She’d meant to lead up to it gradually, explain her situation, plead even, but it came out as an abrupt demand.
‘Well, really, Esme...’ her mother was clearly annoyed at being interrupted ‘...is that any way to ask?’
‘No, probably not,’ Esme had to concede.
‘What’s this money for?’ Her mother sounded very dubious.
Esme hesitated, loath to admit how broke she was.
‘You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?’ her mother continued. ‘You hear such things these days... Even the minor royals. Injecting cocaine and all sorts.’
‘You sniff cocaine, Mother,’ Esme stupidly corrected.
Her mother immediately felt she had her suspicions confirmed. ‘Since when did you become an expert? Oh, God, you haven’t really—’
‘Lord, Mother!’ Esme finally snapped, ‘I’m barely coping as it is, without becoming a drug addict. So, no, I don’t need it for my next fix. I need it for shoes for Harry and rent for Jack Doyle, my new landlord, remember? And oh, yes, eating would be nice.’
‘Don’t exaggerate, Esme!’ Her mother’s concern had given way to impatience.
It seemed having a drug addiction merited more sympathy than plain, ordinary poverty.
‘You have your great-aunt’s money and an income from your interior design,’ her mother lectured on. ‘If you can’t manage on that then you’ll have to cut back. We’ve all had to.’
The last remark was almost funny. Even when her father had died and they’d been hit by swingeing death duties her mother had found money for luxuries.
‘Forget it, Mother—’ Esme already had ‘—I have to go. Speak to you soon.’
She rang off then, and just sat for a while, reflecting on the conversation. She could have handled it better. No, let’s be honest, she thought. She hadn’t handled it at all. She’d asked for the money but hadn’t wanted it, not from her mother, anyway. She’d sooner take Jack Doyle’s dollar in return for services rendered.
This realisation prompted her to get her act in gear and go up to the big house, Harry tagging alongside.
She purposely went round the side terrace to the front door and rang the bell several times before Jack himself appeared.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she stated from the outset, ‘if Harry hangs around until I can make other arrangements.’
Jack didn’t seem too concerned, although he did ask, ‘School still giving you a hard time?’
‘Something like that.’ Esme was reluctant to confess the truth.
Harry had no such reservations. ‘Mum went nuclear. You could hear her out in the corridor.’
‘Really?’ Jack raised an interested brow.
Esme limited herself to a mutter of, ‘Impossible woman.’
Harry was more expansive. ‘Mum told Mrs Leadbetter that, with such low expectations, she’d be better off as head of the monkey house at the zoo.’
‘Harry!’ Esme gave him a threatening look, a little too late to silence him.
‘I imagine that went down well,’ Jack commented, seeing Esme in a new light. ‘Remind me never to get on your wrong side.’
Esme could have said he’d never been on her right side but Harry had already proved too efficient an eavesdropper.
‘She’s a silly old bat,’ he supplied now, referring to Mrs Leadbetter.
‘Harry!’ she reproved again.
‘That’s what you called her,’ Harry reminded her.
‘Yes, well, I’m allowed to,’ she claimed testily.
She knew she was being irrational before she caught Harry raising his eyes skywards and Jack responding with the twitch of a smile.
‘Should I take it you won’t be returning?’ the man asked of the boy.
‘Over Mum’s dead body,’ Harry quipped, ‘and that’s a quote... She’s going to teach me at home, although I bet I can learn all I need from the internet.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly agree with that,’ Jack rejoined.
Neither would Esme, but no one seemed very interested in her opinion.
‘Well, she’s not very good at maths, you know,’ Harry confided almost conversationally.
One truth too many for Esme, and she cut in, ‘Look, if I can interrupt this education debate, do you want us to discuss your interior-design requirements or not?’
It was hardly the way to talk to a client, but then Jack Doyle was hardly like her regular clients.
Man and boy exchanged looks again, before Jack held the door wide. ‘Sure, come in. Harry, you can go amuse yourself in the attic, if you like.’
