Chloe
Page 37
‘From Chloë’s selection here,’ she explained, ‘I wanted a nice introduction to modern literature so she suggested this, it’s called Middlemarch, by George Eliot. Rather good, actually.’
‘Never heard of ’im!’
‘Her,’ Mrs Andrews corrected witheringly.
‘How you women now get up and go!’ Mr Andrews marvelled. ‘Look at this place, a credit to Cadwallader, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly,’ enthused his wife, looking about her and noting all the details. Tables and chairs. Plants and pottery. Two hat-and-cloak stands either side of the door; one antique and in oak, the other contemporary and in steel. Etchings clamouring for space in between the bookshelves. Finally, the Andrews estate, pride of place, above the counter behind which Chloë surveyed her kingdom while pouring coffee into pixie-clad mugs.
‘She’s found her feet and her home,’ Mr Andrews declared, perusing the scene and nodding sagely.
‘And, my duck, her clitoris,’ added Mrs Andrews, ‘via dear Mr Coombes.’
Mr Andrews, speechless momentarily, was about to admonish his wife’s impropriety when the front door opened and the wind-chimes rang out.
‘Morning you two!’ greeted Chloë, carrier bags heaving and hanging from her bicycle handlebars.
‘A very good morning to you, Cadwallader dear,’ said Mr Andrews concentrating hard on his corn stooks.
‘Morning, dear,’ called Mrs Andrews from her bench, winking.
‘Right!’ said Chloë, unpacking cartons of milk and a clutch of books. ‘To work.’
AFTERWORD
As soon as I finished writing my first novel, Sally, I moved straight on to Chloë – not that I had a publishing deal in those days – but the character was vivid in my mind’s eye and she had a tale to tell. Indeed, in 1994 and after three years spent writing Sally, all I had was a clutch of rejection slips and increasingly frustrated family and friends. I was 26 and I didn’t have a ‘proper job’. However, I was happy enough temping as it gave me time to write. Being a receptionist was the best gig and I became a wizz on the old Monarch switchboard, working on my novel at the same time as putting calls through!
I am often asked if I base my characters on people I know – well, in the case of Jasper and Peregrine, they are actually based on two old geldings of whom I was particularly fond. Jocelyn herself was an amalgam of various eccentric aunts. And William was simply my composite Ideal Bloke. Readers often like to know how I pick the characters names. Cadwallader? It’s simply such a fantastic word to say. Oh – and in the seventh century, he was the last Welsh king to claim lordship over all of Britain.
I was struck by the concept of a shy and unconfident girl like Chloë having an eccentric army of aged helpers giving her timely encouragement and a helpful shove in the right direction. I liked the idea of her finding her feet – and someone’s heart – during a trip around the United Kingdom, aided and abetted by characters from my favourite Gainsborough painting (I have to admit, I talk to paintings too … oh, and trees!). Whereas in my first novel Sally, I had enjoyed having a crush on the hero Richard, whilst writing Chloë I truly fell in love with William. Who wouldn’t want to win the heart of a stroppy young potter living on a cliff in Cornwall with a goat called Barbara?! For some time, I’d enjoyed doing pottery evening classes – now I had the chance to make them tax deductible!
I love the UK – I’m passionate about the landscape, the cities and villages, the people – for a small landmass, it’s so incredibly varied and beautiful in each and every season. I can think of no better setting for my novels. In fact, Scotland is my favourite country in the world. I spent many of my childhood holidays with my beloved cousins who lived on a smallholding outside Crickhowell in South Wales. A perfect place for Chloë to start her journey. Cornwall I’d come to know through my studies in 20th century British Art and I could clearly envisage William there. But I’d never been to Northern Ireland – and I couldn’t justify the expense of a research trip because, after all, I was unpublished. So the book ground to a halt with poor Chloë stuck in Wales, raring to make tracks to County Antrim. That was in the winter of 1995. Then, in January 1996 the unbelievable happened – five publishers entered a bidding war for my novels. After a week of negotiations, I staggered out of a dream and into a fairytale with a three-book deal in my hands. No one who knew me could quite believe it – least of all me – but at last I could take Chloë to Northern Ireland.
It was my first official research trip – and initially I felt self-conscious with my Dictaphone and notepad. I didn’t tell the people I met about why I was there – it still sounded so implausible. Soon enough though, I was absorbed in the world of the book and felt I was following in Chloë’s footsteps, rather than paving the way for her. When I arrived at the Giant’s Causeway, I had this strong feeling that I’d missed her by 5 minutes. On rereading Chloë recently, I thought how different the book would be if I’d written it now – emails, texts, smart phones all taken for granted, making being away from home easy, the world small. Chloë was happy enough with snail-mail and the occasional phone call from a landline. The fact that contact was slow and not easy added to her sense of being alone in four different countries of the wider world; that she was travelling, adventuring, finding her feet and her fortune. It added to her bravery and her burgeoning self esteem.
I returned to Northern Ireland for a friend’s wedding a couple of years later. I went back to the Giant’s Causeway but there was no sense of Chloë being there anymore – I knew, by then, that she was happily settled in Cornwall, where I imagine she still is to this day.
