Finding Home Page 12

  ‘Like I had a choice,’ Claire mumbles.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  As I look back and forth between them, another email pings in, this time to me as well as everyone else. It’s an invitation to a company Christmas party with two other branches of Tetherington Bowen Knowles, scheduled for next Saturday. If it’s intended to boost morale, it has the opposite effect.

  Claire shakes her head. ‘Doesn’t he know that we’d all rather have a bonus? Who wants a party when there’s so little to celebrate?’

  Jonathan says something, but I don’t hear it because I’m reading the invite details closely. Specifically, the line that says ‘Dear colleague + 1’. The dreaded plus-one! As the new girl, I’m obliged to go to the Christmas Party – that much I know. But should I ask David Waters, or some as yet unidentified Rebound Man 2, or just go it alone?

  To get my mind off the dilemma, I spend the rest of the morning getting on with my cold-calling. The more calls I make, the more my mood deflates. But then, after leaving three messages in a row, my mobile rings, and a number I don’t recognise comes up on the screen. My hopes instantly take flight. Is someone ringing me back about Rosemont Hall?

  ‘Amy Wood,’ I answer breathlessly. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Miss Wood. Ian Kendall here.’

  ‘Oh, hello!’ I say, trying to mask my disappointment. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’ve just heard from Mrs Bradford that you were over at Rosemont Hall yesterday.’ He pauses. ‘I think her exact words were: “some chit of a girl who was asking questions and poking her nose where it doesn’t belong”.’

  ‘No,’ I protest. ‘I mean, I was there, but I was just showing the surveyor around. She and her humongous dog nearly gave me a heart attack.’ I give an empty little laugh. The cheek of that old woman ringing the solicitor!

  ‘I understand,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘But do keep in mind that Mrs Bradford is an important beneficiary under the Windham will. She’s inherited the artwork and many of the personal effects.’

  ‘Did she inherit the painting on the stairs?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitates like he’s given away something he shouldn’t have. ‘But that doesn’t concern the sale, Ms Wood. And that’s what I’m ringing about. Mr Bowen-Knowles told you, didn’t he, that one of the American heirs, Mr Jack, is very keen to move things along with the sale of the house.’

  ‘We all want that, surely…’

  ‘He’s been negotiating with Hexagon directly. I understand they’ve had a number of conference calls to discuss the terms. Hexagon is definitely interested in the land for their golf course development.’

  ‘But you said that I had three months,’ I protest. The Cinderella clock in my head begins to race forward in double time.

  ‘I thought that at the time. But if Mr Jack and Ms Flora can get Hexagon to make an offer they can’t refuse, then they’ll go with it, naturally. But I thought I should check in with you to find out the status of your marketing efforts. Just to see if there’s anything else on the table.’

  Steeling myself, I smile down the phone. ‘Oh yes, definitely.’ The lie escapes my lips in effortless Tetherington Bowen Knowles style. ‘You can tell your Mr Jack’ – I practically spit out the name of this blight on the future of Rosemont Hall – ‘that I’ve been busy making contact with clients whom we know are looking for this sort of property. And there are at least two private buyers who are interested in seeing the house – maybe as early as this weekend. After all, it is a “historic gem with lots of potential for flexible, family accommodation”. It’s practically selling itself.’

  There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the phone and I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

  ‘Fine.’ Mr Kendall says. ‘You may as well go ahead with that. Hexagon wants to meet with the planners before they make a formal offer. See what kind of hoops they’d have to jump through. They’ve got a meeting scheduled for next week.’

  ‘Next week? But how can Mr Jack just agree to let them do that? I mean, the estate isn’t even probated is it? And Hexagon doesn’t own the site. And…’ I crawl out onto a narrow limb, ‘they won’t ever own the site. Please tell your client that I’m going to find a buyer that will fix up the house – or I can tell him myself if you give me his email address.’

  ‘I don’t have the authority to do that at this point,’ Mr Kendall says. ‘But I will speak to him and tell him what you said. And in any case, Amy, I hope you get lucky.’ I detect a strong note of doubt in his voice.