‘If that’s all right with Mum?’ Harry went into model-son mode.
Aware of being humoured, Esme gritted her teeth hard before replying, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Great. See you.’ He sauntered off upstairs, as if he owned the place.
‘Come through.’ Jack led the way into the drawing room, ‘I haven’t really done anything other than get Rebecca to buy a few chairs.’
Esme had noticed them yesterday. ‘Do I have to work round these pieces?’
Goodness, she hoped not.
He shook his head. ‘We’ll donate them to some worthy cause when you’ve done.’
‘Right.’ That didn’t give her carte blanche exactly, but it was much easier to start from scratch. ‘Have you any preferences—colour-wise and overall style?’
‘Nothing specific,’ he answered, ‘I don’t like pastels, purples, or anything floral. No frills or fussiness at the windows. I want it in keeping with the age of the house, good, solid furniture, but comfortable, too. I’d prefer to retain the original light fittings and floor if possible.’
‘Fine.’ Esme scribbled down his comments. ‘Tables and suchlike—reproduction or antique?’
‘Antique,’ he stated, ‘if you can find suitable.’
‘I should be able to.’ She nodded, ‘I have a few contacts in auction houses. You’d want to view anything I bid on first?’
‘If possible,’ he confirmed, ‘although you may have to use your discretion when I’m abroad. I’ll give you a credit card.’
Esme was uncertain if she wanted that responsibility, and he read it in her face, adding, ‘Look, I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I didn’t have confidence in you. And let’s face it, you have much more idea than I have. You were brought up in a house groaning with antiques.’
Was that another dig? Or just a statement of fact?
‘You don’t want me to replicate that?’ She had loved her childhood home but that was despite its dark formality.
‘I don’t exactly know what I want,’ he admitted, ‘but that’s the foundation of a successful business. You create something the customer will come to want.’
Esme, not much of a businesswoman, took his word for it. ‘Is that what you do?’
‘Essentially.’
‘What is it exactly you do do?’
‘Originally I made money from building a search engine for the internet and selling it off to an American software house,’ he volunteered. ‘Currently I’m setting up a provider, tailored for the global business community.’
Well, she had asked. She tried to nod intelligently.
He saw right through it, however, ‘I could be talking Greek, couldn’t I?’
‘More Swahili.’ Esme sent herself up. ‘I know a few words of Greek.’
He laughed, before assuring her, ‘It’s not quite as boring as it sounds.’
‘I’m sure,’ she agreed with mock-solemnity.
‘OK, OK,’ he replied, ‘I promise never to talk computer-speak again.’
‘Harry finds it interesting,’ she said by way of consolation.
‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’ He became serious for a moment. ‘He’s one very clever kid, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed and couldn’t resist quipping, ‘Amazing, isn’t it, with me as his mother?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ he replied quietly, ‘didn’t even think
it. You’ve always struck me as pretty smart.’
It sounded sincere but Esme still pulled a face. ‘That’s hardly universal opinion.’
‘Your mother has a lot to answer for,’ he commented, shaking his head, ‘and Arabella, too.’
Just a mention of her sister’s name, albeit in passing, and Esme felt it: the usual jealousy.
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that her sister was back in Britain. He’d claimed to be over her, but who knew?
‘The offer still stands, by the way.’ His voice broke into her musings.
‘Offer?’
‘To pay for Harry’s education.’
He meant it. Plain generosity? Or did he see himself bestowing favours like some lord of the manor?
Did the reason matter? The question was whether she had a right to refuse on Harry’s behalf. If Jack Doyle had been some stranger, maybe. But he wasn’t.
‘Just think about it, all right?’ Jack sensed she was wavering but knew not to pressure her further.
Esme nodded, then went back to the subject of colour schemes.
They moved between rooms and she made more notes on his general preferences and definite dislikes. Both would be easy to accommodate and Esme finished this first meeting in a buoyant mood. Provided they could achieve some modus operandi that precluded personal remarks and passionate clinches, this was a commission she would relish.