Freya North
Spring 2012
About the Author
Freya North is the author of 12 bestselling novels which have, in a career spanning 16 years, been translated into many languages. From teenage girls to elderly gentlemen, Freya’s novels have won the hearts of legions of readers worldwide. In 2008, she won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for Pillow Talk and was shortlisted for the RNA Contemporary Romantic Novel Award 2012 for Chances.
At school, Freya was constantly reprimanded for daydreaming – so she still can’t quite believe that essentially, this is what she is now paid to do. She was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family and other animals, where she writes from a stable in her back garden.
To connect with Freya and hear about events, unique competitions and sneak previews of what she’s writing, join her at www.facebook.com/freya.north or log onto www.freyanorth.com and find out more.
Acclaim for Freya North:
‘Passion, envy, love and sex, topped with lashings of laughs. Freya North has done it again, only better’
Daily Express
‘Freya North is on a roll … stamped with foxy, feelgood flair’
She
‘A funny romantic romp … and a very happy ending’
Cosmopolitan
‘Very racy indeed … Jilly Cooper on wheels’
Woman’s Own
‘Funny, heart-warming and full of charm’
Hello!
‘Just the thing for a Sunday evening in a hot bath with a glass of chilled Chardonnay’
Waterstone’s Book Quarterly
Also by Freya North:
Sally
Polly
Cat
Fen
Pip
Love Rules
Home Truths
Pillow Talk
Secrets
Chances
Rumours
Chapter One
Stella knew there was a private car park at Elmfield Estates, and that a space would have been reserved for her little Fiat, but she pulled into a side street some way off and stopped the car. Adrenalin ate away at her, like lemon juice on teeth enamel; the same fresh but sour sensation, excitement and dread churning into an audible curdle in her stomach. She needed to compose herself and turned the ignition back on so she could have the radio on low, providing a comforting soft
din to an otherwise loaded silence broken only by the rumble of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten a thing at breakfast – usually her favourite meal of the day. This was so much more than first-day nerves. This job could be life changing. She’d done the figures and, with potential commission, they’d all added up. She checked her reflection – an early-morning hair wash and a brand-new mascara certainly made her look fresher than she felt, she thought to herself, as if judging the face of someone else. She knew she looked younger than she was, but no one else would know that she appeared brighter than she felt. If she could fool herself, hopefully she’d fool the office of new colleagues awaiting her arrival just around the corner. She ought to waltz on in and simply say, hullo! Stella Hutton! Reporting for duty! How lovely to meet you all! Right, where do I begin! After all, if ever there was a new beginning, a golden opportunity, a lifeline, then taking on this job was it.
The first day of March, the first day of the week; the sky startlingly naked of clouds; the sun a slightly harsh white light and rather unnerving, like bare legs revealed for the first time after hibernating behind opaque tights all winter. Stella thought it must be a good omen – sunshine to signify the change from one month to another, not least because February had been alternately drenched and then frozen. A positive nod from the universe, perhaps, to say, it’s a fresh start, Stella. Here’s some brightness and warmth to prove it. Winter’s receding, put spring in your step. Especially today. Of all days, especially today.
She shifted in her seat, flipped the sun visor back up, switched the radio off and the engine on, crunching the car into gear. My back aches, she thought. And then she wondered what on earth was being said behind it by the office personnel a few streets away.
I’d certainly have something to say about it, Stella thought, if I’d been told a person like me was starting today.
‘Apparently, she has very little experience.’
‘How can you go from being an art teacher to an estate agent?’
‘Chalk and cheese, if you ask me.’
‘No no – I don’t think she was an art teacher – I heard she owned a gallery and it went bust.’
‘How do you go from paintings to property?’
‘Well, it’s all sales, isn’t it.’
‘She did work experience here – during the summers when she was at college.’
‘Well – obviously that’s how she got this job. Her father is brother to Hutton Senior – apparently they don’t speak. Black sheep. Apparently she’s estranged from her father but really close with our Huttons.’
‘Dear God, You Three – you’ve never met the woman!’ Geoff looked up at Belinda, Gill and Steve, to whom he always referred as You Three. Every day that triumvirate of three interchangeable voices gossiped the air into an oppressive cloy around him. Mostly, he was able to filter it out, like dust in his peripheral vision. But not today. Today the talk wasn’t about Z-list celebrities or people he didn’t know, it concerned someone about to walk in through the office door any moment. New blood in the company. It made him more nervous than curious. There’d always been only four agents working here in the Hertford branch of Elmfield Estates, excluding the chairman Douglas Hutton Senior who came into the office infrequently, and Douglas Hutton Junior his son and managing director whose door was mostly closed though he heard everything. With this new person it meant five. And as he was the eldest and his sales were down, he wondered if it was true that she was being brought in to edge him out. New blood. New bloody person.