  ‘I guess I’d better get to it then.’

  ‘Fine. Oh, and one more thing. The other heir – Ms Flora – is coming over to go through the personal effects at the house…’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘…to see if there’s anything valuable enough to auction.’

  ‘Oh.’ So much for hoping that the female heir might have an ounce of sentiment that I could appeal to. I’m all favour of a little decluttering, but from the way Mr Kendall speaks of the heirs, I fear the worst.

  I reimagine ‘Mr Jack’ – the shrewd businessman. Maybe he’s a hot-shot investment banker in New York. He’ll live in an ultra-modern penthouse apartment on Park Avenue with a doorman in a red coat who tips his hat and calls him ‘Sir’. He’ll have a driver that takes him to work each morning on Wall Street, wearing his thousand-dollar Armani suit, Bill Blass tie, and Ferragamo loafers. Then dinner and theatre in the evening with his underwear-model girlfriend. And on the weekends? A drive to Long Island or the Hamptons for a little sun and a round of golf. Golf – it always comes back to golf.

  And meanwhile, back in Blighty, the last of his family history is slowly slipping away towards the unforgiving oblivion of time. The house will be ‘modernised’ into something unrecognisable. The girl in the portrait will be dispossessed of her rightful place above the staircase landing, ending up in some new-build banker’s mansion in Surrey.

  It just seems so wrong.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mr Kendall says, ‘I just wanted to let you know in case you run into her.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But what about Mrs Bradford?’

  ‘I’ll make sure she knows that you may be about the place doing your viewings.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But surely she needs time to adjust to what’s happening. She seems to be taking everything pretty hard.’

  Mr Kendall sighs. ‘It’s kind of you to show an interest, but I’m afraid that she’s none of your concern. I believe she’s already moved out, though she still may be around from time to time.’

  ‘I just feel sorry for her, that’s all. Plus, she seems to know a lot about the house and the Windhams. I didn’t realise that she was there as a girl when Sir George was alive. She must have seen some fascinating things—’

  He clears his throat. ‘But as I said, that doesn’t have anything to do with you selling the house.’

  ‘Of course – sorry.’ I accept the rebuke. It’s not my job to learn the truth about the Windhams and Rosemont Hall. It’s not my job to spend time there; soak in its atmosphere; or uncover its history. It’s not my job to placate displaced old ladies; play tour guide to an appreciative audience; or find someone who will take on the house as a labour of love. It’s my job to sell the house to whoever offers the most money for it. Thus, while I’ve mentally cast Mrs Bradford as the unstable housekeeper, Mrs Danvers, in reality, I’m the one acting irrationally. If the two American heirs, the solicitor, my boss, and the eighty-four people I’ve phoned don’t care about the fate of Rosemont Hall, then I’ve got no business doing so.

  Except, I do.

  ‘Mr Kendall,’ I say stoically, ‘I completely understand what you’re saying. It’s my job to sell the house and I need to do so quickly. And I will. We’ve got a lovely brochure printed up with a nice photo of the front aspect. The quantity surveyor should have his estimate for the repairs today. I’ve got a lot more people to ring who might be interes
ted, and I will find someone. Just give me a chance. Please.’

  He sighs. Fundamentally, I have him pegged as a nice man who doesn’t want to see the house gutted any more than I do. But he has a job to do – and so do I.

  ‘I can keep the wolves from the door for now,’ he says. ‘But not too long. I’ll ring you again when I hear from Ms Flora.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Kendall, for giving me this opportunity.’

  ‘Goodbye Miss Wood.’

  The line clicks off.

  *

  When I return to my desk, everyone is looking at me. ‘What?’ I say to the collective – they’ve obviously overheard the entire conversation. Jonathan smirks and shakes his head.

  Claire’s smile seems forced. The unspoken word seems to reverberate around the office: sticker… Sticker… STICKER.

