by Penny Jordan
Growing steadily angrier as she listened to Vanessa, Charlotte cut through her monologue to demand curtly, ‘Just why have you come here, Vanessa?’
‘Why? Well, to warn you of course, darling. Look, I know how you must feel, how tempted you must be to ignore the facts and allow yourself to imagine… Well, you wouldn’t be human, would you, if you hadn’t imagined just what Oliver would be like in bed? But as your friend… Well, think about it, darling,’ she purred, ignoring the grim silence emanating from her ‘friend’. ‘What on earth could a man like Oliver really see in a woman like you? I mean, let’s be realistic…how many men have there been in your life since your engagement was broken?’ She paused delicately, like a cat toying with an injured mouse, Charlotte reflected tiredly.
All at once she had had more than enough.
‘Vanessa, I’m not sure what you’re trying to imply, but I should tell you now that Oliver Tennant is moving in here as a temporary lodger and nothing more. He means nothing to me other than a source of some additional income to help with the running expenses of this house while I decide what to do with it. If people choose to think differently, well, there is very little I can do about it. However, I am sure that those people who know me as well as you do will realise as you have done the implausibility of there being any relationship between us which is not strictly business.’
‘Ah, yes, that’s another thing I felt I ought to warn you about,’ Vanessa pounced. ‘My dear, have you thought why Oliver has chosen to come and live here with you? Why, you heard me offering him our guest room rent-free. Think about it, my dear. What possible advantage could there be to his staying here? In the business sense, of course.’
‘What is it you’re trying to say, Vanessa?’ Charlotte demanded frigidly.
Vanessa pouted.
‘Surely you can guess? Oliver is your business rival—what better way for him to completely undermine your business than by moving in here with you and, well…pretending that he is attracted to you? I just thought I ought to warn you,’ she added virtuously. ‘And so did Adam. I mean, I suppose in time you’d have realised the truth for yourself, but of course by then it might be far too late. We women can be such fools where our hearts are concerned, can’t we?’
If she didn’t get rid of Vanessa soon she was either going to scream or be sick, Charlotte recognised. She had never been so angry in her life. How dared Vanessa walk in and suggest…? Did she really think she was so stupid, so desperate, that she would allow herself to be deceived in the way Vanessa was suggesting? She had far too much sense.
Or had she? That kiss this evening—a gesture of pity, of compassion, from a man who had unexpectedly shown her that he had awareness of the feelings of others, that had broken down the barriers she had put up against his sex. Or had it had an ulterior, far less altruistic motive?
Could she have been mistaken about his motives? Surely not? That unguarded comment of hers about her lack of sexual appeal hadn’t been something he could have known she was going to say. Even so, an extra burden of anxiety had been added to the ones she already carried.
She had no illusions about Oliver’s determination to establish his agency here. He had claimed that there was room for both of them, and so there was, but she had suspected all along that a man with his drive would never be satisfied with merely a share of the market. Hitherto, though, she had assumed that the competition between them would be conducted on a strictly business footing.
Now Vanessa had succeeded in sowing fresh doubts in her mind. Was his decision to come and live here all part of a carefully planned campaign? Had he, on hearing that she was looking for a lodger, deliberately decided to turn that fact to his own use?
Did he intend to deceive her into believing that something more than a business relationship could be established between them? Did he intend, once having won her confidence, to use her vulnerability to him to destroy her completely?
Charlotte shivered a little and Vanessa’s sharp eyes noticed the betraying gesture. She smiled to herself and stood up. ‘Naturally, as your friend, I had to warn you. I mean, people aren’t stupid, are they? Everyone will soon start putting two and two together—especially the men.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know what they can be like. Before you know where you are, they’ll be sniggering about you behind your back, making crude jokes. If I were you I shouldn’t waste a moment in telling Oliver that you’ve changed your mind,’ she added carefully. ‘After all, he’ll soon find somewhere else to live.’