Belinda, Gill and Steve’s eyes were glued to the door, not so much a welcoming committee, but a panel of judges. This was the most exciting thing to happen at work since Douglas Hutton Junior sold Ribstock Place for over the asking price last spring. A year, therefore, of dullness and drudgery, with little selling, little coming on, prices falling and commission being squeezed lower than ever. How could Elmfield Estates afford to take on an extra staff member? What was she on, salary-wise? Commission only, Belinda reckoned. What of her bonus structure? They’d had a meeting at the beginning of the year to change from pooled to individual bonuses.
She’d better bloody well be given only the one-bedders then, this new girl, said Gill. Steve thought to himself he should have taken that position at arch rivals John Denby & Co. when it was offered to him last Christmas. But it would have only been a sideways move. He was on the up, he could feel it in his bones, he could sense it every morning when he tied his tie, when he’d decided to upgrade from polyester to silk. This Hutton niece – nothing but a blip, little more than something new to talk about. Not worth stressing over.
When she arrived, none of them thought that Stella was Stella. She looked nothing like Messrs Hutton, Senior or Junior. She had small features, a gentle waft of chestnut hair and a willing if shy smile, compared to the expressionless hard edges, the bristles which stuck both to the heads and faces of her relations, like coir matting. She was older than they’d expected – perhaps mid-thirties – but nevertheless, still younger than Belinda, Gill or Geoff were happy about. A pleasant surprise for Steve, though. Quite attractive.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Stella – Hutton.’
She was stared at.
‘I’m the new girl.’
Belinda didn’t take her eyes off her when she lifted the phone handset, tapped in four numbers and said, point-edly, ‘Your niece is here to see you.’
Oh God, please don’t let Uncle Dougie kiss me.
Douglas Hutton had no intention of doing anything of the sort.
‘Welcome, Stella,’ he said with a gravity that was appropriate for any new agent starting with the company. ‘This is the team – Belinda, Gill, Geoff, Steve. This is your desk. You’ll be with Gill this morning – she has three viewings. Geoff will come with you this afternoon. There’s a one-bedder on Bullocks Lane.
He went to the whiteboard and added Stella’s name to the horizontal and vertical bands of the chart. A glance told her all she needed to know about the team. Steve storming ahead, Geoff lagging behind. Belinda and Gill side by side, neck and neck, tête-à-tête – thick as thieves, apparently.
‘I like your bag,’ Stella said to Gill as they headed out to one of two dinky Minis branded with the agency logo. Gill looked at her, unconvinced. Stella was about to hone in on the woman’s shoes for added praise but she stopped herself. Crazy – it’s like being at school again – agonizing trepidation concerning The Older Girls. She decided not to talk, just to nod and smile a lot at the vendor, at the client, at Gill. The effort, combined with first-day nerves, was exhausting and she was glad of the silence on the drive back to the office at lunch-time.
‘I like your hairstyle,’ said Gill just before she opened the car door. But the compliment was tempered by a touch of resentment. ‘Wish mine had a curl to it.’ And then she walked on ahead of Stella, as if to say, that’s as much as I can be nice to you for the time being. And don’t tell the others.
Stella warmed to Geoff, with whom she was coupled after lunch, even though initially he was as uncommunicative as Gill had been. His silence bore no hostility, instead an air of resignation seeped out of him like a slow puncture. He looked deflated. He didn’t seem to fit his sharp suit; Stella imagined that faded cords and a soft old shirt with elbow patches were his weekend wear. The Mini stalled, seemingly disappointed to have Geoff behind the wheel. She glanced at him as he waited patiently at the lights, as if he never expected to come across anything other than a red light and that now, after years of life being like this, the predictability was acceptable rather than infuriating. She detected a shyness from him towards her that mirrored how she’d felt that morning, sitting by Gill.
‘Was art your thing?’ he asked, tackling the main roundabout cautiously.
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what I heard – that art was your thing.’
‘Oh. Yes. Yes, it was – I studied fine art. And then I had a little – place.’
‘A gallery?’
‘And to buy?’
‘Not often enough.’
‘It went bust,’ said Geoff.
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what we – what I was told.’
‘I had to close it, yes. I chose to change career.’
‘And that’s why you’re here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You couldn’t sell art but you think you might be able to sell houses?’ He hadn’t meant it to sound rude. He just couldn’t fathom how someone who wanted a career in art could metamorphose into someone wanting to work as an estate agent. ‘There’s an art to selling houses,’ he said, helpfully, ‘or so we like to lead our clients to believe.’
‘In these crap times – financially speaking – I suppose people don’t want to spend money on art. As much as I like to believe that people need art in their lives, there’s no point splashing out on a painting if you haven’t four walls around you and a roof over your head.’
He looked a little nonplussed and Stella cringed at what she’d said – it sounded like a dictum she might churn out in a job interview.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘that was almost two years ago. I love art – but I also really like houses. And I know you probably all think it’s family favouritism – but I did two years at the St Albans branch of Tremberton & Co. It’s just I moved from Watford to Hertford last autumn.’
Geoff looked at her quizzically, as if her move from one side of Hertfordshire to the other and the revelation that the gallery hadn’t gone bust yesterday and nepotism played little part in her change of career, moved her up in his estimation.
‘I have a John Piper etching,’ he told her with an almost-smile.