  My face is hot as I sit down, turn the glass slipper clock face down on my desk, put on my telephone headset with a flourish, and continue my cold calls. I leave more messages, talk to a host of people who, despite my hyperbole, are not interested, and two people who ask me to email them the details. No one schedules a viewing. The lie I told Mr Kendall seems to have poisoned my efforts. I take off my headset, my shoulders drooping.

  ‘Fancy a quick sandwich?’

  I look up. Claire’s face is sympathetic across the low wall that separates our desks.

  ‘I don’t know…’ I hesitate. ‘I doubt I’ll be much company.’

  ‘All the more reason to get some fresh air.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That does sound good.’

  We put on our coats and leave through the back door. We walk to the main street and buy turkey and cranberry sandwiches at Pret. The town is buzzing with Christmas shoppers, carollers, and tourists traipsing in and out of the Pump Rooms. We find an empty bench and sit down.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Claire coaxes, like I’m a reluctant witness.

  I give a little laugh. ‘It’s so stupid, I know. But it’s just that, I gave up a lot to do this job. Well…’ I catch myself, ‘not gave up exactly. More like lost – or gave away.’ I sigh. ‘And then when Rosemont Hall came along, I thought that maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.’ I smile sadly. ‘I didn’t get my happy ending, but I wanted one for the house. But obviously, that was ridiculous. If the American heirs, the solicitor, my boss, and the 102 people I’ve phoned don’t care about Rosemont Hall, then I have no business doing so.’

  ‘Except, you do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Claire takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee. ‘Do you want some advice, Amy?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘It sounds to me like you’ve got two options. One is to forget about Rosemont Hall. Do your job, make your calls, and let the heirs sell it for a golf course. Focus on reality, move on.’ Her smile is brittle. ‘Because let me tell you, in this job, your dream is not going to happen.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘We sell houses, not happy endings. Semis-, flats, new-builds, terraces – bricks and mortar. To people who want normal lives with a mortgage, a mini-van, kitchen diners, and bi-fold doors onto the garden. We deal with our shitty boss, and make our shitty commissions. Most of us dream of doing something else. And that’s what you need to focus on.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I eat my sandwich in silence for a moment. ‘You mentioned a second option?’

  She laughs. ‘Well, Amy, in my professional capacity, I really can’t advise it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well,’ she lowers her voice, ‘you could get creative. You’re into books, right?’

  I nod.

  ‘Then stop thinking Brontë and start thinking Jilly Cooper. There must be loads of country busybodies around there looking for something to do. Start a Save Rosemont Hall Campaign. I’m sure people do that kind of thing all the time. Get the nutty housekeeper to rally the troops of local grandmothers – they can fix the place up in exchange for a free venue for bridge night. Ring English Heritage and tell them about the nefarious plot to turn it into a golf course. Write an article about the house for Country Life. There’s loads you can do. In your spare time, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ I can’t mask the excitement from my voice. Claire’s words are magic – suddenly the air seems alive with possibilities.

  ‘And if all else fails,’ she smirks, ‘you can lay naked in the path of the bulldozers.’

  I sputter with laugher. ‘But I’m supposed to be—’

  ‘Selling the house for the highest price? Then it seems you have a conflict of interest.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ Smiling, I crumple up my rubbish. I can’t wait to get back to the office and get started. The job is just a job, but Rosemont Hall needs me. ‘Thanks Claire,’ I say, ‘that makes things a lot clearer. I’ll take it all under advisement.’

  - V -

  Letter 5(?) (Transcription) (undated)

  My dear H

  I have a birthday present for you that I think – I hope! – will make you happy. I came to see you but you weren’t at home. I managed a peek into the ballroom, and you are right about the change that has come over the place! It is as sparkly and shiny as a jewel; I have never seen anything so magnificent!

  When I turned around, a shadow fell – your father was standing there, watching me. The look he gave me – I felt like my heart might freeze mid-beat. ‘You?’ he hissed, like he guessed our secret. I’m ashamed to say that I turned and fled.