Immediately Charlotte realised the real purpose of Vanessa’s visit. Smiling evenly, she said sweetly, ‘You never give up, do you, Vanessa? But I’m afraid it’s too late. You see, Oliver and I have already signed a tenancy agreement. I can’t change my mind. However, I do appreciate your concern. Not that it was necessary,’ she added carelessly. ‘I’m not as gullible as you seem to think.’
She was still seething with bitterness and resentment long after she had got rid of Vanessa. Her poisoned words had done their work well, dripping venom into Charlotte’s thoughts, making her question just what had motivated Oliver to be so nice to her…to kiss her.
If only Vanessa had known how Charlotte really felt about accepting Oliver as her lodger, and that it was her interference and advice that had made it impossible for Charlotte to draw back from the agreement with him!
That knowledge brought Charlotte a small measure of comfort as she reflected grimly on the less pleasant aspects of Vanessa’s visit. Even knowing that Vanessa had deliberately been trying to wound her didn’t lessen her own feeling of inner disquiet.
She was already far too vulnerable to Oliver, far too aware of him. That kiss… But no, she had told herself she wasn’t going to think about it, to dwell on it…that she was sensibly going to put it out of her mind and forget about it completely.
* * *
However, that was easier said than done. In the morning she was still brooding over Vanessa’s nastiness, and Sheila, watching her frown, asked her quietly, ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No,’ Charlotte lied automatically, and then admitted, ‘Yes…there is. Vanessa called round yesterday and had another go at trying to persuade me not to take on Oliver as a lodger.’ She pulled a face. ‘Oh, she pretended it was concern for me that prompted her visit. She was full of “Adam says” and “Adam agrees with me”. She went on and on about the danger of people gossiping. You can imagine the sort of thing.’
‘Yes, I can,’ Sheila agreed, and then said disparagingly, ‘That woman is such a bitch. She’s jealous of you, of course.’
Charlotte stared at her. ’Vanessa, jealous of me? Oh, come on. She despises me. And, let’s be honest, what do I have that she could possibly envy? Her own sex may realise what she’s really like, but men are always taken in by that sugary appearance.’ Charlotte made another face. ‘She’s attractive, she’s got a wonderful husband, two healthy children, a lovely home.’
‘Yes, and we all know which of those is the most important to her,’ Sheila said shrewdly. ‘Vanessa is an avaricious woman. Wealth, social position, possessions—those are what matter to her. Those and having her vanity constantly stroked by some admiring male. But she’s not getting any younger, and women like her have only one asset to use as a trade-off for what they want from life. I dare say Adam is devoted to her, but without him she’d have nothing. She’s like a bloodsucker sinking her claws into a man stupid enough to love her and wealthy enough to provide her with all the things she wants, but if she ever loses that man… That’s why she envies you, Charlotte—because you’re not vulnerable the way she is. You’re independent, you have your own career, your own home.’
‘But I’m alone,’ Charlotte said fiercely, not realising what she was giving away. ‘Vanessa has a husband…children.’
‘Whom she’d dump in a second if a wealthier man than Adam ever came along and offered her marriage and access to his bank account. She resents you and tries to put you down because inwardly she knows you’r
e worth ten of her. And as for people gossiping about you and Oliver—that’s a ludicrous suggestion.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Charlotte agreed a little hollowly. ‘I don’t know why I let her get to me really.’
The phone rang and Sheila picked it up.
While she was speaking, Charlotte busied herself with her own work. Once she had replaced the receiver, Sheila came over to her desk and announced, ‘That was old Mrs Birtles. You know—she owns Hadley Court.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s a beautiful place.’
‘Mmm. Well, it seems she’s thinking of putting it up for sale. She wondered if you’d care to go round and see her. Oh, and by the way, she said to tell you that she’d approached Mr Tennant as well, and that in fairness to both of you she thought she ought to see you both at the same time. This afternoon at two o’clock, to be precise. Perhaps she’ll invite you to challenge one another to a duel,’ Sheila suggested, grinning at Charlotte’s expression. ‘She is supposed to be rather eccentric.’