Maybe he felt the same way—that work on his house took precedence over any passing desire he’d had for her. Certainly something between them changed that day, even if it took her a while to realise. A couple of weeks, in fact, before she noticed that they were now talking to each other like civilised adults.
Of course, Sam and Rebecca were around a great deal. Friends as well as involved in his internet business, they had moved into the almost finished ex-stable-block-now-guest-cottage while searching for their own property.
Official school holidays had begun, so she didn’t feel obliged to tutor Harry, and most weekdays he spent with Eliot, on the computers or knocking a ball round the newly relaid tennis courts, or being taken up to London by Rebecca to the Science Museum and suchlike, which left Esme free to concentrate on the house.
She had no worries about Harry being in Rebecca’s care. Growing acclimatised to the American woman’s forthrightness, Esme had found she liked her very much.
The feeling was mutual, and Rebecca often roped her into house viewings rather than a more reluctant Sam.
Esme didn’t mind. It was always useful, seeing examples of interior decor. A bit of a giggle, too, as Rebecca and she smiled appreciation at some outlandish piece of taste before collapsing in fits in the car.
If it took time away from her work, Jack raised no objections. In fact, as an employer, he was the most amenable she’d ever had. She said as much to Rebecca one day in the car.
‘Oh, everybody loved J.D. in our last company,’ claimed Rebecca extravagantly, ‘from the copy girl on up. Some people literally cried when he sold it on...especially the women, if you know what I mean.’
‘I can imagine.’ Esme didn’t comment further.
It was Rebecca who went on, ‘Not that he was involved with any. I think he makes it a strict rule. No dating employees.’
So that was why he’d switched off his interest like a tap.
‘There were others, of course.’ Rebecca warmed to her theme. ‘He went out with a high-powered lady lawyer for a year or so. Don’t quite know what he saw in her... Besides the gorgeous face, great bod and a hundred and sixty IQ, that is.’
Esme laughed as intended. It helped cover up her sudden feeling of inadequacy.
‘Hated her, myself,’ Rebecca confided. ‘So did Sam...
Well, when he wasn’t trying to visually measure her endless legs.’
‘Jack must have liked her,’ reasoned Esme.
‘I guess.’ Rebecca didn’t sound too certain, ‘I wonder, though. I have this theory that when guys aren’t ready to settle down they subconsciously date women whom they like but only so much. That way, they’re in no danger of actually falling in love.’
Laughing, Esme asked, ‘You really think men are that complex?’
‘No, perhaps not.’ Rebecca chuckled in return. ‘So what was yours like?’
‘Mine?’
‘Harry’s father?’
‘Oh, right.’ Esme hesitated to lie to her new friend.
‘Look,’ Rebecca sensed her reluctance, ‘it’s cool if you don’t want to say. I just thought you might want to talk about it.’
Esme didn’t. Well, couldn’t. But she didn’t want to offend Rebecca, either.
‘He was just a boy,’ she shrugged. ‘An Italian I met on holiday in Rome... You know how it is.’
‘You think you’re in love,’ interpreted Rebecca, ‘and it turns out to be lust.’
‘Something like that.’ Esme supposed that mirrored the truth.
Rebecca glanced across and saw the slightly shamed look on her face. ‘Hey, girlfriend, I don’t think any less of you. There but for the grace of God and all that... Just don’t tell Sam. He thinks I was a virgin.’
Esme’s eyes widened at this confidence, and only when Rebecca started laughing did she conclude, ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Get you every time, Miss Hamilton.’ Rebecca grinned. ‘Can you imagine any man expecting to marry a virgin these days? I mean, it’s not on. You’d always be wondering if you were missing something, sex-wise.’
By now Esme was used to Rebecca’s frankness. Normally she let it pass without comment.
This time, however, Esme found herself saying, ‘But what if the first one is it, and you don’t have to wonder? You know you’re missing something with the rest?’
It took Rebecca a moment to consider her words. By that time Esme was wishing she’d left them unsaid.