  A

  - 14 -

  My new determination lasts the rest of the day and most of the week. In between cold-calling prospective purchasers, I google charities and historical societies in the local area that might be interested in sponsoring some kind of ‘Save Rosemont Hall’ campaign. I phone a few of them from the car park and talk to the relevant busybodies. There’s some polite interest, but none of them think that they can raise the money. Then I try the National Trust, but they tell me that their budget is already stretched, and any acquisition of the house is unlikely. English Heritage confirms that the house is listed, so any alterations will be subject to a consent process. But while the English Heritage chap is sympathetic to my argument that it should remain a family home, he tells me a few hard truths. There are hundreds of ‘buildings at risk’ all over the country and very little money to restore them. In his view, turning the property into flats or a golf club is better than letting it fall into complete ruin. He points me in the direction of a few relevant websites, and wishes me luck.

  None of my results are exactly the silver bullet I’ve been hoping for, but at least I’m doing something. And when one of my cold calls – to a couple with a whopping budget who are looking to move from Wolverhampton to Bristol – finally pays off, I’m over the moon. I schedule the first Rosemont Hall viewing for the coming Saturday!

  As soon as I put down the phone, I mentally go over the checklist:

  Make sure Mrs Bradford is (locked away in the attic?) managed;

  Bring doggie treats for Captain (half a dozen Big Macs?);

  Compile interesting historical information on the house;

  Obtain quantity surveyor report;

  Get there early and do some cleaning.

  After lunch, I get started on #3, reviewing the research I did in my first week. I amass a large bundle of (I think) fascinating information, drawing glares from Patricia for hogging the printer. I’m just about to phone Mr Kendall when my mobile rings again.

  The name comes up on the screen: David Waters. My stomach flips, and I rush off to take the call in the privacy of the disabled loo. I know I should be happy that he enjoyed our evening (and has sent me several texts to that effect that I haven’t replied to) – and I am – of course. It’s just... I’m not sure I’ve got my head around the ‘what next’ bit.

  ‘Hi David,’ I say. The door bangs shut and I lock it.

  ‘Hi. You haven’t responded to my texts.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about that. I’ve just been in a bit of a flurry over Rose
mont Hall. Someone wants to view it on Saturday. This is my first big chance to find someone who might fall in love with the house.’

  ‘Am I going to see you again?’ he cuts to the chase.

  ‘Oh yes.’ A list of ‘buts’ flashes across my mind: butI’m not ready for a relationship; butI think we should take things slower; butI’ve suddenly developed an allergy to dogs; butyou’re into golf… But – then I remember why I can’t voice any of those doubts…

  ‘In fact, I was about to ring you.’ I say breezily. ‘It’s our office Christmas party – also on Saturday, in fact. Do you want to be my plus-one?’

  There’s silence for a moment. ‘Well… I guess so.’

  ‘Good.’ I ignore the fact that he sounds like he’d rather be having a root canal. ‘I’ll text you the details.’

  ‘Okey-dokey.’

  I cringe. ‘Great.’

  ‘And Amy…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again.’

  ‘Me too.’ I take a breath. ‘And sorry to have to talk shop, but I was wondering about your report on Rosemont Hall – is it ready yet?’

  ‘I’ll email it over later.’

  His tone tells the whole story – he’s annoyed with me; probably with good reason. We exchange awkward goodbyes and I hang up the phone and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes have dark circles under them from the stress of this job, and my skin seems paler than usual. I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure. I really ought to give David Waters a chance. He’s a perfectly nice man, and we had a perfectly nice time. What more can I ask for?

  A hard knock on the door alerts me to the fact that I’ve been hogging the loo for a lengthy amount of time. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter to a desperate-looking Patricia, and head back to my desk.

  *

  By the time I get home, I’ve had plenty of time sitting in traffic to plan how I can make the most of the Rosemont Hall viewing on Saturday. I’ll get there early in the morning and do some straightening up before two o’clock when the clients are due. I also want to have a good look at some of the old photographs, and maybe the books in the library. In the last week, I’ve read and reread the bundle of letters that I found behind the old desk. I feel I know much more about the Windhams and their life at Rosemont Hall than I did before, but there are some missing pieces and unanswered questions too.