‘Thanks very much. Did she give you directions? I’ve a vague idea where it is.’
‘She did and here they are,’ Sheila told her, giving her a piece of paper.
‘Mm. Should be easy enough to find,’ Charlotte agreed, reading through them. ‘Two o’clock. Let’s just hope the Volvo doesn’t let me down again.’
‘Have you made any decision on a new car yet?’ Sheila asked her.
‘Mm, I think so—only it isn’t one car, it’s two. I’ve decided that there’s no point in being unduly pessimistic about the effect Oliver Tennant is going to have on our business, and so as well as buying a new car for myself I’ve bought one for the office as well. You and Sophy will be able to use it.’
She laughed when she saw Sheila’s face and added warningly, ‘You’ll have to come to some arrangement between you about who has the use of it out of business hours.’ She rummaged in her open briefcase and extracted some papers. ‘Here are the colour charts. I’m opting for the dark grey.’
‘Oh, look at that red!’ Sheila enthused, avidly studying the brochures Charlotte had given her until the telephone rang again.
When she replaced the receiver she was frowning. ‘That was Dan Pearce from Rush Farm. He wanted to know if anyone has shown any interest in those semis yet.’
Charlotte frowned too. ‘He told me he was going to instruct Oliver—perhaps he’s changed his mind.’
‘Or perhaps Oliver told him the same thing you did—that he’d never get the kind of money he’s looking for unless he applies for planning consent and sells them both together. He sounded very surly.’
‘He is very surly. He hasn’t lived here long himself, has he? He inherited that farm, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he lives there on his own. His wife left him shortly after they moved in. There was a bit of a scandal about it at the time. Some suggestion that he had been violent with her.’ Sheila was looking concerned. ‘Look, do you think you ought to see him on your own?’
‘Oh, Sheila, for heaven’s sake!’ Charlotte said impatiently. ‘I admit that the man isn’t very pleasant but, really, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Have you got his number? I’ll give him a ring and arrange to go out there and see him again. After all,’ she added grimly, ‘we can’t afford to turn our backs on potential business, can we?’
Charlotte had a busy morning. Bill and Anne Markham, after going round three of the previous day’s properties a second time, announced, as she had hoped they would, that they wanted to make an offer for Cherry Tree Cottage.
Having assured them that she would put their offer to the owner and get back to them as quickly as she could, Charlotte ate a quick sandwich lunch in her car, washed down by a cup of coffee from her thermos, before checking that her hair was neat, and reapplying her lipstick before heading for her two o’clock appointment at Hadley Court.
She was less than half a mile away from the house, and nicely on time, when disaster struck. There was a short queue of traffic on the minor road, waiting to pull out at a junction. She was stuck behind four other cars, and, while she sat waiting for her turn to filter into the mainstream of traffic, the Volvo’s engine suddenly died on her.
No amount of frantic turning of the ignition key would restart the motor, and finally, flustered and bad-tempered, she climbed out of the car and, with the help of a fellow motorist, pushed the Volvo safely to the side of the road.
It was now ten past two. Damn! Damn! she swore furiously. She just could not afford to lose the kind of business Hadley Court represented. Looking down grimly at her almost new court shoes, she acknowledged there was only one thing for it.
It was a pleasant spring afternoon, but she was in no mood to appreciate the warmth of the sunshine or the beauty of her surroundings when she finally reached the gates to Hadley Court.
Ahead of her, parked on the gravel forecourt, was Oliver’s Jaguar, and gritting her teeth, she set off to walk down the drive, wincing as her shoes continually filled with the small chippings and had to be emptied.
When she finally reached the imposing front door it was half-past two. A light breeze had tousled her hair, and whipped colour into her cheeks, she felt untidy and hot, and not at all in the right frame of mind to present the kind of professional appearance she wanted to present.