‘Are we talking from personal experience here?’ Rebecca enquired, sober-voiced for once.
Esme could have gone on. No names, no details. Stick to generalities. But she suddenly lost her nerve.
‘No, hypothetically speaking,’ she claimed and, looking out of the window, distracted them both with a, ‘You have to do a left here, I think... The village is just a mile on.’
‘Damn shift,’ Rebecca muttered as she slowed to follow Esme’s directions while Esme read the exact location of the house they were viewing.
Fortunately Rebecca stayed distracted, and when she did pursue the conversation later Esme was able to feign amnesia.
She was more careful after that. She could allow herself to like Jack’s friends but not to forget that was who they were, first and foremost. And Rebecca was about as discreet as a town crier.
A fact Jack obviously knew, when, one day after a discussion on wall hangings and curtains, he remarked, ‘You and Rebecca are getting on very well... What exactly has she been saying about me?’
Esme betrayed herself with a blush even as she murmured back, ‘What makes you think she’s been saying anything?’
‘Rebecca’s charming and amusing and a good friend,’ he declared, ‘but she also talks for America.’
‘I... She hasn’t said much,’ she claimed.
Actually Rebecca had told her lots of things. About his life in America. Girlfriends. Cars. Business deals. It was difficult to shut her up and, if she was honest, she hadn’t tried very hard.
‘I bet.’ He gave a cynical smile but he didn’t seem particularly annoyed, ‘I just hope she hasn’t made me out to be Don Juan.’
‘Because you are or because you aren’t?’ She couldn’t resist the quip.
‘An interesting question.’ One he didn’t bother answering.
She didn’t pursue it, either. She knew dangerous ground when she stepped onto it.
Instead she started to tidy up the swatches and wallpaper-sample books she’d brought for his approval. She was conscious of him standing there, watching her. That was all he did these days, watch. But it could still
throw her.
‘Anyway, I wondered if you needed some money.’ He switched subjects entirely.
‘To pay for the curtains?’ she queried. ‘Can’t I use the card?’
‘Sure,’ he nodded, ‘I meant money as in an advance.’
‘Oh, right.’ He’d already paid her some up front from the sums they’d negotiated.
Well, he’d negotiated. The strangest way she’d ever heard of doing business. She’d asked her normal fee. He’d told her she was cheating herself it was so small and he stated the sort of figure she should be looking for. It sounded ridiculously high but she took his advice and amended her quote accordingly. He then knocked her down five per cent, still ending up at almost double her original fee.
Afterwards she’d understood the point. He was teaching her, as he had all those years ago. Trying to prepare her for the big wide world so another Edward Claremont couldn’t cheat her.
‘It’s OK,’ she answered now, ‘I have some left.’
‘That’s fine, then,’ he responded drily, ‘I’ll hold on to it, and you can pray my company doesn’t go belly up.’
‘Why?’ Esme looked at him round-eyed, ‘Is that likely?’
‘Why?’ he echoed, gazing back at her. ‘Won’t you still love me?’
It was a joke. Esme knew that, tartly retorting, ‘I don’t love you now... And yes, OK, you’ve made the point.’
‘Which is?’ he laboured.
‘Take the money and run?’ she suggested.
‘Well, delete the run part,’ he responded, ‘I have many more rooms to keep you here.’
Another joke, Esme assumed. They hadn’t even discussed her doing the rest of the house. But the smile on her lips faded as she caught the way he was looking at her.
‘I just don’t know if I can keep sticking to the rules,’ he added quietly.
‘Rules?’ Like an idiot, she repeated it, five seconds before her brain caught up.
‘Have you forgotten?’ He smiled briefly, ‘I could jog your memory.’
‘I... No.’ Esme swallowed hard as his fingers suddenly touched hers.
He took her hand. That was all. It was enough.
Her heart turned over. How could you long for and fear exactly the same thing?
She tried to hide her emotions but he must have seen something in her face. Why else did he raise an arm to caress her cheek?
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