?’
‘The Alzheimer’s.’
‘Ian has Alzheimer’s?’ said Edward, turning round to rejoin the conversation.
‘He’d better not have forgotten about the party tonight,’ frowned Bryn.
‘Dad . . .’
‘So who do you think is going to win the Nobel this year?’ he continued, turning his attention back to his cronies.
Jim shook his head and tugged Melissa’s sleeve.
‘Come on, let’s get a drink,’ he said.
‘How about a guided tour of the house?’ she replied, slipping her arm through his. ‘I want to see your childhood bedroom.’
The House on Sunset Lake Page 2