The door opened even before she reached for the knocker.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologised to the woman who opened it. ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Birtles. Charlotte—’
‘Yes, yes…please come in. We saw you walking down the drive and Mr Tennant told me who you were. I’d no idea you intended to walk,’ she added vaguely. ‘I’m May Birtles, by the way,’ she added, leaving Charlotte to follow her across the stone-flagged dimly lit hall.
Instinctively, Charlotte cast a professional glance over her surroundings. The house had a Queen Anne façade, but here in the panelling adorning the walls, and the stone-flagged floor, was evidence of an older building.
An intricately carved staircase led up to the upper storeys of the house, and, although Charlotte would have loved to have stopped and studied it in more detail, she followed Mrs Birtles, who opened a pair of beautiful panelled double doors into another room.
At first the sunshine streaming in through the windows blinded Charlotte to her surroundings. She had a confused impression of rich brocades in soft faded colours, of a highly polished marquetry floor covered with delicate silky rugs, of immense gilt-framed portraits of sober-clothed individuals, of a scent of some kind of sharp, fresh pot-pourri, and huge bowls of freshly cut flowers, and last of all of Oliver Tennant, standing in front of one of the windows.
He was frowning, Charlotte recognised, when her eyes had become accustomed to the brilliance of the sunshine.
Initially his terse, ‘Are you all right?’ confused her a little until Mrs Birtles explained.
‘Mr Tennant was concerned about you. He told me that something must have happened to you to make you late for our appointment. I did offer to take him round the house without waiting for you, but he insisted on waiting.’
While Charlotte absorbed this, she was staring at Oliver, unable to comprehend that the grim look of concern tightening his mouth was actually on her account. ‘My car broke down,’ she told them both. ‘Luckily I was only half a mile or so away, so, after someone helped me to push it out of the way, I walked here.’
She heard the sound Oliver made under his breath. ‘You could have asked me for a lift,’ he told her sharply.
Charlotte stared at him. Ask him for a lift…?
She could tell from the way Mrs Birtles was smiling so approvingly at him that the older woman was completely bowled over by him. No prizes for guessing whom she would appoint as her agent, Charlotte reflected sourly, refusing to allow the warmth which had developed inside her when she had recognised his concern to grow.
‘Well, now that you are both here,’ Mrs Birtles was saying placidly, apparently unaware of Charlot
te’s antipathy towards her fellow agent, ‘shall we make a start?’
* * *
The house was large and rambling and, in addition to selling it with the several acres of land that went with it, Mrs Birtles also wanted to dispose of a large number of pieces of antique furniture.
‘I’m going to live abroad,’ she told them both. ‘I have no one to leave the house to. It’s a family home really. My husband inherited it from a distant cousin and we lived here for almost twenty years. When he died…well, I have a sister living in Florida who’s invited me to join her.’
Oliver, who had been inspecting a piece of furniture, turned round and asked her, ‘Is the house listed?’
Mrs Birtles frowned. ‘No…no, it isn’t. Why do you ask?’
Charlotte thought she knew. A listed building was protected and could not be altered in any way without proper consent. A listing protected a property, but sometimes put off prospective purchasers, especially of a house this size. A developer who might be interested in purchasing the house for the value of its land, with the intention of destroying the house and using the land to build a new estate, wouldn’t be interested if he knew the house was protected by a listing.
Charlotte had stopped listening to Mrs Birtles and Oliver; heaven alone knew why Mrs Birtles had asked her here. It was painfully obvious that she was going to commission Oliver. Fair-mindedly, Charlotte acknowledged to herself that Oliver with his contacts in London would probably be able to effect a sale much more easily than she would herself. This property was way outside the normal type of house she dealt with. It would need specialised handling, ads in such publications as Country Life, special brochures. It should perhaps be sold by auction—certainly an auction of the furniture Mrs Birtles wanted to dispose of would bring in more money than private sales.
She heard Mrs Birtles saying something about terms, and switched her attention back to their conversation.
‘I think you’ll find that both Miss Spencer and I operate a similar scale of charges.’